Claire grabbed her meagre belongings, plus the two sleeping bags. Jasmine crawled through first. Claire hesitated at first, wondering if it was a hands-and-knees entrance to eternity, with a hot slug to the back of the head as she emerged to a perceived safe haven. The next building had been converted into storage, even though a retail canopy for a defunct drugstore remained out front. The space was owned by the laundromat next door, jammed to the rafters with washing machines, dryers, and related parts. Jasmine had something of a thing going on with the married owner. She would service him bi-monthly, usually in the storage area. It kept the rent down. She had requested the passage a year ago, for Underworld Railroad purposes, as well as discretion for liaisons. The laundromat owner lived on the second level of the building with an increasingly nosy wife on the prowl.
A roll-top door had been installed at the rear of the space. Near this was a large commercial washing machine on a pallet. Jasmine picked up an electric screwdriver on the workbench. “I suppose we should put the setting on delicate,” she said, as she removed the rear panel.
Claire wasn’t amused. “How the fuck am I supposed to fit in there? It’s all full of wires and motors and —” Claire quickly re-thought her concerns as Jasmine moved the panel aside. It was empty except for pieces of heavy metal plate bolted to the floor. The added weight would give anyone moving it the impression that it was a real washing machine. Claire looked at the front of the machine. It looked like the typical load door, though when she tried the handle, it wouldn’t open. In the window appeared to be the drum interior. She was still trying to figure out how when Jasmine broke her concentration.
“It’s just a picture,” said Jasmine as she threw the sleeping bags inside. “It’s something to do with the glass and the lens or something.” She checked the clock on the wall near the workbench. “Shit, they’re going to be here in like five minutes.”
“Who’s going to be here?”
“Cartage company. It has to look legit. You better get in.”
Claire started to, but hesitated. “You’re sure I’m not headed for the car crusher, like in some old movie?” Jasmine smiled, and threw the bag of the late Jimmy Stephanos in, almost hitting Claire in the head.
“You’re going to Tommy’s,” said Jasmine as she grabbed the panel and her screwdriver. “He’ll get you out. He gets everybody out.
Chapter Eighteen
The Exchange District was relatively quiet that morning, with the only disturbance of note being the hammering on the glass of The Line Up by Miles Sawatski. The Voice had followed his journey from his perch on the third floor of the Albert Street Cocktail Company. He knew that Sawatski would be back at the Vice division by now, leaving the pie slice of Albert and Arthur Streets to the locals. The Voice knew how the rest of the morning would play out. There would be a steady growth to the lunch crowd, emerging from the upper levels of the Artspace Building, the warehouse lofts, and the commodities brokers on the other side of Main Street. The panhandlers would be ignored, with cell phone conversations and Canada Goose parka hoods used to shield the nine-to-five workers from the eventual insults of “white bitch,” or worse. Eventually, the sirens would approach: first responders from the Winnipeg Number One fire hall. The siren’s wail and bleating of the horns would ricochet off the stately granite and rounded cobble. It was seldom that the paramedics wouldn’t end up at or near the Woodbine Hotel to attend to the losing side of an altercation or a collapsed drunk on the sidewalk.
The third-floor room was sparsely decorated, with a vintage metal desk and a single chair of well-worn ash. The Voice toggled through his Blackberry as he leaned against the window frame. No new messages. He was about six-foot-two, a well-kept fifty-something, with salt-and-pepper hair in a ponytail. With his grey horn-rimmed glasses and his dark-blue pinstripe suit with a crisp linen shirt, he could have passed for one of the area commodities brokers, an inspired cover. Even with the long-sleeved attire, aged ink from prison tattoos would peek out momentarily as the Blackberry was pressed for news. When none came, the ringer did. The Voice answered quick and cool.
“Talk to me.”
“I’m at her apartment,” said the accomplice. “Had to kill the roommate.”
“Does she use?”
“More tracks than Symington Yard. It will look like a classic OD.”
“Good. Associates?”
“Nothing on that. Looks like Hebert got her fun-time toys from that old broad at The Other Woman, about half a dozen receipts in her drawer.”
“Run it down.”
“For dildos? Really?”
“Run it down. Six receipts are a friend, not a storekeeper.” The man pressed End, stowing the phone in his breast pocket as he headed for the door. He was almost ready to turn the handle when he stopped, turned back to the desk, and retrieved a ledger from the top desk drawer, a cheap store brand.
~
David Worschuk was trying to remember if it was ten feet or metres, the distance he had to be away from the Sentinel for a cigarette. He didn’t spend too much time there, thanks to what staffers referred to as Publisher Teflon. The Sentinel had moved into a former garment factory on Fife Street in ’89, the Eastern border of the Inkster Industrial Park, near the homes of the rival Winnipeg Sun and the Winnipeg Free Press. The move had been necessary after an embarrassing level of asbestos had been found in the ductwork of the original building. Worschuk had only known the new building. His spotty attendance wasn’t an issue. As long as his column found its way into the City Desk email inbox before deadline, he was considered to be on the job. He had squeaked the Jimmy Stephanos murder piece in with twelve minutes to spare. He had stopped in to catch up on his snail mail when the publisher had requested a chat. This always worried Worschuk. He had thrown his weight around for so long now that even he could see that his days were numbered. Few had challenged him when he first arrived, as they knew that Worschuk would simply text the publisher about any friction, making the complainant’s life an eight on the Richter scale. The problem was recent managerial changes and pressure from the newspaper’s owners over slipping revenues. He even had to come in twice a week to do page layout. For Worschuk, this was starting to feel too much like a job.
The front doors to the Sentinel slid open as three employees emerged, most likely on their way to lunch. The doors had started to close when they stopped and retreated, as Kyle Morgan stepped into the cold. The publisher of the Winnipeg Sentinel wore a heavy black cashmere coat and a red silk scarf. He was in his early fifties and stood a tired and worn five-foot-eight, with a two-hundred-dollar haircut on his dirty-blond locks, which helped to offset the appearance of his pockmarked face. The sun struck him, sending his designer glass frames into auto-tint. The coat was open and the scarf hung around his neck with little thought to appearances. He eyed Worschuk. He looked annoyed.
“That doesn’t look like ten metres, Downtown,” said Morgan. Worschuk hesitated mid-drag, analyzing Morgan’s face for the tell. Morgan smirked. “Or maybe its ten feet, I can’t remember.” Morgan patted his pockets, in search of his brand. Worschuk hastily offered up his DuMaurier pack, so quickly that it could have been mistaken for the offers of smoke made by old-time suitors in black-and-white films. He offered up his Zippo just as fast.
“Thanks,” said Morgan, inhaling deeply. “I’d rather talk out here. Too many shit-disturbing ears in this fucking place.” Worschuk felt his heartbeat drop ten beats as Morgan let out a well-earned exhale. “Good piece this morning. It’s like they always say . . .”
Worschuk finished Morgan’s sentence before it had any steam. “If it bleeds, it leads.”
Morgan chuckled. “Ain’t that the truth?” He took a thick drag as he formulated his next thought. “If I could get away with it, I’d send a meth-head with an Uzi into a day care every day, just to keep the fucking owners from carving a new chunk out of my ass.”
Worschuk nodded, opt
ing for a drag instead of a comment. So maybe this was the preview of what was coming. He appreciated the intel, though Worschuk was more concerned as to how he was going to keep up the payments on his Escalade, his Ski-Doo, and the new Can-Am Spyder if the paper closed its doors. Winnipeg was a one-newspaper town at best. It was anyone’s guess who would shut down their presses first.
Morgan took one last long drag, flicking the thrice-smoked cigarette to the ground with a slight hint of disgust. “This HR murder is a good opportunity. Need to show the blog babies out there that news and paper go together like peanut butter and chocolate, and stick it to the Sun and the Freep at the same time. How much dirt can we dig up on that hooker?”
Work — maybe it isn’t all that bad, Worschuk thought. He could dig deeper into the sex trade, call girls, and drugs. It was pure entertainment value. “I’ve got some leads,” said Worschuk, knowing full well that he didn’t. “I can hit up the cops, ask some of the guards at Portage Correctional. They’ve got the hookers. Someone’s got to be able to get me close.”
Morgan slapped Worschuk’s back as he headed back in. “Just make sure you wear three rubbers in Portage,” said Morgan, as the door slid open. “Better make it four, if the girls are local.” Worschuk watched him disappear into the catacombs of half cubicle walls, chuckling as he went, enjoying the dig at the neighbouring Manitoba hamlet. Worschuk lit another cigarette to calm his nerves.
Chapter Nineteen
Claire Hebert did her best not to breathe, keeping her frame in a tight fetal position as the delivery van carrying the mock washing machine rumbled down Main Street. Or maybe it was Arlington. She couldn’t say for sure, though she had tried to monitor the roll and pitch of the van, assuming that she could somehow internalize some type of positioning for her general location. Not that it will do me any good, she thought as she felt the van stop, then power through what must have been a four-way stop. She still couldn’t say with certainty that Jasmine hadn’t sold her out; the price must have been enough to mobilize most of the Winnipeg low-lifes out of their holes. Would she be safe, or slain? She would know soon enough.
The van was crawling now, the speed of which was feeling back lane to Claire. It was definitely an area of town that was in need of serious infrastructure work, with even the snow and ice doing little to fill the potholes. The van stopped suddenly. The warble of the reverse warning speaker began to echo in the cargo chamber. The two cab doors opened and shut as the delivery men trudged in stereo to the rear. The hydraulic lift descended, picked up the pair, and ascended to the roll-top door. Their conversation seemed benign enough: talk of the hockey game, beer after work, which strip club to visit. There was no talk of how to kill and dispose of the girl in the oversized washing machine.
She heard another roll-top door, though this one seemed to be more light-duty, the kind on storage lockers or delivery entrance points on buildings. She heard a familiar voice.
“I hope this one doesn’t fuck up like the last one,” said Tommy as the two delivery men grunted with the load. “It pissed all over the floor.”
“Yeah, but you should be used to guys pissing all over the floor,” said one of the delivery men. He was young, Claire thought, and very unaware of whom he was talking to. She played the image out in her mind: the dig at the patrons of The Guiding Light, the steely cold glare of Tommy Bosco, a defence of his tenants that was beyond any words; the kid, realizing he had gone too far, trying to recover. The silence lasted an eternity. “Give me that fucking clipboard,” said Tommy, slapping it against the top of the machine. It was so loud, Claire almost cried out. She knew she didn’t need to. She was safe, for the moment.
~
Tommy removed the last screw with the cordless drill, shifting the panel to the side. He looked in at Claire Hebert, still huddled in a protective pose. She looked smaller, certainly far less threatening than the woman he had once known. He remembered those times, when he had looked upon her in similar moments. There was a peace within her now. Everyone has one, thought Tommy, even the ones who couldn’t live a day without some form of self-lit explosion.
“Is she awake?” Cindy broke the silence, startling Tommy. “I don’t know how you could sleep in that thing.”
Tommy bent down and saw the briefcase as he looked further inward. “C’mon, Bear. You can’t forward your mail to this box.”
~
Claire turned to look at Tommy. He looked older than she had remembered. A lot more tired, but he still had a glimmer in his eyes. She noticed Cindy observing the interplay. So, this is the new one, she thought, as she started to shuffle out of the metal box. Claire was still trying to decide whether she cared one way or the other. She honestly couldn’t remember. Those days were anything but sober. She was still feeling the effects of the current withdrawal as Tommy helped her to her feet. “Welcome to The Guiding Light,” he said. “And may God protect your dumb, murdering ass.”
Claire assessed the surroundings. She was in a loading area of some type, at the rear of the Light. Food service boxes, plastic dairy cases, and empty white buckets were piled ceiling high. She could hear the bustle of the lunch rush. It reminded her that she would eat from time to time, usually when she ran out of coke. Her request was as meek as a first-time john. “Do you, uhm, think I could get, uh . . .”
“We’ll bring you some food in a few,” said Cindy. “First we’ve got to get you safe.”
Chapter Twenty
Ernie Friday idled in front of a dental-supply office on Cumberland. He adjusted his rear-view mirror for a better look at the action at 411 On the Park, the latest catchy name for a most notorious high-rise. In the right city, 411 Cumberland Avenue would have easily commanded half a million for a park-like-view studio condo. It may have been called Central Park below, but it was nothing more than a wading pool of syringes, used condoms, and blood trails from recreational stabbings. A studio condo could be had for about ninety thousand at 411, not a bad deal if you never intended on leaving the house again.
The crime scene technicians should have had their own parking spaces up front at 411, as visits were frequent. The identification van was flanked by unmarked detective cars, all with lights flashing from their visors. Ernie had planned on making a visit to unit 723. Claire Hebert was living off the grid, but she wasn’t off the security cameras. Almost a third of the prostitution trade lived, worked, or crashed at 411 Cumberland Avenue. Ernie figured it was as safe a bet as any for finding an off-grid girl, so he called up a friend at the security company that managed the building. The friend was an ex-con, with no interest in getting found out and booted from his minimum wages. Ernie described Claire and asked him to check the four-to-five-a.m. time block. That was the hour when most premium girls were done for the night. It was the “big stupid tits” comment of Ernie’s that found her dropping her keys. She was too drunk or too stoned to operate them. She did remember her apartment code number though. To make sure, she recited it aloud for the security camera microphone to pick up.
Ernie figured that he was too late for four grand, though he couldn’t be a hundred percent sure. He killed the engine and walked across the street to the payphones. One of the five was operational, good odds for Central Park. He flipped open his little black book, cradling the phone on his shoulder as he punched in the digits. As he hung up, he kept an eye on the medical examiner’s van. The black van had been parked in the opposite direction of the one-way Cumberland, next to an unmarked detective car near the lobby. A pair of heavy-set men in their late twenties emerged. They called themselves the Ferrymen, tasked with a job that few would ever apply for: the retrieval of Winnipeg’s dead. Ernie didn’t know their names, and he didn’t want to. He needed them for confirmations, to avoid chasing ghosts.
~
Ernie had met the Ferrymen about six months ago on a side street near Waterfront Drive. The divers had just pulled out a floater near the Provencher Bridge, and the Ferrymen were headin
g back to the morgue, when a flat tire on the meat wagon had prompted a changeover. Ernie had pulled up behind the van, its rear doors open to access the spare. The Ferrymen tried to shield the bodies within as they lowered the spare tire. Friday had been following the van for most of the morning, trying to come up with a way to get a peek at the first body pick-up. It was an apparent suicide — one that had been probably brought about by the victim’s gambling debts to the Heaven’s Rejects. It was a rough-up job that Ernie wouldn’t be collecting on.
Ernie exited his car of the month, a rusty Delta 88, holding a tire iron in his right hand. The Ferryman keeping the door from swinging open had red hair — that was all the name he needed.
“Hey, Red,” said Ernie, as he approached the van. “Need a hand with that?”
Red looked up from watching his partner wind down the spare, somewhat annoyed. “No thanks, old man,” said Red. “I think we got it under control.”
“That’s alright,” said Ernie, as he gently rocked the tire iron in his hand. “I’m not here to change your fucking tire.” The comment got the attention of both Ferrymen, with the Tire Winder stopping in mid-crank to see what the interruption was about. Ernie smiled. “Now that I have your full attention, I need to see inside bag number one.”
Tire Winder jumped in. “Uh, we don’t like, uh, have a number one.”
Red interjected. “Well, we kinda do. The top left.”
“That’s not number one; that’s number three.”
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