“Update.”
“I’ve got eyes on Sawatski. Is he still working for us? He sure doesn’t act like it.”
“It’s still to be determined. What’s your twenty?”
“One block from location, texting it to you now.” The text information flashed up on the information display of Nathaniel’s Chrysler. “Do you want me to take him out?”
“Negative,” said Nathaniel. “Sawatski is still in play, for now.”
“Got it. On your way?”
“On my way.” Nathaniel ended the call. He took one last look at the Pauls staring at Ernie Friday before he put the Chrysler in gear.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
The old Ford creaked and groaned over the bumps and ruts of the back lane route to the St. John’s Library on Salter Street. The branch had recently celebrated its one hundredth anniversary, with plans in place to improve accessibility and facilities within. The St. John’s branch was one of three Carnegie libraries that still stood within city limits, constructed through a grant program that steel magnate Andrew Carnegie had first offered in the late nineteenth century. Tommy Bosco checked his watch as they approached the classic brick structure: 8:13 p.m. The branch would be closing in less than twenty minutes.
Tommy parked Freddie on Machray Avenue, next to the library. “All right, ladies, we’re home for the night.”
Claire Hebert turned towards the heritage building, working the kinks out of her neck from the cramped quarters in Freddie’s cab. “What the fuck is this place?”
“It’s called a library,” said Cindy. “It’s like the internet, but without the computer screen.”
“I know what the fuck a library is.”
“Imagine how much fun it would be if you could read.”
“I’d rather be reading your o-BITCH-uary.”
“Shut the fuck up, both of you.” Tommy was attaching a weathered “The Club” steering-wheel lock to Freddie. “We’re going to lay low here for the night. You’ll have to spend tomorrow here, too, while I get things ready to leave, so if you can’t read, I suggest you fake it.”
“Is this guy a friendly?” asked Cindy.
“He’s cool,” said Tommy. “Bit of an egghead, too. I’m going to get him to look at the ledger, see if there’s something in there that might help.” Tommy removed the ledger from the dummy tank, taking care not to drop it into the dirty snow. They entered the heavy front doors as the speakers crackled overhead.
“Attention readers: the St. John’s branch of the Winnipeg Public Library will be closing in fifteen minutes. Please return all reference materials to their appropriate stations. Please bring all items you would like to check out to the front counter, and please have your library card ready. Please watch your step near the corners of the stacks, as we are in the process of reinforcing their foundations. Thank you for visiting the Winnipeg Public Library.”
Tommy saw the message’s announcer as they crested the stairs. Steve Galecki was easily the tallest librarian in the city library system, around six-foot-four if you could lay him on a flat surface for measurement. His operating height was more in the realm of five-foot-ten, with a permanent hunch to his frame — the result of years of leaning over to read grainy computer screens for library patrons. His glasses were old and thick with an amber tint that must have been in fashion when they were new, circa 1985. That was the year that Tommy first met him, when Galecki ran a lucrative sideline in the field of fake documents, starting with Tommy’s first fake ID. Driver’s licenses, vehicle registrations, even the odd passport could be had from Galecki when the age of paper reigned supreme. Tommy had used Galecki’s services with decreasing regularity in recent years. The crispness of his early work simply wasn’t there. With both of their criminal pasts behind them, Tommy would call Galecki for special shipments of retired library books and magazines for The Guiding Light.
Galecki kept his focus on the library patrons, waiting for the large doors to close firmly shut before he acknowledged Tommy’s presence. “Pastor Bosco,” said Galecki as he extended his hand for a gentlemanly shake. “You’re a little late for story time today.”
“That’s a crying shame,” said Tommy as he shook. “I could go for The Little Engine That Could right about now.”
“Spoiler alert: he knew he could.” He walked past Claire and Cindy, giving them a tip of a hat that wasn’t there. He securely bolted the hundred-year-old front doors. “Gwen made some chicken soup for lunch, in case you’re hungry. It’s on the hot plate in the office.” Gwen was Galecki’s girlfriend of some thirty years. Tommy had never met her, unless one counted the soups. Galecki had met Gwen while they were both working for the City of Winnipeg archives department, which just happened to be housed in the first Carnegie library for Winnipeg. Tommy smiled at the thought of the ultimate eggheads in love. He motioned Cindy and Claire into the office for some much-needed sustenance. “I guess I should let Gwen know that I’ll be a little late.”
“I think we’ll be okay,” said Tommy, giving a head nod in Claire’s direction. “Have to get Tits McGee out of town — major heat.”
“Should I warm up the laminating machine?” Galecki had already produced the unit from beneath the counter. “In case you need something old school. I’ve still got some old Manitoba birth certificate blanks I could whip up, pre-techie.”
“Not right now. I need you to look at something.” Tommy spun and slid the ledger towards Galecki. “We’re not sure what it means, but the numbers might be tied to water meters.” Tommy opened the ledger to the bookmarked page with the Guiding Light water meter number. Galecki leaned down even farther to investigate, looking anything but comfortable. He flipped back and forth between the pages. He stood up as straight as his frame would allow, pulling a shirt-tail loose to clean his glasses. “Where did you find it?”
“I didn’t,” said Tommy. “Claire did — in an HR briefcase.”
“The one on Pritchard? Razor in the neck, right?”
“Yeah, somebody wants her and this thing pretty bad. The building she was at before she came to me got blown up — killed a friend of hers. We had to sneak out of the mission to get here.”
Galecki continued to flip pages, rubbing his chin. “You’re sure the heat’s not just payback for the HR?”
Tommy rubbed his forehead to find the right words. “There’s too much going on for payback. If this book is the key, then it might be worth safe passage.”
“Safe passage? For how many?”
“That remains to be seen.” Tommy saw the worry creep across Galecki’s face. “Listen, Steve, we can leave right now. No sense in —”
“I think I know what this is,” Galecki said.
“What is it?”
“It’s something that’s been going on for a very long time.” Galecki pulled the standard issue librarian’s counter chair closer for support. “Something that a lot of people thought had died when the people involved in it were dead and gone. I’ve got papers on it back at the house.”
“Can’t we just Google it?” Tommy added an arm sweep to the request, pointing to the empty public-computer terminals.
Galecki chuckled at the suggestion. “That’s the problem with the World Wide Web, my friend. It knows all, and it sees all. My personal library isn’t online. The only tech I’ve got is the microfiche. That reminds me.” Galecki moved to the phone on the counter, dialling an outside line. Galecki took a moment for pleasantries with Gwen, and then informed her he would be home shortly with a friend who required the microfiche reader warmed up, and maybe some soup, too.
Tommy continued to voice his concerns after Galecki hung up the phone. “Steve, you don’t have to get messed up in this. We just need a place to crash till we make a run for it.”
Galecki flipped through the ledger in a casual manner. “If this is what I think it is, you won’t make it outside the Perimeter Highwa
y.” Galecki looked up at the clock. “I’ll start the wagon. We need to check my archive.”
Galecki disappeared out of the side door that bordered the back lane, propping it open with an ice chipper. Tommy heard the telltale sounds of something old and creaky. It must have been old; Tommy counted eight pumps of the accelerator pedal. Tommy peeked out the side door in time to see the car start. Galecki was known for his love of vintage Plymouth cars. He owned a restored 1958 Belvedere convertible as well as a robin’s egg–blue 1958 Plymouth Suburban station wagon that had belonged to his father. His winter beaters were just as legendary and always followed a station-wagon theme. The latest was a dark green 1972 Plymouth Fury Sport Suburban, held together with what was left of the woodgrain panelling. The winter wagons always wore the same vanity plate: BEATER. Galecki would find his winter heaps in farmers’ fields and barns, and stitch them together with his cache of spare Mopar parts, which was sizable. He would usually be able to drive the wagons for at least a couple of winter seasons until a rookie traffic cop would pull him over for a roadside inspection, which usually ended with the wagon’s plates being removed and a call for a tow truck. This was the third season for the Fury, and Galecki knew he was driving on borrowed time.
Galecki came back inside, leaving the Fury running and unlocked. Tommy was concerned. “Shouldn’t you at least throw a Club on it?”
“Power steering’s shot,” said Galecki. “None of the kids around here have the upper body strength.”
Tommy explained the plan to Claire and Cindy, making sure that they knew to keep off of the computers — they’d have to resist the urge to check for updates on their escape. Cindy was already consulting the library’s newspapers, looking for anything that could help. Claire had found a new couch in the office to convalesce. Tommy helped Galecki scrape the windows of the wagon as it warmed up. He tossed the ledger onto the front seat.
Chapter Forty
A few blocks down from The Guiding Light, David Worschuk nursed his pride with a coke bump and then fired up his backup phone. Luckily, the actions of Miles Sawatski had not fractured the all-important SIM card, which held the majority of his contacts. Worschuk didn’t have an on-board police scanner, but there was a unit that ran 24/7 at the Sentinel. He connected with the night editor, who recorded a police BOLO that was getting repeat airplay: a blue 1989 Ford F-150, plate number GTX 828. Worschuk then sent a text to a contacts group titled FOD: Friends of Downtown.
Lookin for blue ’89 F150, GTX 828, Murder First. Big Reward! Text with tips. Thanks from the D.
The “Big Reward” never amounted to much for the tipster. In Worschuk’s eyes, the big reward was the mention in the Worschuk story for the assist. He thumbed through his contact list, hoping to find someone, anyone, who could put him closer to the scoop he so desperately needed. He slowed his sweep as he hit the Ls. He hit the contact and waited for it to connect. It took three rings plus a fumble that could only have meant the contact was driving. “What up?” said the voice.
“Little Bill?”
“D-town? Shit. Lemme guess, mofo: the Double-Dee-Dave needs to top up the tank with some premium, right?”
In most cases, this would have been the purpose for the call. Little Bill was one of the better-known drug dealers in the North End, working out of a pool hall on Main Street near Bannerman Avenue. Big Bill was his father, currently in Stony Mountain for a string of violent assaults, most of them tied to collecting on bad drug debts. He would be out in 2023, with good behaviour. Little Bill was keeping the ship afloat, distributing a good portion of the HRs’ shipments. The Sentinel was a steady customer, from the press room up to the executive offices. The standing discount was ten percent. Worschuk checked his stash just to be sure.
“Tank is full, Billy. What I need is intel — trying to crack the Stephanos whack before the Sun and the Freep. Hear anything?”
“Naw man, that bitch gotta be underground by now. That was some cold shit. That’s what happens when you pay for it. I never paid for it. My daddy never paid for it. You pay for it and you might just pay for it, you know what I’m saying?” Little Bill talked as street as he could, which always sounded comical to Worschuk since Little Bill’s last name was Bernstein and he’d grown up in Transcona.
“So, everyone’s looking for her, right?”
“Like those little chocolate eggs at Easter, man. Every hitter in the two-oh-four be locked and loaded. Bitch need a helicopter to rise above this shit.”
Worschuk felt the scoop slipping further from his reach. For a moment, he thought about asking to connect with one of the hitters, knowing full well that Little Bill would have laughed it off. “Thanks, Billy. If you hear about a takedown, shoot me a text.”
“Yeah, that be a messy scene fo sho. And Double-Dee, they be looking for some words too.”
“Words? What kind of words?”
“Like words, man, a book or something that Stephanos had — got words, numbers and shit. They wants it back.”
“What’s it for?”
“How the fuck should I know, man? Hey! This better not be on no wire or something, man. My daddy ain’t the only one who can fuck you up, motherfucker.”
Worschuk calmed Little Bill down, assuring him that no recording was taking place, which wasn’t true. His phone had a silent recording app. It was faster than taking notes and easier to consult when he was writing his column. Worschuk confirmed that everything was cool with Little Bill before he disconnected. Things were starting to make sense, especially with the amount of resources that had been afforded to catch a killer of a known criminal. This wasn’t just a revenge job; it was a recovery mission. He frantically dialled another number. It answered after two rings. “Winnipeg Sentinel, City Desk.”
“It’s Worschuk. I’ve got a late story breaking. Give me thirty minutes.”
~
Miles Sawatski knew that Winnipeg Police Service technology was on the job to find Tommy Bosco’s F-150. License plate scanners had been installed on a third of the city’s marked police cruisers with at least three cars per district rolling per shift with the scanner set up. The scanners were mounted on the opposite ends of the cruisers’ roof-mounted light bars. The technology was originally designed for slow passes of parking lots, though as with most technical advances, the systems were now able to capture plate images at patrol speeds. If a cruiser got a hit, they had been instructed to send in an unmarked to set up surveillance with a direct call-out to Sawatski as the lead investigator.
Sawatski had dropped off Spence for the night at her house on Atlantic. He promised to call if there were any developments, though he hoped that he could somehow keep her out of his mess. The best scenario was a report of a body, or bodies, preferably not cops or innocents. As long as one of them was Claire Hebert, he could relax. What if Bosco has the ledger? He thought about the scenarios. Would he hand it over? Would he try to bargain with it? Or would Sawatski have to pull his throwaway piece and silence him for sure? The Smyth girl: he might have to kill her, too.
Sawatski knew that sleep wouldn’t come. He drove north on Main Street to the Salisbury House at Matheson Avenue. A few dollars later, the steam from a long-simmering chili was warming his face. Similar zephyrs of warmth rose from his coffee. He hoped that the day would come when this would be nothing more than a ritual for a retired night-owl cop. The Sal’s location he had chosen had recently gone back to twenty-four-hour service, though most of the locals had figured it was still a ten p.m. shutdown. The place was deserted. Out of habit, Sawatski sat with his back to the wall, able to see both entrance points as well as a commanding view of the sidewalk traffic. His jacket was unbuttoned, his Glock within easy holster reach.
The front and rear doors were equipped with entry chimes. The kitchen space and the restroom real estate created a hallway, or a blind spot to anyone wearing a badge, so Sawatski heard the chime before he saw the person that had activa
ted it at the rear door. Sawatski kept his hand close to his Glock. In three seconds, he knew that there was no need to worry. The Sal’s patron was Constable Billy “Bangster” Sangster, wearing his signature grey longshoreman toque and a well-worn leather coat that he had dubbed his Serpico jacket. He seemed a little unclear as to how the path of a Salisbury House restaurant worked at first, taking a moment to scan the regular offerings of red velvet cake and petrified chocolate donuts. He decided on a slice of lemon meringue and a large black takeout coffee. He still hadn’t noticed Sawatski when he received his change. He smiled upon the recognition, sliding into the booth. “You know, you need some heavy fuel to win the Sawatski Stretch.”
“So I hear,” said Sawatski. “But that pie will hit your ass like a brick.”
“Don’t discount a little ass-play,” said Sangster. “The world needs a few more dirty girls that know where to stick their vibrators.” Sangster seemed intent on finishing the meringue in as few bites as possible. “Talk about a long fucking day,” he said between shovels. “You and Spence get any traction? And what about that fire that wasn’t a fire?”
Sawatski leaned forward, rubbing his eyes without taking off his glasses. “Yeah, that was fucking hilarious. They got out, but we’ve got the BOLO out on the truck, Bosco, his live-in, plus Miss Hebert. I don’t think they’ve got the hardware to cause a problem. We’ve just got to make sure that the takedown is epic. When ten cars surround you, you tend to go from lion to lamb pretty quickly.”
Clean Sweep Page 18
