‘Why are you here?’
Simm knew the answer, but hoped to get past this episode as soon as possible.
‘Susan told you he’s dying,’ Walt said, his attention moving from Charlie to Simm.
‘Yeah. There’s no need for you to look for me just to tell me again. It won’t change anything.’
‘He’s your father.’
‘I gave up considering him my father years ago.’
‘He wants to see you.’
‘That’s too bad. It won’t happen.’
‘Simm.’
‘Drop it, Walter.’
The younger man got the message this time. Simm’s tone of voice and use of his brother’s full name left no doubt that he was serious. Walt took a sip of the drink that had been set on the counter by a woman who had known when to leave the two men alone. He downed it in two gulps.
‘You know where to find us,’ he said before he turned and walked out of the building.
Chapter 23:
Simm knew Charlie wouldn’t be happy with him, but what else was new? He had to decide who to investigate and how. He couldn’t and wouldn’t let her run the show.
His next suspect wasn’t very difficult to find. A few minutes on his smartphone, and Simm was on his way. He didn’t know what he had expected, but it certainly wasn’t what he found. Charlie’s comments had led him to picture something thoroughly different.
He had to drive very carefully to avoid damaging his car in the potholes, and he raised the windows to keep the dust from invading his vehicle. As he went along the road, the homes seemed to become more desolate-looking. Eventually, he spotted the number ‘25’ on the side of a mobile home, and he pulled over to the side of the road. There was a driveway, but it was small and otherwise occupied by a beat-up pickup truck.
Simm studied the home for a few minutes, looking for a sign of life. Getting out of his car and being careful to lock it, he noticed a woman’s face peeking out of a window of the neighboring mobile home. He smiled at her and nodded. She briskly stepped back and drew the curtains shut.
He returned his attention to number 25. Since a truck was in the yard, he assumed the occupant was home. He hesitated again when he reached the door and saw the condition of the front steps. Would they hold his weight? He guardedly went up one step, and then another, until he was close enough to knock on the door.
There was no sound from within, so after another half-minute, he knocked again, louder. This time, he heard a man’s growl, followed by a bang that shook the structure, followed by more growling.
The door opened with such force Simm took a step backward, almost toppling down the steps. Just in time, his hand latched onto the rusty, black railing. It wasn’t only the surprise that kept him tottering, the man’s breath required a certain distance be maintained. Even from three feet away, he reeked. The blue of his irises was overpowered by red veins, and his skin was sallow, reminding Simm of a vampire.
‘What do you want?’ the man said, slurring slightly.
‘Are you Terry O’Reilly?’
‘Who are you?’
‘My name is Simmons. I’m a private investigator. Are you Terry O’Reilly?’
‘What? A private investigator? I didn’t do nothin’. Go away.’
The man started to close the door. Having no choice, Simm took a step forward and placed his palm on the inside of the cobweb-covered door.
‘I’d like to ask you a few questions. It won’t take long. It’s about Charlie Butler.’
The man released his hold on the door.
‘What about her? Is she dead?’
Simm had difficulty interpreting that remark. With the slurring of the man’s words and the dullness of his expression, Simm couldn’t say whether he was concerned or hopeful.
‘She isn’t dead.’
‘Oh.’ Again, the reaction was too vague to interpret.
‘Can I come in?’
The man stepped back, leaving enough room for Simm to squeeze by. Simm almost gagged as he walked into the home. Directly ahead of him was the kitchen table, which was littered with beer cans and liquor bottles, all apparently empty. Amongst the mess were two ashtrays overflowing with cigarette butts and ashes. The smell was bad enough to fell a buffalo.
To his right, were a couch, an armchair, and an old television. There were additional cans, bottles, and butts on the floor and on a three-legged coffee table. The fourth leg consisted of two cement blocks. To Simm’s left, was a hallway, which in all likelihood led to a bathroom and at least one bedroom.
When Charlie told Simm that Terry was doing all right for himself, he hadn’t imagined this level of squalor. Obviously, they had different definitions of ‘doing all right for himself’. Either that, or Charlie wasn’t up-to-date on Terry O’Reilly’s current status. Simm favored the latter explanation.
‘I’m glad to catch you at home. I thought you might be at work.’
The sound of the flick of a lighter drew Simm’s attention back to Terry O’Reilly, and he watched as the other man popped open a beer can as smoke curled around his face. He knew from his research Jim’s son was thirty-five years old, but he looked twenty years older. His bad habits were not good for his health.
‘I’m temporarily unemployed.’
Simm also knew from his research Terry had been ‘temporarily unemployed’ for at least four years.
‘So, what’s up with the lovely Charlene?’ O’Reilly said.
‘She’s been getting strange mail.’
This information elicited a reaction. Terry’s teeth seemed to be his only feature that hadn’t been ravaged. They were yellowed, but they were straight and even, and Simm saw he had a full mouth of them when the man threw back his head and laughed.
‘Mail? She hired a private investigator because she didn’t like her mail? She’s got way too much money, that girl.’
He threw himself onto the couch and flicked ashes in the general direction of an ashtray, still shaking his head and chuckling.
‘Do you see her often?’ Simm said.
‘Charlene? Nope. Not often since the old man died.’
‘How often? Once a month? Once a year?’
‘Coupla times a year, I guess.’
‘Does she come here?’
This earned another loud guffaw, followed by a vicious bout of coughing. He washed it down with a long swig of beer.
‘She wouldn’t set her fancy little foot in here,’ he continued when he could speak again. ‘I usually meet her somewhere.’
‘You just get together to chat? Have a little visit?’
‘Somethin’ like that.’
Terry was concentrating on putting out his cigarette. It seemed to be a process that required a lot of attention.
‘Why did your father leave the pub to Charlie?’
‘Charlene was his little sweetheart, the little girl he never had. I guess he really wanted a daughter and not a son.’
Terry didn’t bother masking his bitterness.
‘What about your mother?’
‘What about her?’ Terry’s normally dead eyes sparked with something resembling anger.
‘Did she have any say in the matter? She must have wanted the business to go to her son.’
Simm knew he was pushing dangerous buttons, but experience had taught him button-pushing frequently delivered information that otherwise would be held on to securely.
The lighter flicked again. Simm didn’t know how long he could stay inside this place if Terry continued to fill it with smoke.
�
�She didn’t have any say. She couldn’t say anything.’
‘Why not? Your old man wouldn’t let her give her opinion?’
‘No! She can’t talk, for Christ sake! She can’t do anything.’
Simm could see tears forming in the other man’s eyes.
‘Anyway, piss on it,’ Terry continued. ‘I never wanted that shithole place. More work than it’s worth. She can have it.’
‘So, you get along okay with Charlie? No hard feelings?’
Terry showed off his teeth again with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
‘How could I not get along with little Charlene? Everybody loves Charlene.’
‘You know, you’re the first person I’ve met who calls her Charlene. Most people call her Charlie. Why’s that?’
Another big smile.
‘Because she hates it.’
Chapter 24:
Despite the cool misty weather, Simm drove with the windows fully open. As soon as the door of his apartment closed, he removed his clothing. By the time he reached the washing machine, he was naked. He threw his clothing into the machine, added detergent, and turned it on.
Next stop was the shower. He ran the water as hot as he could stand it and scrubbed away the smoke and heebie-jeebies he had picked up at Terry O’Reilly’s place. As he massaged the shampoo into his hair, he tried to reconcile Charlie’s description of her mentor’s son to the man Simm had visited. It didn’t match, and he had a strong feeling Charlie’s eyes were covered with wool.
He also knew he couldn’t eliminate Terry as a suspect. Despite the fact that he was physically and mentally limited by his addictions, he was smart enough and sneaky enough to harass a woman via the postal service. Would he, or could he, go so far as to attack her physically? Had he been personally responsible for the organs and the assault on her apartment door? Maybe not, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t the guy behind it.
One thing was definite; Terry O’Reilly was not okay with the fact that Charlie had inherited the bar. He resented her and seemingly hated her. His body language and his sarcasm sent Simm the message loud and clear. Simm hesitated from accusing him outright simply because of his reaction to the news that Charlie had hired an investigator as a result of ‘strange mail’. The surprise and the laughter had seemed genuine.
Drying himself off, he made the decision to keep the news of his meeting with Terry to himself for a while. He didn’t want Charlie to get bent out of shape because of what he had done and possibly throw off any progress Simm made in his investigation of the man. He would continue to work on a need-to-know basis.
Meanwhile, he had another direction in which to look – the West End Gang. Simm didn’t have much experience with organized crime, but the Irish Mafia was well-known in Montreal. Perhaps not as well-known as the Italian Mafia, but it had an established presence. It had been a part of the criminal landscape in the city since the early 1900s, running the usual gamut of organized crime activities. They were strong in the drug trade in the 1970s and developed ties with the Montreal Mafia and a few other organizations to ultimately make up a consortium with which they could fix drug prices and map out their respective territories. It was a dangerous and powerful organization in its own right, and a smart person shouldn’t assume the Irish heritage of its members meant they were a jovial, party-loving bunch.
In his past life as a police detective, Simm had occasion to investigate some of the many crimes perpetrated by the West End Gang, but didn’t have many solid contacts within the gang, with the possible exception of one.
If John Flynn was still alive and well, he might be willing to give Simm a lead. The challenge would be in finding him.
He began by contacting an old friend of his in the department.
‘Jamie, how’s it going?’
‘Simm, you old dog. I haven’t heard from you in a while. What are you looking for now?’
‘You know me too well.’
‘You don’t call me without a good reason.’
‘You’re right. I need to know if John Flynn is still in circulation.’
‘He’s alive, but not in circulation. He’s in Donnacona.’
‘I hadn’t heard that. Since when?’
‘It must be a few years now. He was picked up for eliminating a bad debt,’ the cop said.
‘Is there any way I can get a fast track to meet with him? I don’t want to have to do the paper route.’
Without his badge, Simm no longer had the advantage of being able to visit a prisoner without having to go through the technicalities required by Canadian Correctional Services. He would have to fill out a form, attach two passport-sized photos of himself, and send it all via snail mail. It could take weeks to get permission to visit a prisoner.
‘I could try making a couple of calls and see what I can do. I’ll get back to you.’
‘I appreciate it, Jamie. And the next time I call you, it’ll be to invite you out for a beer.’
‘Yeah, right, promises, promises.’
Simm mentally crossed his fingers when he disconnected the call. It would save him a lot of time to have a fast-track approval for a visit to Donnacona prison. Meanwhile, he had to do some research on the gang. He’d clearly been out of the loop for too long. He hadn’t even known Flynn was imprisoned.
Two hours later, he was much better informed. His internet research had given him an update on the organization and a link to a book that had been written a few years back by a former West End Gang member. Simm purchased and downloaded the book and worked his way through the pages.
The gang’s activities hadn’t evolved very much over the past years, but the leader’s names had changed, either by natural attrition or by means of assassination. The current head was Marty Sullivan. He was the nephew of the previous head who had been murdered in his own home a couple of years earlier.
Sullivan was known to be tough and unforgiving, but not ruthless. All he wanted was to make money. He didn’t encourage bloodshed unless it was necessary, or at least as much as he judged it to be necessary.
Simm flinched when his cell phone chirped. He had been fully concentrated on the documents on his laptop. He recognized the number on his phone screen and answered at once.
‘That was fast. I hope it’s good news.’
‘Very. You owe me one. You have an appointment tomorrow at ten o’clock.’
‘Fantastic. I couldn’t have hoped for better. I owe you more than one, buddy. Believe me.’
Simm smiled as he hung up. Jamie had pulled some impressive strings to get him in so quickly. He did a rough calculation in his head. Donnacona prison was close to Quebec City. Factoring in the morning traffic in Montreal, he would leave at seven, grab breakfast along the way, and he’d be in Donnacona with a bit of time to spare if everything went well.
His phone rang again. He answered without looking at the screen.
‘What did you forget to tell me?’
Silence.
‘Hello?’ Simm said. ‘Are you there?’
‘I’m here, but I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ a feminine voice said.
‘Sorry, Charlie. I thought you were someone else.’
‘I got that.’
‘What’s up?’
‘Just wondering where you were today.’
‘Do you miss me?’
‘Yeah, about as much as I miss a skin rash. It’s because you didn’t tell me what you’re up to these days.’
‘I’m working on cases. I can’t tell you about all of them,’ he said, fibbing a little.
‘Someone else’s case?’
‘Yep,’ he said, fibbing a lot.
‘I see. You didn’t go see your brother today?’
‘No. Why would I do that?’
‘I didn’t want to bug you about it last night, but it definitely looked like you two had some things to work out.’
‘Families always have things to work out, Charlie.’
There was silence on the other end of the line, and Simm wanted to kick himself. That was a pretty callous thing to say to a woman with no family left.
‘Sorry. That came out wrong.’
‘You should consider yourself lucky, Simm.’
‘I know. I am lucky,’ he said before the line went dead. But he had told Charlie the biggest fib of all.
Chapter 25:
The drive to the prison in Donnacona was uneventful. There were a few traffic snags in Montreal, but when he was on the highway he made good time, arriving twenty-five minutes before his scheduled appointment. He was admitted into the facility without a hitch, having only a moment of worry when the burly officer at the desk was searching for his name on a list. It crossed his mind that his authorization may be lost in the bureaucratic paper trail, but the guard finally found it and let him through. Since the prison was maximum security, and there were problems in the past with the smuggling of illegal substances, he was subjected to a thorough scan. His jacket, his belt, and the contents of his pockets were left in a basket in the admittance area.
Simm was escorted by another heavily-armed officer to an interview room. Again, he was impressed by Jamie’s magical powers. Somehow the cop had gotten Simm the special privilege of a private interview room. Regular visitors, including family, could see the prisoners in a common area, talking to them through a Plexiglas window while surrounded by guards. Lawyers and police officers were fortunate enough to have a private meeting with the incarcerated.
John Flynn was already in the room, shackled and handcuffed to a chair that was itself bolted to the floor. There was one other chair in the room, on the opposite side of a table separating Simm from the prisoner. There were cameras in the corners. Simm knew every movement was recorded, and if he so much as leaned over to touch Flynn, someone with a gun would be coming through the door behind him.
Sins of the Fathers Page 9
