Smoke Screen

by Suzanne Ouimet

  Inside the main lobby, a young woman sat behind a table, knitting. When they entered, she stood and approached. Holding her hand out, she introduced herself.

  “I’m Lou Garrett. You must be Tom North. You called ahead, right?

  “Yes. And this is my partner, Marybeth Laughlin. We came to see Wayne Howard. I hope we’re not too early?”

  “Not at all. He’s in the lounge watching TV. Would you like a cup of tea, or coffee perhaps?”

  “Coffee would be lovely,” Marybeth said and Tom agreed.

  They followed Lou into a large room furnished with a number of tables and chairs, several couches and easy chairs. At least a dozen people of varying ages sat talking, playing cards, working on jigsaw puzzles and hobbies of different kinds. One woman, standing alone by a window, was moving her body to the beat of some unheard music, her mouth moving silently. Two people sat watching one of the two TV’s situated strategically at either end of the room, their volumes turned low.

  Approaching a lone man sitting in an easy chair at the far end of the room, Lou touched him on the arm. “You have some visitors, Howie,” she told him. ”I’ll turn off the TV. shall I?”

  The old man, his shiny, freckled, head circled with a ring of straggly white hair, turned to look at them, then struggled to stand. Marybeth and Tom noticed both of his hands were heavily bandaged.

  “No. Please don’t stand up, Mr. Howard,” Tom insisted. “I’m Tom North and this is Marybeth Laughlin. We’ve come to ask you some questions about a fire that happened a long time ago, back when you were the Fire Marshal in Leffler. I hope you can help us.” He and Marybeth sat down in two easy chairs, either side of the old man.

  “Howie burnt his hands rather severely this morning, putting out a little fire in the kitchenette, didn’t you Howie?” Lou informed them.

  Turning to Marybeth, she said, “Howie here is our resident hero. As you may know, he used to be a fireman years ago.” Putting her face close to the old man’s, she quietly advised him, “You’ve must stop fighting fires, Howie. You’re getting too old,”

  “How did the fire get started?” Tom asked Lou.

  Before she could answer, Howie muttered, so quietly they had to strain their ears to hear him, “Grease fire.”

  “We haven’t been able to figure that out,” Lou replied. “You could ask Dr. Kirkland, I suppose. I’m sure he would know.”

  “Do you feel well enough to answer a few questions, Mr. Howard?” Tom asked loudly, incorrectly assuming the old man was at least partially deaf.

  “I’m not deafe, young feller. You don’t need to shout. Whadya wanna know anyways?” the old man shouted back, deliberately mispronouncing the word deaf.

  Tom asked him if he remembered his old friend, Ben George.

  “’Course I remember Ben! Knew him since we was kids. Grew up together, ya might say. He was a hero in the Navy during W-W-2, ya know. I stayed out of it.”

  “Why was that, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “No problem, young feller. You mean why was Ben a hero or why’d I stay out of it?” Pausing a moment or two, collecting his thoughts, lightly whacking his bandaged hand on his left hip, he continued, “. Whoops, hadn’t oughta do that! Bum leg!” he winced.

  “Anyway, as I was saying… when I was eleven or so, me and Ben, we was playing basketball at school. Ben got checked and fell onto me. I went down on my side and slid into the metal gym door and the hip was smashed. Figures. Ben never got hurt, but me, I was in hospital for over a year. Damned hip never did get much better. Still got me a limp. If I’da been fit, I’da gone out there to the Pacific islands with Ben and got me a medal too.”

  “Ben wasn’t decorated, was he? He wasn’t exactly a hero,” Tom corrected him, wondering how Howard, crippled as he was, had managed to be accepted by the fire department.

  “Says you! You wasn’t there, was you? Ben told me what happened. He was a hero all right but he got cheated out of what shoulda been his. He shoulda got a medal, jus’ like Jack Kennedy got, you know? But he was Indian so they wouldn’t give him one. Indian’s is always short-changed.”

  “I don’t believe anyone but Jack got a medal,” Tom protested. “You were fit enough to join the fire department, though, weren’t you?”

  “Yep, that’s so. Got a strong back and arms. Got me a promotion, too,” he bragged, his rheumy eyes lighting up. He raised his arms and flexed his biceps, which were indeed immense for a man his age.

  “Mr. Howard, do you recall the fire at the Bellevue Apartments in Leffler, where Ben rescued a young woman and her baby?” Marybeth asked, trying to get back on subject.

  “You really a cop?” he asked, looking her up and down with what she felt was an unpleasant, lustful leer. “Didn’t think they’d let pretty girls like you be cops.”

  “Bellevue Apartment fire. 1968. You were there,” Marybeth insisted.

  “Yep, I recollect that one, young lady. Sad one, it was. Ben was a hero then too, ya know. He was there, Johnny-on-the-spot, like as usual. I coulda done it, but he got there first. Helluva fire fighter, our boy, Ben. Always got there first.”

  Marybeth thought she detected a tone of sarcasm in his voice as he spoke about Ben. Wonder why? Weren’t they friends?

  “What about those other fires that weren’t solved?” Tom interrupted. “You were the Fire Inspector back then, weren’t you? Your reports all said ‘arson by persons unknown’.”

  “Yep. That’s right. Nobody knows who set ’em.”

  “You don’t have any idea at all?”

  “Nope. And it’s too late, now. Ain’t nobody gonna figure out who lit ’em, after all this time.”

  “What happened to your hands, Wayne?” Marybeth asked, wondering if his previous story would hold.

  “Didn’t Lou tell you? I was puttin’ out a fire in the kitchenette. Some damn fool walked away from the stove. Burnt my hands and they’re hurtin’ bad,” he whined. “Doc put some stuff on ’em and bandaged ’em up good for me but they ain’t no use for anything now. Can’t even feed myself.”

  Suddenly he cackled, “Doc says I won’t be getting up to any more mischief, now.”

  “He’s probably right,” Tom agreed. “Do they allow smoking in here?”

  “Nope, no smoking. Why? You smoke?”

  Just then, a loud bell sounded. Most of the occupants in the room started to rise, albeit slowly, to shuffle towards the dining tables. A few began to help the attendants assemble chairs together for the meal, while others carried plates and cutlery to the tables.

  “There’s your lunch bell. We’ll come back later, if you don’t mind, Howie To talk to you again about those fires. Okay?”

  “Come anytime you want. Good talkin’ to you, young fella. I don’t get so many visitors anymore. Sorry I can’t shake hands,” he said, completely ignoring Marybeth. Standing up with some difficulty, he hobbled away in his slippers, muttering to himself, “damn fool, damn fool.”

  * * *

  “Holy smokes, Tom!” Marybeth grinned. “Sorry… Bit of a pun there.”

  Tom chuckled as they strolled along the pathway to the parking lot. “So… what do you think of Howie?”

  “He’s a letch. Maybe we’ve found our arsonist at last. You know, with those bandages, somebody’s going to have to feed him and I’ll bet he won’t like it.”

  “You’re right, he’ll complain the whole time. Hope it’s a guy who does it.”

  Looking around, Tom observed, “You know, we should have brought a picnic lunch. We could’ve eaten right here. We’ll have lunch then come back later, talk to Doctor Kirkland.”

  “What time is our appointment with the good doctor?”

  “Two o’clock.”

  “Lotsa time. We can have a leisurely lunch somewhere.”

  “Actually, I was thinking we could go over to Fire Department Headquarters – see if there were any unexplained fires here during the time ours occurred.”

  “Good plan. But mine’s better,” Ma
rybeth joked, looking forward, as usual, to eating out with Tom.

  After their brief lunch break, they spent an hour at the Black Rock Fire Department going over old records but found no unsolved arson cases during the ten years between 1958 and 1968.

  “I was pretty sure we wouldn’t find anything,” Marybeth said. “I think our arsonist lived in or near Leffler and stayed in his own neighbourhood.”

  “That makes sense. Still, it was worth checking out, don’t you think?”

  Back at the mental home, they were led to the administrator’s office, which was as pleasant as the rest of the facility, if not more so.

  Seating themselves on one of the deep maroon leather couches, they refused the offered tea or coffee.

  “I’m Dr. Kirkland. I was told you need information about Wayne Howard? I have his file right here,” Thumbing through a file, the doctor informed them, “’Fraid I wasn’t here when he first arrived. That was over ten years ago, June of ’82.”

  “Quite a long time ago, then,” Tom replied. He glanced at Marybeth, wondering if she made the connection. Right after Ben’s death? “Do you know where he lived before he came here?”

  “It says in here that he lived in Leffler. Number 12A, on 7th Avenue.”

  Tom looked at Marybeth who nodded. She recognized the address, too.

  “Do you know why he was committed? Who brought him in?” Tom enquired.

  “That’s information I can’t give you, I’m afraid.”

  “Is there any information about who is paying for him to stay here?” Marybeth enquired, pretty sure the rates at this home would be more than a fireman would normally be able to afford.

  “I’m not able to give you that information.”

  “We can get a warrant, if it’s necessary,” she bluffed.

  “I believe it’s some kind of trust. I can give you the name of the trustee, if you like.” He jotted a name on a notepad, tore off the sheet and handed it to Marybeth.

  “We noticed Mr. Howard injured his hands recently?” Tom said.

  “Yes. It would seem he burned them this morning – not seriously, mind you, but bad enough to need bandaging.”

  “Is this something Mr. Howard does regularly? Start fires? Burn himself? Do you know if he had a record of this kind of behaviour before he became a patient here?”

  Dr. Kirkland thumbed through the file again, then answered, “I don’t see anything in here about him starting any fires. If so, it should have been flagged. There’s nothing indicating a problem of that kind. We’re not totally sure he started the fire here this morning, although I must admit I am suspicious.”

  Tom rose, reaching out his hand. “Thank you, Doctor. If you happen to hear anything else about Mr. Howard – something you think would help us – please give us a call.”

  “I certainly will,” the doctor replied, shaking Tom’s hand, and taking the card Marybeth, offered him. “Good luck with your investigation.”

  * * *

  “You know, Marybeth, I think we should have come up here a lot sooner. There’s more to Howie than meets the eye. And wasn’t his address in the file the same as the one where the fire occurred?” Tom asked when they were in the car.

  “It was. Didn’t that woman, Mrs. what’s-her-name, say the apartment under Marilyn’s – 12B, wasn’t it – was empty at the time of the fire?”

  “Right. It was probably 12A.

  “Trenton, Alice Trenton. She mentioned the guy who lived there was evicted. Motive for setting the fire perhaps?”

  Marybeth took the paper the doctor had given her out of her pocket and read the name aloud. “Robert Lansing Smart. That’s the name of the Trustee of the fund that pays for Howie’s keep. We’ll need to get in touch with him. See what he knows.”

  Chapter 19

  Carmine's Visit

  Suddenly showing up unannounced on Sonny’s doorstep, after an absence of over 20 years, might not have been such a good idea. Carmine wasn’t sure what his reception would be. He had returned to Leffler after receiving a letter from Val, telling him she and Sandro were expecting their first child.

  “What are you doing here?’” Sandro asked, gruffly, when he saw who stood at the door. Val appeared behind him.

  “Among other things, I wanted to see you. I came to explain why I stopped writing you - why I didn’t get in touch when I got back from Vietnam.”

  “Well, I guess you’d better come in, then,” Sandro replied coldly, reluctantly holding the door open.

  Standing stiffly in the hall, holding his black cowboy hat in both hands, Cal wasn’t sure if he was even welcome. Val was more gracious, though, coming over and hugging her brother-in-law, then holding him at arms’ length to look him over. “You seem to be in once piece, anyway. And yes, we do need an explanation. You caused us a lot of anxiety and despair, you know.” She took his hat, handed it to Sandro, who stashed it in the hall closet. Taking his hand, she led him into the living room.

  “Sit,” she ordered. “I’ll get us some coffee.”

  Carmine and Sandro sat silently across from one another, neither willing to break the ice, until finally Val returned with a tray of coffee and cinnamon rolls.

  “So,” she said, plunging right in, “where have you been, Carmine? And why haven’t you kept in touch? We were worried sick until we got word you’d been seen down on the Rosebud Reservation. That was a several years back, so you’d better bring us up to date.”

  “Yeah,” Sandro growled. “What were you doing down there anyway?”

  “Who told you where I was?” Carmine was beginning to feel annoyed with his brother’s attitude.

  “Somebody who knows somebody, who knows somebody. Guess you could call it the ‘moccasin telegraph’.”

  “Cute. Actually, I teach high school in Rosebud. And I do some writing.”

  “How come?” Sandro asked curtly. “You never liked school.”

  “Well, for one thing, the kids down there need all the help they can get. They need to be encouraged to stay in school, so they can get work, on or off the reserve. It’s important work – and a good life.”

  “Sandro teaches school, too,” Val informed him. “We both do.”

  “That’s great!” Carmine seemed genuinely pleased. “What do you teach, Sonny?” he asked, reverting to his brother’s adopted name.

  “I teach at the School for the Deaf in Black Rock,” Sandro replied abruptly. He began ‘signing’ as he spoke. “Val teaches mentally handicapped children. I guess you could say we’re doing something ‘important’ with our lives, too.”

  “Odd we all got into teaching,” Carmine said, ignoring what he assumed was a dig. Looking around the room, he observed, “You seem to be doing well.

  “By the way, I can’t read sign language, Sonny, so you don’t have to try to impress me.” Then, turning to Val he remarked, “You have a lovely home. I notice you’re into Navajo décor.”

  “I love the colours,” Val admitted. “Sonny has a good Indian artifacts collection.” She handed him an album of pictures of Sandro’s collection.

  For the next few minutes, he paged through the book, looking at the photographs. “I’d like to see these, Sandro. I hope you’ll show me.”

  “How long you gonna stick around?” Sonny asked, curtly, figuring it would be a waste of time. Why bother to take him to where his collection was stored if his brother was heading home soon.

  This time Carmine took the hint. “I’m sorry, Sandro. I didn’t mean to stay away for so long. It was just that I couldn’t talk, couldn’t even write, about what was happening over there. It was terrible. I really couldn’t, and still can’t, describe it.” Overcome, he put his hands over his eyes for several seconds. Finally regaining his composure, he continued. “Sorry… I saw several of the guys in my unit, guys who I was pretty close to, die horrible deaths.” Choking up again, he somehow managed to continue, “My best friend, Leo Waxwing, bled out and died in my arms while we were being air-lifted out in a chopper. I co
uldn’t write about it, so I stopped, period. I’m sorry.”

  “Okay, we get it,” Sandro was still unable to let go of his resentment towards his brother. “And why didn’t you come home when you got back?”

  “Let me try to explain,” Cal told his brother, considering for a few seconds before continuing.

  “I don’t suppose you can imagine what it was like. Did you happen to see the film ‘Apocalypse Now’? Something like that. It was a very realistic film.”

  “We saw that movie. Very shocking. Very moving. What about ‘Deer Hunter’, Cal? Was that realistic too?” Val had always been interested in war movies.

  “Yeah, it was. Showed how most of us were irrevocably changed by our experiences over there…” Unable to continue, he sat, staring into space.

  Seconds ticked by. Val and Sonny waited patiently for him to recover.

  “Anyway, aside from the horror,” he finally continued, “I began to realize I wanted to do something important with my life, if I ever managed to get home, which, at the time, I didn’t believe I would. I wanted to make a difference. Maybe medicine. Thought maybe if I’d had more first-aid training, I could’ve saved Leo’s life. He was from Rosebud. So, I decided to go there, to meet his family.”

  “I thought you and I were pretty close before you left. I believed we would be married when you came home. I won’t even bother to tell you how Sandro felt when we didn’t know if you were dead or alive.” Val complained,

  “I told you I’m sorry. And I am,” Cal responded, annoyed. “Actually, I planned on staying here a couple of days, but now… do you two want me to or not?” He stood, ready to leave, waited for them to tell him whether they wanted him to stay or not.

  “Sit down, Cal,” Val told him, firmly. “We’re feeling a bit raw and your visit is a surprise. We’re glad to see you, really we are, but don’t expect us to behave as though you left only yesterday. Like there’s no history.”