Live Bait (8 page)

"No, they were short, shorter than most Italians are these days and they were slim. They could have been fly-weight boxers, the pair of 'em. They just didn't look Italian to me."

"You sound pretty sure of it," Irv said. "And they weren't Jews. I'm the only Hebe in the city working tonight. It's the High Holidays."

"Could they have been Asians?" Robinette wondered. He was anxious, wriggling the tiny knot in his tie, eager to make a useful suggestion in front of a couple of old workhorses.

I looked at him and whistled. "You know, they could have been." They had run with the same fluid energy I'd seen in the children in Nam. "What makes you ask?"

He shrugged. "One of the guys hurt, the man at the warehouse, he was East Indian. I wondered if these were some of his people. The Sikhs have got all kinds of feuds going, what I hear."

"They weren't Indian," I said, "but they could have been Orientals, maybe Viet Namese or Koreans or young, fit Chinese, before their feet go."

"Lay off the racial discrimination." Irv said. "Some of my best friends are in the laundry business."

We laughed, just keeping everything friendly, and I explained. "You know what I mean. A lot of Chinese have a kind of uncomfortable walk. These guys were pounding along to beat hell. They were fit."

We took a look around the site, debating the idea of having Orientals involved in the case as we poked over the ground. It was littered with the rubble of construction and we couldn't see anything worthwhile in the light of our flashlights but we were still at it when Fullwell arrived. He had not stayed long at the hospital. Both men were undergoing surgery for abdominal injuries; they both had ribs broken. We listened and I introduced him to the detectives and he gave us the details.

"The doctor at St. Mike's sees a lot of beatings. He says this one isn't typical. There are no facial cuts or contusions like there usually are when guys go at one another with fists or clubs. They'd been hit in the guts, by experts. Both of them the same."

Irv took a toothpick from the top pocket of his doublebreasted suitcoat and stuck it in his mouth before saying, "Like maybe they'd been worked over by somebody who knew karate or kung fu."

Fullwell looked at him long and hard before he started to nod. "Exactly. That's what must've happened."

"It figures," I agreed with him. "That matches the two suitcoats I saw going over the fence. It looks as if the threat to the owners of this place is coming from some Hong Kong heavies."

Robinette sniffed. "Great," he said disgustedly. "That narrows it down to about two million guys."

Irv looked at him thoughtfully. "Look on the bright side. It crosses whole continents off the list of suspects. We could crack this one before I reach retirement." We all chuckled but we knew Robinette was the closest to the truth. Hong Kong violence is a new commodity in Toronto. The Intelligence boys are only beginning to start a file on them. We were looking at a blank sheet.

Fullwell left with the detectives, and Sam, leaving me to make sure there were no repeats. We figured I had scared them off before they had time to do any damage to property. So I stayed, hiding in the shadows waiting for something to move. Nothing did until a quarter to seven when the first of the workmen arrived for the day and the foreman relieved me. I drove back to Fullwell's office through the thickening rush hour traffic.

Sam was waiting in Fullwell's office. One of the office girls had brought him some milk in a coffee cup but he wasn't buying until I turned up and gave him the go-ahead. I thanked the girl, got myself a java, and sat with Fullwell, talking over the case.

We were still working at 8:30 when the company president came in. He was a big, meaty man in a blue pinstripe suit. He looked like those actors who used to play ruthless railroad executives in Roy Rogers movies. His name was Thomason. Fullwell introduced me, talking to him with the same degree of respect a beat copper would give an inspector. Thomason called us into his office and ordered coffee. His came in a cup and saucer, ours in styro-foam cups. We sipped while Fullwell brought him up to date on our findings.

He sat and stared at Fullwell until he'd finished. It's an old trick for inducing suspects to feel guilty. It made Fullwell uncomfortable, but he's pro and he stayed cool.

At last Thomason spoke, so quietly that we had to lean forward to hear him. It's another trick they teach you in management courses to make people feel insecure but I was only the part time help so I didn't bother resenting it. "If you remember, I was against our following up the first beating on our own."

"So was I," Fullwell said sturdily. "But on the advice of our marketing man, we did it."

Thomason let him finish then went on without acknowledging the interruption. "Now it's time to stand back and let the police take over."

"Fine," Fullwell said boldly. "They've already got the details, I'll contact them and ask them to proceed normally."

Thomason sipped his coffee, making a slightly pained face. He was staring at me over the top of his cup. "I think we misjudged badly," he said. I could guess what was coming but kept quiet. Thomason let us suffer a moment longer then set down his cup. "Think about it. We have one beating, a fairly conventional attack. Then we bring in Mr. Bennett, an expert in martial arts." He paused again but I didn't say anything. He went on, his voice rising with every word. "And then we have three more men hit, all of them by some fairly sinister person or persons unknown, two of them by some kung fu expert."

He let the suggestion hang in the air and Fullwell grabbed it, laughing angrily. "You're not suggesting that Mr. Bennett is responsible, that a sworn peace officer has been thumping our guards?" He stood up and took an angry step away from his chair and then back again. Thomason watched him like a schoolmarm supervising a kindergarten. "I'm not suggesting anything at all," he said primly. "But I am stating that the connection between Mr. Bennett and Bonded Security has ended, this minute, for all time. Is that understood?"

Fullwell was tough, too tough. I didn't need it, but maybe his pride did. After all, he had suggested me. "I find this line of supposition very offensive," he said. "I've known this man for a year and know him to be of impeccable character."

"You're not the personnel officer," Thomason said. "So there is no need to take this personally. I am paid to make executive decisions and I have just made one. Please pay Mr. Bennett exactly what we owe him and escort him off the premises forthwith."

"Send it to me," I said. "See you later, Simon. Thanks for the coffee and the vote of confidence, Mr. Thomason. I wish you luck."

I got up and walked out, whistling to Sam who came bounding happily up to me. Fullwell said something final to his boss; it sounded angry, but I could tell by the tone that the war was over. I was through with this case.

Fullwell followed me into the elevator. There were other people in it, a pretty girl with too much makeup and an elderly file clerk with a wheeled tray of letters. We said nothing as we rode down to the ground floor. Then, as the others left, Fullwell blew up. I patted him on the arm. "Don't take it personally, the guy's only covering his own ass. I'm cool."

"The high and mighty sonofabitch. What in hell does a business degree teach a man about security work? Or about people for that matter?" Fullwell jammed his hands into his pants pockets. "After all the risks you've taken for his goddamn office."

"I owed you," I said. "And anyway, I'm not through with the investigation. I've still got eleven days of vacation left. Here I am at loose ends in Toronto."

Fullwell turned and grinned. "You serious?"

"Absolutely." The thought of proceeding alone was appealing. I had a lead to follow and time to kill, and a family to visit with when the day's chasing around was over. "Yeah, I'm going to get myself some sound legal advice before I go home."

Fullwell laughed out loud, a relieved laugh. "Nice going. I hear the best man in town is a lawyer called Straight, Cy Straight."

"I've heard that as well. Maybe while I catch a few hours zuzz somebody would check the legal list and find out where he works."

"I think that could happen right here in this building," Fullwell said. "Don't give it another thought. Just ring my office later and ask for the address of the mortgage company. Tell them it's Mr. Case calling."

"Certainly will, Mr. Fullwell," I said.
 

"I'll be waiting for your call, Mr. Case," he said and bowed and we both laughed. It wasn't very funny, but compared with the stuff we'd seen the last couple of nights, it was at least light relief.

 

 

 

Chapter 10

 

 

T
he first thing I did was sleep six hours. When I'd got up, showered, shaved, and taken Sam for a walk I called Fullwell, using our Mickey Mouse code. The girl told me Mr. Fullwell had remembered the address. She gave it to me, along with the name of the law firm. Howe, Stark and Payne, an establishment WASP outfit rich enough to have a floor to themselves in one of the goldmines in the sky down at Bay and King streets.

I left Sam in the car, in a lot that charged by the microsecond, and rode up thirty-eight floors to their office. I'd decided what I would do is get a reading of this man, for his reactions. If he acted suspiciously I would tail him for a day or two and see if he made any contact with Tony or other known hard cases. It was thin but I didn't have many choices. Tony's record prevented me from trusting him right off. I needed some kind of confirmation that Straight was our man. After that I could follow him up. The police might have done it differently, but then they had more manpower to spare than I did. So I forged ahead.

Their office had oak double doors with a discreet brass plate with the partners' names on. I opened them and went through into the kind of plush-carpeted hush you associate with bank vaults full of old money. The receptionist was an anexoria victim in the middle of a desk that resembled a flying saucer. From a quick glance I couldn't tell how she got into it, there was no flap or visible hinge. I imagined she put it on like a crinoline.

I could see she was weighing me up. The tweed jacket was good, from the days when tailors gave discounts to Toronto detectives, but I had the kind of tan you don't get sitting in offices riffling piles of other people's money. She smiled a smile she had perfected about 1945 and said, "Good afternoon, sir."

There was a ten-second pause between "afternoon" and "sir" and a long hungry pause while she waited for me to whisper my request. By then she was beginning to realize that I was not one of their usual business clients. I was a special case.

I looked at her for a few more seconds without speaking. She was waiting for deference. Once she got it she would kiss me off without a prayer of seeing the man I'd come to visit. So I did what had to be done. Speaking curtly I told her, "I've got a message for Cy Straight."

She was startled. I could tell that everybody in this place was a Mister. She fiddled with her neckline. "Mr. Straight is busy."

"Yeah, well I'll wait then." I looked around for a chair and moved to it, my feet honestly swishing through the depth of that carpet.

She was in full flight now. "Sir," she called. And when I didn't respond at once, "Si-irrr!"

I sat down and picked up last month's Fortune. "Me?" I asked.

She waved both hands in a tiny, anxious motion, like a kid smoothing down her ruffled dress. "I must have your name. People can't just walk in off the street and expect to see Mr. Straight."

"Yeah, well okay, tell him a friend of Tony's is out front." To someone like her, used to the hushed whisper school of conversation, I must have sounded like a drunk in church. She stared at me with her mouth open. "Tony," I repeated, and flipped the magazine open to a piece on commodities.

She still didn't answer. Her mouth was working but her brain hadn't taken up the slack. I flopped the magazine back on the glass-topped table and mimed picking up and dialling a telephone. "A friend of Tony's is here to see you," I said and grinned.

The grin woke her up. She picked up the phone and dialled. She spoke into the phone, rapidly. "Yes, Sue, there's a, a gentleman out here to see Mr. Straight. He won't give his name. Says he's a friend of Tony's."

She made Tony's name sound like a conundrum. There were mouse scratchings on her line and she looked up sharply. "Mr. Straight's secretary says she can't interrupt him unless she has your name."

"Why not?" I stayed in character. It was not my favorite role but it was the only way I had to cut through the usual protocol and come face to face with Straight.

She repeated my comment into the telephone, then hissed a few words and hung up. "I'm afraid Mr. Straight's secretary says he can't entertain any business exchange without a proper introduction."

It was too good a chance to pass up. "I don't need entertaining, I'm here with a message." She opened her mouth to speak but I wagged a finger at her. "I'll just wait right here until he comes out."

She pursed her lips angrily, dialled again and informed the person at the other end that they were stuck with me. So far as I could tell there were no other exits from the offices, except through this lobby. I had him cornered and we all knew it.

She hung up again and said "Mr. Straight's secretary will see you."

"Good." I nodded approvingly. "Now we're starting to get somewhere." I was expecting a clone of the receptionist. With just the same degree of pressure I was sure I could get by her and in to see Straight. Instead, the inner door opened and an elegant woman of about thirty walked out. She was Chinese, taller than average, dressed in a creamy silk blouse, tied at the throat, and a silk skirt. Her hair was bobbed in a cut that must have been intended to look practical but which was more strikingly feminine than waist-length curls. I looked at her and rose to my feet as if I'd been hooked. Any man would have found her beautiful. In my mind she brought out some echoes that made her irresistible.