Murder on Location (6 page)

I wasn't hungry, but I ordered a sandwich and a glass of milk, just for sitting privileges. Hayes, on the other hand, was starved. I watched him through a shrimp cocktail, salad, top-sirloin steak, spumoni ice cream and coffee. Between courses, he made notes on the back of the paper placemat under his knives and forks. Through all of this he nursed a bottle of Danish beer. I had to give him full marks as a reformed character. He wiped his chin and paid the waiter with two American twenty-dollar bills. He did it with enough flourish to tell me that he wasn't used to paying out that kind of money without so much as a burp of protest.

He was about to get up, when he looked right at me. I was signalling my brain about some response when I realized the smile was for someone behind me. It was Miranda again. She rounded on him before he quite got to his feet. He looked startled, she was out of breath and in the middle of her argument. Hayes sputtered excuses, but Miranda sailed through them nearly upsetting his empty beer bottle with a long impatient finger. It was a difference of opinion, certainly, but I couldn't get a sharper focus than that on it. It now looked like they'd agreed to talk further, because Hayes left a tip under his saucer and got up. Neither of them seemed to notice me as they left the restaurant. The only words I heard sounded like “ingratitude” from Miranda and “I'm sorry. I was working” from David.

I counted a minute after they'd gone, and then I collected the abandoned placemat. The front told me all about the rich variety of wildlife to be found in Canada. On the back, where he'd been writing, it was more a puzzle. Here a group of names was confused with arrows leading from one name to another. Alden Cory pointed an arrow at Karen Brophy, who was pointing in turn at Chris Fetterley and Rosemary Beattie. They sent arrows back at Karen. Two names, Tony D'Abruzzi and Hyman Shatz, were circled several times, and arrows going off in all directions made them into a sea urchin. The only name on the page I recognized was the Pagoda, the tourist tower on the rise up the street and overlooking the falls. The sea urchin was tied to this with a heavy black line. And that was all. I put it in my breast pocket, paid my bill and nodded to the suit of armour on my way out. I might not know at that moment where to find Billie Mason, but at least I had a pocketful of brand new leads. Then I remembered that one of the places they might lead me was to the morgue.

FIVE

Armed with a handful of change and a fresh pack of Player's, I tried once more to locate Norman Baker, the CBC television producer who'd sent a crew to interview Billie. I couldn't help feeling that when a professional outfit like the official Canadian broadcasting network points its lenses at you, it might turn your head if it happened to be as pretty as Billie's was. At the very least, Baker should know the trouble he'd put me to.

“Norman Baker here,” said a voice with an English accent as sticky as a hunk of Brighton rock. I told him who I was, that I was trying to locate Billie Mason, and that I knew about the film his crew had done in Grantham.

“What else do you know?” he said in a voice that had suddenly lost its friendly edge. “Who did you say you were again?” I ran through my story again and hoped that he was now tuned in with both ears.

“When is that piece of film going to be used?” I asked.

“Well, that's up in the air at the moment. We've technically been fired from the project, but we've got an injunction against the CBC cutting the film themselves. It's a no-win situation.”

“This isn't just about a small-town actress. What's all this about?”

“I'm sorry but I can't talk about it. It's part of a project that has been kept highly secret. And now we are in a very sticky bind with the Corp. Sorry, I'd like to help.”

“What's the CBC trying to take away from you?”

“For over a year now we've been collecting information in a certain area. That actress was just one of the people we talked to. She's small potatoes, really.”

“Small potatoes to you, maybe. But her husband thinks she's been murdered. How big do things have to get before they catch your interest?”

“Hold on. Whom does he say he thinks is responsible?”

“He won't say. But I can guess that it doesn't have much to do with acting.”

“Of course not.”

“If she gets killed, and you know something that could have prevented it …”

“I hear what you're saying, Mr. Cooperman. I know all about being an accessory after the fact. I'm thinking.”

“A woman's life is at stake here, not just ratings.”

“Point well taken. I'm still thinking. Do you think there is a potential for media attention here?”

“What? I can't understand you. If you mean is there a story here, I'm guessing that there is.”

“Good. That might give me the leverage I need with Kellogg.”

“You've lost me again.”

“And then with Kellogg siding with me against the brass …”

“Hey! Will you please tell me what's going on?”

“I think you may have just put me back in business, Mr. Cooperman. I don't know how to thank you.”

“Well I do. Tell me what this is all about.”

“I suppose it can do no real harm. I can tell you the part that affects your case. The rest is too hot to carry around. You'll see it all explode on television in less than three months unless I miss my guess.” He took a breath, and paused to find a place to start.

“Billie Mason's husband is laundering money for the mob. If she's disappeared, it's probably mob-connected. In our film we tricked her into talking about this side of her life, as she thought, between takes in the interview about her career. She know quite a bit about her husband's connections in Atlantic City. But it looks as though none of it will ever be seen, unless I can make a deal with Elwood Kellogg, the assistant general manager. For nine months I've had his help. He's covered me in all the right places, but the lawyers and brass are leaning on him …” He went on about his troubles, and I let him. Then, when he stopped to restore his fires, I asked:

“Why would the mob want to kill Billie Mason?”

“Well, they aren't playing touch football. Piccadilly isn't a bunch of amateurs.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Piccadilly fronts for a group trading as Morden Realty. Behind Morden lurks Anthony Horne Pritchett.
He's the kingpin. Now, through Morden and Piccadilly he pumps money into Mason's smallish business. Mason's probably one of many such outlets. He invests their money all dressed up to look like his own. Nothing overtly crooked; all legitimate schemes.”

“And you're planning to blow the whistle on them on your program?”

“Given the chance.”

“Does Pritchett have interests in Niagara Falls?”

“Ummm,” he muttered through his teeth. “I can't think of anything. The syndicate is too big in those parts. We covered that in another program. Our research isn't as fresh there, but the last time I looked the syndicate had things sewn up, and I mean everything: prostitution, drugs, loansharking, liquor, you name it, and at the same time they're dealing with legitimate businesses: tourist stuff, vending machines, small businesses.”

“Does the name David Hayes ring a bell anywhere?”

“It doesn't feedback on me. If you want names, the best is Pritchett. That's the start of everything in the mob.”

“And in the syndicate?”

“There you've got a pair of twins: an Italian and a Jew.”

“Let me guess. How about Tony D'Abruzzi and Hyman Shatz?”

“Never heard of either of them. No, the boys in charge are Tullio Solmi and Mordecai Cohn. Where'd you get those others?”

“In a lottery.”

“Solmi's gang hangs out at the Chinese tower at the Falls.”

“The Pagoda?”

“That's the place. The front's called Cataract Vending. There are a few others in upper New York State too, but his main organization is located there.”

“But this isn't new material?”

“New enough. I hope you get a chance to see the program. The Corp's sunk too much money into it to shelve it. It's just a matter of settling who gets final cut. What you've just told me suggests we may be sitting on more of a time-bomb than we thought. Now I know a way to get Kellogg off the racketball court and back to business.” He started leading me around the corridors of the CBC brass again and I got off the phone as soon as I politely could.

I don't know about other people, but when I hear about the mob, I want it to be in a movie or a thriller. I don't want any part of a non-fictional mob. Unfortunately, as I was thinking on my way back to Grantham, mob-tracks cover the Niagara Peninsula running back through the Depression to Prohibition. Prohibition hit Ontario in 1916 during World War One. That's when, for a choice few, the illegal liquor business became fun. When the States went dry in 1920, it became big business. After 1925, Ontario went dry again, but there were still big bucks to be made in bathtub gin and hijacked bonded rye. For the most part, the Canadian authorities
winked at the illegal traffic. The laws were unenforceable and bootleggers were as popular as Robin Hood's little green men of Sherwood.

That's all ancient history now. Water over the falls. But successful bootleggers are clipping coupons today; the unsuccessful ones are wearing cement galoshes at the bottom of Lake Ontario.

I parked my Olds next to my father's rust-pocked Cadillac convertible in front of the condominium. I let myself in.

“Benny, is that you? Is that you, Benny?”

“That's right. You weren't expecting Sam were you?”

“Your brother's too busy to get away during the week. You know that.” Sam is the chief of surgery at Toronto General, a top position, my mother never tires of reminding me, in a hospital that isn't even a Jewish hospital. We all had to give Sam full marks. Ma was wearing a bright fuchsia gown or housecoat. She was quite blonde again. She presented her cheek and I grazed it with a kiss.

“You've been to get your hair done.”

“Yeah,” she said, rolling her eyes with pleasure, like she was a little girl accused of coming top of her class again. “You like it?”

“Very nice. Very nice.”

“It was getting so I couldn't look at myself in the mirror any more. I had to get it done to preserve my sanity. It gets me out of the house. Better I should go to the beauty parlour than to my doctor. That's the only other reason for going out.”

“What's this about your doctor? I thought he was in the hospital.”

“It's the locum-schlocum. He gave me a prescription.”

“You didn't tell me you've been sick. Ma, what's going on around here?”

“Don't ask.”

“Who's asking? I'll be screaming in a minute. Give.”

“I had a little infection and it's clearing up. I shouldn't even mention it.”

“If you're keeping secrets from me …”

“Your father's downstairs.”

“That's right, don't listen.”

“Open the wine it should breathe before you go down.”

“Stop changing the subject.”

“I'm just a juvenile delinquent, that's what I am,” she said, batting her eyes like a fourteen-year-old. “Open the wine.” I opened a bottle of Macon and placed it on the dining-room table. It had been set for four.

“Who's coming for dinner?”

“What?” She had her vague voice on, and was trying to lose herself cutting bread.

“Never mind.” I went down the broadloom-covered steps to the television room. Pa was wearing his blue cardigan and watching the local news. I handed him the paper. He gave me a dirty look like I was personally responsible for all the bad tidings it contained. “Who's coming to supper?” I asked. Pa grew pink at the corners of his cheeks.

“An idea of your mother's,” he said with a shrug.

“An idea is coming to eat with us?”

“It's Linda Levin. Wilfred Levin's sister. You remember her. She's back from New York. She's divorced now, making a new start, has a nice settlement, and your mother thought, well …”

“And she's coming to supper. No sweat, Pa. I know Linda. We used to watch Rabbi Feingold kill chickens.”

“What?”

“He used to interrupt our Hebrew classes to do a job for a customer. You could hear the trussed-up chickens outside the door. He used to pretend he didn't hear them, then he'd excuse himself for a few minutes. Linda and I followed him down the cellar steps to watch.”

“Well, what do you want? We're a small community. In New York a rabbi doesn't kill chickens on the side.”

“Who did Linda marry? He was a broker of some kind, wasn't he?”

“Import-export or export-import, something like that. She has a boy, Paul-David. He plays drums. That's all I know about her. Ask her yourself when she gets here.” We both watched a uniformed attendant close the back doors of an ambulance, which then drove away from the camera. It's for shots like that that I love the local news.

“Pa, do you know anyone in the mob?” I asked without a build-up.

“What kind of question is that? You think I'm a crook, or you want to enlist? Which is it?”

“I'm working on a case. Tell me what you know about it.”

“There are a couple of guys in town you can place a bet with. Is that what you mean? There's the Big Deal club over at the hotel. The club gets a rake-off on every hand.”

“I'm talking about the mob, the Mafia, Cosa Nostra.”

“They say that Lou Tannenbaum was close to that fellow, what's-his-name, Greenblatt from Detroit. But I never …”

The doorbell rang upstairs, then voices at the door like jingling crystal. A moment or two later, my mother, transformed by a dinner dress of soft milky-coffeecoloured material, ushered Linda Levin into the television room. In her honour, Pa turned the knob down a couple of notches, so that you could no longer hear the announcer talking about the arrival of Peggy O'Toole in the Falls.