Ransom Game (5 page)

The waitress removed the remains of somebody's fried chicken: gnawed bones in a yellow plastic basket, and set down two draft. I was wondering whether I should start a casual conversation and work around to Johnny Rosa. In the end, I dumped the idea, deciding that a frontal assault would leave a better aftertaste. I leaned over.

“Todd? I'm Ben Cooperman. Private licence. My client is looking for Johnny Rosa. I thought that you might be looking for him too. Maybe we could pool our information. What do you say?” Todd's eyes turned cold, covering up an initial shock. He was going to try to blow me away without making a fuss. I thought there might be a clause in his parole agreement about busting private investigators in the nose. “Have you seen him, Todd?”

“I see Johnny? That's funny. If I knew where to find him, I wouldn't be drinking draft beer, Mister. You working for Ashland? I heard he's brought in professionals. He must really taste it.”

Ian Todd looked like a thousand other guys. I couldn't spot anything special about him, unless it was the chill in those brown eyes. His hands showed long, bony fingers. There was a touch of the military in the way he was dressed, just a brass button or two. He looked like he could be a hard man to deal with, but I figured he didn't get excited too easily. I nodded back at him, neither confirming or denying that I worked for Ashland.

“Tell me about Johnny,” I asked.

“Go take a flying leap at the moon,” he said. I'd read somewhere that ex-cons are a passive sort. That as a group they tended to cave in to authority. I tried again.

“Did Johnny drop you from the car before he hid the ransom money?”

“Piss up a rope, Mister. I don't have to talk to you. Let me have my lunch. Scram.” He was right, of course, he didn't have to talk to me. Anybody else in the business would now start talking about what a nice job he has and how it would be a shame if he lost it. I couldn't swallow that kind of stuff any more than I could the draft beer in front of me. So I just sat for a while.

“You don't think much of Ashland, I gather.” I said it as a statement, hoping he'd treat it as a question. He looked across at me.

“Amateurs are whale shit, Mister, and there's nothing lower than that. Ashland howled from the moment we were pinched until he was moved to that minimum security place. Even there he yelled loud enough to get his nose broken. He was even an amateur inside.”

“You knew what he was like. Why'd you go along with it?”

“Ashland was the only weak link. He must have hinted or boasted to one of his friends. Not the whole story, but just enough to hint what a hard man he was. Jesus. The test of it went like silk.”

“I thought you were trying to stop it. That's what you said in court.”

“And I did. I told Johnny to call it off as soon as he told me about it. I showed him all the holes in the plan. He had all the stuff about the snatch itself, he knew every detail of the cottage set-up. But the ransom business he didn't have so well. We would have walked into their open arms if it hadn't been for a few ideas of my own.”

“Was it your idea or his about the final dump for the money?”

“Johnny kept that to himself. It was a place he knew about.”

“Weren't you with him?”

“He let me out at Culpepper, a one-horse town off the freeway, and I caught the milk-run bus that stops at every other tree along the old highway. It took me two hours to ride forty miles.”

“Sounds like you trusted Johnny pretty well. Where'd you meet him in the first place?”

“Ever hear of the Kit Kat Klub?” I shook my head. “It's a joint, sort of after-hours place. Night people used to drop by there: reporters, taxi drivers, people from the TV station, you know.”

“Do you think that Johnny meant to take the money and run as soon as he got out?” Todd sipped his beer, ignoring my question.

“Damn it, Mister, you're turning my beer flat. I told you I don't want to talk to you. Get off my back.”

“I've talked to people who think we'll find him at the bottom of the Welland Canal.”

“Some people read too many books.” He got up from his seat, nearly upsetting the unsteady red table, and grabbed his meal check with a flip of his hand. He looked at it and dropped it on my table “Thanks for lunch, Mister. Glad to see people give a break to a hard-luck con. Now, stay clear of me.” And he threaded his body between the scattered tables and chairs until he got to the door. After a word to the waitress, he was gone.

Paying Todd's check made me feel as though I'd eaten something myself. I didn't like the smell of the food so I felt ahead of the game; better him than me. Once out of the noise and smoke and into the sunlight, I could almost feel some heat through the shoulders of my overcoat. I'd parked my car behind Nickie's. It was looking saltstained along the skirt at the bottom like all the other cars in the lot. You could almost hear them all rusting together. Everything back there looked dirty and neglected. A skinny cat was ferreting around the green garbage bags next to the back door of the pub and a signal on the railway track winked a cold eye at me as I climbed into the Olds.

FIVE

I had a hard time dragging myself up the stairs to my office. As usual they were dirty, drafty and smelled of bad plumbing. The metal edges were giving up their grip on the linoleum on each step.

I shared this second storey with Dr. Bushmill, a chiropodist who often ended his day by passing out in his own reception room. A couple of times I'd helped him into a taxi, or driven him home, when he'd had a “drap of the creature” in him. Frank was a sad man, sad to be in Grantham instead of Ireland, sad to be a chiropodist, and sad, I think, to be unwillingly gay. It went against his finer feelings. He and I used to talk, when a two-way conversation was possible, about books. He vowed that he was going to improve my reading habits which he deplored. His kindness was well-intended and it gave us something to wrap our time around when we met in the hall. He had given me three books by Flann O'Brien, a favourite writer of his, and an acquaintance of sorts, I gathered, but I hadn't had time to crack them.

Today there was no sign of Frank Bushmill when I reached the top of the stairs, breathing hard. I entered my overheated office and got rid of my coat on the great-uncle of all coat racks. As a matter of fact, it was a left-over from my father's store. For a few months, I shared the office with four nude mannequins, but I put my foot down and my father made a deal with Mr. Goldfarb across the street and down a block. Since then, whenever I pass Goldfarb's window, I'm reminded of my inhospitality.

The mail was strewn on the floor, fanning out below the slit in the door. From where I stood, it didn't look very interesting: envelopes with windows in them mostly, and others with pasted-on labels that suggested either the promotion of a new kind of microphone for electronic surveillance or a chance to buy an encyclopedia of crime unavailable to the general public at any price. Everybody was always doing me favours that cost me money.

I called the number of a stock promoter I knew, and asked if he had seen Bill Ashland. He gave me the name of another firm to try. Here I wandered again in the land of “hold” until a voice told me that Ashland only sometimes drops around, try phoning Friesen, Sunter and MacLeod, a new outfit in town. I did that, and a girl with a deep sexy voice said she'd give him a message to phone me. Then I went through the same routine trying to find Knudsen. I made seven calls this time and ended up leaving word to have him call me. When I finally hung up, rubbed my ear, and stretched my legs, I was beginning to feel like a real detective.

The next number I looked up was that of the Grantham–Niagara Foundry. There were a lot of Granthams in the book and my astigmatism was no help as my finger drifted down the page. I tried the number.

“Lithwick here,” a voice shouted over a considerable din.

“I'm calling about an employee named John Rosa, who worked at the foundry for a couple of months.”

“Who is this?”

“Taxation Branch,” I said. I was going to ride the good feeling all day.

“Hold the line.” Lithwick vanished and was replaced by Miss Mann, who had not only all of the facts and figures at her fingertips, she had a quieter extension.

“You want to know about John Rosa, yes?” Her accent was clipped, even military. She sounded like she'd never forget your social insurance number.

“Can you tell me exactly when he began working for you and when he quit?”

“Yes, I have that information, but it will take me a few minutes. You will call back, please?”

“Sure. While you're at it, I'd like to know the name of his foreman. Could you tell me whether the foundry owes him any back pay? I'd also like to know about any absenteeism, sickness, any irregularity in his work record. Got that?”

“This is unusual, Mr. …?”

“Ah, Watson. John Watson.”

“Mr. Watson, we've never been asked to …”

“I know. This is a spot check. You probably won't be asked again until 2001.”

“I see,” Miss Mann said slowly. “You will call back, please, yes?”

“In an hour?”

“Oh, Mr. Watson, I hope I'm better organized than that. Half an hour will be sufficient.” I said that would fit nicely with the plans of the Branch and hung up. I began wondering what Miss Mann's first name might be. I speculated on this for as long as it takes to retie both of my shoes—the heat in the office made my feet swell— and then I decided that lunchtime had finally arrived even for private detectives. I was thinking about that when the phone began ringing on top of the city directory. I put my hat back on the rack and grabbed it.

“Hello?”

“Is this Ben Cooperman?” For a moment, I thought that Miss Mann had a brother. It was another slightly accented voice. I acknowledged that I was Ben Cooperman. “This is Rolf Knudsen. I heard you wanted to talk to me. I'm at your service. What kind of insurance are you interested in, Mr. Cooperman?”

“It's not insurance I want to talk to you about, Mr. Knudsen. It's about Johnny Rosa and half a million dollars.”

“I don't want to talk to you about that. Now if it's any kind of insurance. Fire, property …”

“Theft?” That one was a mistake, I guess, by the book it was a mistake. But I figured that he'd heard enough soft words. “Mr. Knudsen,” I continued “I'm a private investigator. I'm working for somebody who knows Johnny, and who is worried about him turning up missing. I'm not interested in raking up dead leaves for the fun of it. I only want to go into it far enough to get a lead on where he might be, and whether he is still alive or not. As one of the people who will probably be questioned by the police about his disappearance I think it mightn't look too bad on your report if you can say that you were helpful to me in trying to find Johnny before the general search was started. What do you say?” For a minute I thought I was back on “hold,” but I could hear him breathing at the other end.

“It will have to be tonight,” he said, all trace of sugar vanishing from his voice. “You come to my place. It's a farm on the Louth Road. It's the first farm on the right after a right turn off Pelham. The name on the box is “Sanderson.” Come after eight-thirty and don't bring any friends. I've got to hang up now.” He did, without even saying goodbye. I'd just replaced the phone, this time on top of a pile of law books, when it started shouting at me again. I thought that maybe he'd remembered his manners suddenly. But it wasn't him at all, it was my client, Muriel Falkirk. I fidgeted, trying to unsnare the tangles in the coiled telephone wire. Whenever a client phoned, I thought I was about to get the axe between a couple of neck bones.

“Mr. Cooperman, I mean Benny, it's me, Muriel. I'm calling to see how you're getting on.” She stopped talking, leaving a nervous silence on both ends of the line. The telephone wasn't Muriel's medium.

“Well,” I said, “I haven't worked any miracles. But I'm making steady progress. I've talked to the parole board and Ian Todd, and am seeing Rolf Knudsen later tonight.” I started the silence this time. I had all but one of the tangles out of the wire. Why didn't I think of untwisting it when I wasn't on the phone?

“Good.” I had difficulty remembering what was “good.” She sounded as excited by my news as if I'd invited her to a chess tournament. And then there was that silence again. I decided to try something.

“Miss Falkirk …”

“Muriel, please.”

“Do you happen to know anyone who drives a dark blue Mustang? I've caught one in my rear-view mirror more than once today.” Another long silence.

“Did you see who was driving?”

“Not really. Your pals don't drive Mustangs, then?”

“Sorry, you'll have to rule that out. Blue, you say?”

“Yeah, blue as tempered steel. Well, never mind …”

“Benny, you be careful, you hear?”

“Sure. Well, I'll hope to have more news tomorrow. Right now, all I've got is a full appointment book. Check in tomorrow.”

“I will, Benny. Take care.”

When she'd hung up, I wondered why she'd called. Was she just checking to see how her money was being spent? Could be, but she didn't ask for an account of what Todd or Nelson Christie had said. I couldn't figure her, but it was fun trying. I guess if she'd wanted fancy results, she would have gone to Pinkerton's. I looked at my watch. It didn't tell me the right time to call an heiress who had thirteen million a year sitting in probate. Still thinking of lunch, I pictured her sitting alone at the end of a fifty-foot table picking at a badly cut grapefruit. I tried the local directory. Naturally, there was no listing for George Warren. But I had better luck with Jarman, Robert H. The phone rang about three times before it was picked up. It was a woman's voice, but it had an unfemin-ine chill in it.