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Authors: Eric Wight

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H
e read the article twice, and then the little bundle of newspaper clippings. The article in
The Hogtowner
expanded on the facts related in the clippings by noting there would have been no arrest at all had not one of the victims persisted in harassing what
The Hogtowner
referred to as the “Dickhead Squad” until eventually they agreed they had a case to prosecute. Salter called the Fraud Squad and explained his request.
“You want Larson,” the sergeant in charge of the squad told him. “He was the one who nailed that stock promoter. He's here. Hold on.”
Larson had to be reminded of the details of the case, then he agreed, as long as no one was listening, that
The Hogtowner
might have had a point. “We'd have gotten around to it, but it didn't have a very high priority. At the time we had a rash of cases of senior citizens being conned out of their savings, so this Harry Cane seemed to me to be not so urgent. Frankly, I saw it as a bunch of greedy, rich bastards being taken to the cleaners by one of their own, and no one that mattered had gotten hurt—I mean, no one dependent on a seniors' pension. So I was inclined to—what's that saying, ‘Let Greek eat Greek'? Is that the phrase?”
“That's not the original, but I like yours better. So what got you moving?”
“Pressure, like
The Hogtowner
said; that, and finding a victim who was really suffering. Preparing the case took a long time, because
Cane got himself a couple of high-priced lawyers, so we had to be extra careful in how we proceeded. But finally we were ready, and then, wouldn't you know it, Cane agreed to plead guilty on one of the charges and that was that. He went to jail for a couple of years. Actually about nine months, I suppose.”
“Why did they concede?”
“They made an arrangement with us—I mean us upstairs, not at the level of you and me-on Cane's sentence and the minimum testimony to be heard in court. That's my guess.”
“Who was it that put the pressure on you? To prosecute.”
“The relatives of a woman named Vera Selina. I remember her name because Selina's my wife's first name. She made an impact statement that was read in court, about how she suffered from the fraud.”
“By losing her money.”
“That's it.”
“And no other names came out?”
“Not in court. I made a list of the people who Cane swindled but who didn't want to prosecute, but I can't remember now who was on it. You know how it is. You do all the work to make a case and you send it off and they decide not to proceed. Why? Who the fuck knows? Or cares. I don't think about it.”
“Is the list in your files?”
“I doubt it. I'll check. Call you back.”
An hour later, Larson said, “Interesting. The whole file is missing. Or rather, the file is here but it's pretty well empty, except for a note saying the contents were passed to the attorney general's office. They needed it to prepare the case against Cane.”
“You don't remember any of the names?”
“No, except the lawyers, Tannenbaum and Gregson.”
“Which one defended Cane?
“Tannenbaum. He took over in the middle from a couple of others.”
“And Gregson. Who was he representing?”
“I don't remember. I know he was involved. When you hear names like Tannenbaum and Gregson, you prick up your ears, don't
you? Make sure all your evidence is under lock and key.”
“Are they that good?”
“It's a matter of perception, isn't it? And money. Fact is, if you're from Rosedale you hire Tannenbaum, but if you're from Forest Hill, then Gregson's your man.”
“Why?”
“If you're from Rosedale and you hire Gregson, then what the jury sees is Upper Canada College looking after one of the old boys, whereas if you hire Tannenbaum they keep an open mind. Same thing, if you're a Jew, and you hire Tannenbaum, then you can see the whisper going round the jury: ‘Which synagogue do they both belong to?' But if you hire Gregson then they relax.”
“Thanks.” Salter hung up and dialed Gregson's number. “You said to call you anytime, Mr. Gregson. Something's just cropped up I didn't know about. Harry Cane. Remember him? Yes. Then why don't we have a cup of coffee tomorrow at ten. In the Food Court at College Park. Under the courtroom, okay?”
 
 
“I was working pro bono, you know. I do that from time to time. Makes me feel good.”
“Mr. Gregson …” Salter began.
“Calvin.”
“Calvin, then, if we are going to believe each other in future about the big things, we'll have to tell the truth now, won't we, over the little things. Who were you representing?”
“How do you mean? I had no status in the courtroom.”
“Jesus Christ. Look. Feel under my jacket. Go ahead, no one's watching. See, I'm not wired, and we're all alone. Now, can we have a normal conversation in which I ask you a question and you tell me the answer? I know the list of possibles you could have been representing, or advising or whatever it's called if you don't have any stature.”
“Status. It's a legal term. It doesn't mean the same to a layman.”
“That right? Okay. Now, who were you protecting?”
“Charlie-may I? Charlie?—these people did not want their names
made public, and they still don't. Give me a good reason why you should know. Or rather, give the attorney general's office a reason. He cooperated.”
“In a cover-up?”
“Knock it off. No one is covering anything up, just protecting their reputations.”
“Who actually hired you?”
“I told you, a group of people, Cane's clients.”
“Who? I need to know.”
“They were just a group of friends who would look damn silly, gullible, if this came out. They had had a little flutter and they were prepared to pay for it, but not with their reputations.”
“Lawyers?”
“Yes.”
Salter wanted to laugh. He said, “Let me guess.” He named each of the lawyers he had played cards with. “You represent guys like this for free?”
Gregson sighed. “One day, Charlie Salter, I'll get you in a courtroom and make you pay attention. I was there to keep their names out of it. Not Larry Holt. He wasn't sucked in. I didn't make a move, officially. A number of people could have looked very foolish; when an old widow is shown to have been gullible, that evokes our sympathy, but when you show a gang of lawyers being gullible, then the public finds that funny. More than that, if a lawyer shows himself to be a monkey's uncle, that's far worse in the eyes of his clients than if he is slightly crooked or likes to suck his stenographer's toes. Who cares anymore about lechery, or graft, or corruption, but you don't want a fool to represent you in court, do you?”
“This guy Cane must have been good.”
“Oh, he was. We'll hear from him again.”
“Not promoting stock? I mean …”
“No, no. That would be illegal. No, he'll find something else. He's always thinking up swindles. That it, then?”
“I'm going to have to talk to some of these people.”
“Why do you have to? What do you need to know?”
“You still their lawyer? They're not under suspicion. I'm just curious.”
“What about?”
“Calvin, I'd just as soon keep it confidential in view of their prominence. And this is the last of
your
questions I'll answer. I'm curious to know who introduced them to Cane. You don't know? Nor do I, and I'd like to. In some way, maybe the obvious way, Cane was connected to Jerry Lucas. Maybe they can help me.”
“I doubt it …” He broke off as Salter stood up.
The policeman was staring at the escalator, where Constable Smith had just gotten off and was walking toward them at the same time as a trio of drably dressed women wearing no makeup, looking like extras in a European movie about a famine, ran together across the court, shouting and waving at Smith and then surrounding him. Salter began to go to Smith's assistance, but he saw they were not hostile, just excited, keen to tell him something important. The group chattered hard for a few minutes, then the women ran off to the elevator shouting good-byes to Smith.
Salter took the constable by the arm and sat him down at the table as Gregson also stood up.
Smith said, “It's you I was looking for, Mr. Gregson. Your office called. If you can get there in ten minutes, Keith Miller can fit you in this morning.”
“Christ.” Gregson gathered himself together. “That's my barber. I need a cab. We finished?”
“Yes. Thanks, Calvin.”
As Gregson hurried off, Salter turned to Smith. “What was that all about? Who were those women? Street people? You been giving away your money?”
“I'm embarrassed. I was going to tell you before, but we were cut off.”
“Tell me now.”
“They're hoors, sir.”
“Those three? What kind of a living can they make looking like that?”
“They're appearing in court this morning.” Smith pointed to the ceiling. “They were booked for—what do you call it—propositioning?”
“Soliciting. So why do they look like that?”
“The idea is to look pitiful on the stand. Selling their bodies to
get bread for their children, are they not? They are the three I got into conversation with the night before last.”
“On Jarvis Street.”
“No, one street over. On Church. There's a coffee shop there near the college where we had a chat.”
“The four of you.”
“Aye.”
“What about? I know, but you tell me. First of all, did you have any trouble getting them to talk?”
“No, I didn't. I'd like to ascribe that to my winning personality, but I think it might have been my story that made them laugh.”
“Jesus, you didn't really tell them you were a sailor looking for your sister?”
“Oh, no. That was
your
idea. But it did give me an idea of my own. The trouble with your story is: how could I have a sister who didn't have a Glasgow accent, d'ye see? No, I told them I'd met this Canadian girl on holiday in Glasgow, and fell in love with her, never realizing she was on the game. When she went back to Toronto I wrote her letters, but I never got any answer so I came over to look for her. I told her I was coming and I went to the address she gave me, but she was gone. It was a lodging house, or a boarding house, on Sumach Street. When I asked her landlady if she'd left a forwarding address, she laughed at me. Then she took pity on me, and made me a cup of tea, and told me that my Mary—that's the name she gave me, Mary LaRue—”
“Mary what?”
“LaRue, sir. It was the first Canadian-sounding name that popped into my head. I think it must have come from one of the first stories I read about Canada when I was a kid, about a fight between a Mountie named McAllister and a trapper named Frenchie LaRue. It's a story about the Frozen North …”
“I'll read it for myself. What did this landlady tell you about Mary? I mean what did you make up to tell the women about what the landlady—oh Christ, just go on.”
“To start with, she told me Mary was a tart, and if I wanted to find her I should cruise—that was her word—Jarvis Street. And I'd
just done Jarvis and was starting on cruising Church when I stopped off for a cup of coffee and a doughnut.”
“And this made these hookers laugh?”
“Aye. Then they told me to fuck off. They said they had figured me for a dumb copper from a hundred yards away.”
“And then?”
“Then I told them the truth.”
“Which was?”
“That I was a police officer, right enough, working undercover, looking for a girl who has disappeared. All we knew was that there was a killer in the area, looking for a prostitute with blond hair wearing silver boots, and we wanted to find her before he did. This got them on my side. They're all scared of maniacs: prostitutes are very vulnerable, and if one of them is killed they wonder who will be next. So those three promised to spread the word and keep an eye out for Pussy-in-Boots. So just now, when they recognized me as I got off the escalator, they had some news for me.”
“Thay've found her?”
“Not that. But there has been a development.”
“Come on, Smitty, for Christ's sake.”

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