Last of the Independents (14 page)

I drank my bourbon, trying to mimic the calm Crittenden exuded.

“Not that you'd be a pushover if it came to a quarrel,” he added. “I don't doubt that you'd be formidable. But you don't enjoy hurting others.”

“And you do?” I asked.

“Not especially,” he said. “Like you, I want to make a living with as little interference as possible. But I have come into contact with that species of cruelty. Do you know Gregor Hess?”

I nodded.

“Gregor is a lifelong friend of my wife's uncle, ever since Anthony owned his first nightclub. Back when he was on the circuit, Gregor would come there after every fight to celebrate. When his pro career ended, Anthony made sure he was never out of work, and that Gregor's kids always had new clothes for school.”

“Good to have friends like that when you're serving time.”

“My point is,” Crittenden said, “I've seen Gregor extract a man's eyeball from his skull with no more compunction than either of us would have taking an egg from a carton. Actions like that have a tendency to write themselves onto a person's face. You can look at Gregor and know instantly what he's capable of. Your face lacks that.”

“Say it does,” I said. “Say all I'm interested in is the safe return of the kid. Putting aside the bullshit, what would it take to get him back?”

“Frost on hell, I'm afraid.”

I finished my drink.

“Zak Atero bragged about knowing you,” I said. “It's been my experience that juiced-in people don't have to brag.”

“An astute observation.”

“Atero doesn't act like a sadist or a pederast. From talking with him I get the idea the kid's still alive.”

“Could very well be,” Crittenden said.

Could very well be
.

“So what's the motivation for keeping him from his father?” I asked. “How do you benefit at all?” I threw my hands up and leaned back in the chair. “That's what baffles me.”

“Your mistake,” he said, “is in thinking I'm involved in any way.” He gestured around the room. “As you said, what would it profit me? The whole business turns my stomach, as I'm sure it does yours.”

“So?”

“I have no interest in becoming part of this. I don't know what Zachary Atero does in his off hours. I don't want to know. Between us, he's not the most intelligent young man, and he's fighting his battles with substance abuse. It's not my place to interject myself in his affairs.”

“I can respect that,” I said. “But I need to find out what Atero knows. So what we have to do is come up with a way for me to do my job without imposing on yours.”

Crittenden shook his head. “I appreciate the overture, but I can't allow you to harass Zachary again.”

“He can't be worth that much to you,” I said. “Or the aggravation I'd cause.”

“He's not. You described him aptly, someone on the fringes who likes to brag. But his brother Theo is a friend, among other things. Theo isn't a man who needs to brag.” He rapped his knuckles on the table. “That is how things lie, and it's unlikely to change.”

“You know I can't leave off him,” I said.

“I'm afraid you'll have to.”

“Or?”

He stood up, still smiling that avuncular smile. “Let's not demean ourselves by trading insults. Nice meeting you, Michael.”

Crittenden shook my hand and passed through the kitchen doors. A large man with a shaved head held the front door for me. After knocking back the rest of my drink, I walked out into an afternoon downpour.

Nothing about Crittenden made sense. I couldn't shake the feeling there was something empty about his threat. Doubtless he had the muscle. He'd mentioned Hess and Chow, both tough men. But they were both in jail. How much juice did Crittenden really have? Was he under pressure from someone else?

It bothered me that I'd already assumed I'd defy him.

I stood outside and let the rain wash down the collar of my coat, dispersing the bourbon fog. As I enjoyed the regional pastime — getting wet — a black cargo van pulled up. It was tricked out with a grille, a winch, and a rack of lights. A
RIES
S
ECURITY
was emblazoned on the door. Out stepped Roy McEachern, sandy-haired and square-jawed, an umbrella billowing out from his hand as he moved toward me.

“Cats and dogs, ain't it?” he said.

Ramrod, Wreckage, and Ruin

T
he
inside of McEachern's van smelled of warm beef and garlic butter. He swept a pile of papers from the passenger's seat and placed his foil-wrapped lunch on the dash. I climbed in. As we reached the Granville Street Bridge I watched a group of joggers in matching red spandex pull up, huddle and start back the way they came, beaten by the downpour.

“How's your grandmother?” McEachern asked me.

“Doing good. She had a nice Thanksgiving.”

“And how're things at the office?”

“It's still there,” I said.

“Can't ask for more than that, now, can you?” He followed Granville to Broadway, taking a circuitous route to my grandmother's house. As we crawled up Laurel he veered left and circled Douglas Park, empty save for two kids in rain slickers and galoshes playing kickball in the empty concrete pool.

“Remember losing your trunks there one summer?” McEachern laughed. “Your granddad and me are sitting on the porch drinking Crown, and you come walking up that street stark naked.”

“First of all I didn't lose them. Jenny Qiu told me her beret fell to the bottom of the pool. When I dove down to find it, she slid them off and hid them.”

That patronizing smile. “Easy, Mike, not trying to make light of you.”

“Exactly what you're doing.”

He sighed, oh the young and their delusions. “Believe it or not, I had other reasons for coming to see you.”

“Which I'm sure you'll get around to when you're ready.”

Wind rattled the laurel bushes along the avenue. A sheet of water ran down McEachern's windshield. The wipers beat a stately 3/4 tempo on the glass.

“You met with Lloyd,” he said as he passed Laurel and circled the park again.

“Lloyd. Yeah, I met with Lloyd. Is Lloyd a friend of yours?”

“I know him through his boss,” McEachern said.

“Anthony Chow.”

“I'm not hitting the links with him, but we do business, yeah.”

“Knowing his business landed Chow in prison.”

“That doesn't taint the legitimate work I do,” McEachern said. “And it's not like it wouldn't get done regardless. There's a host of ex-cops eager to take my place.”

“So if you don't feel guilty, then what are you doing here?”

“Keeping a promise,” he said. “Or trying to, if you'll listen. You look at this with some sense of perspective, you'll find out I'm not the enemy, Mike.”

“No,” I said. “Just a guy who works for a guy who's keeping a father from his son.”

McEachern's expression: sadness and disapproval and maybe a little pride. “So what did he say?”

“Crittenden? That if I pressed Atero he'd press back.”

“He means it,” McEachern said.

“You think?”

He pulled to the curb, leaving the engine running and the wiper blades pounding out their waltz. The lights in the Douglas Park Community Centre were burning. I wondered if they still ran karate classes there like the one I'd taken as a kid.

“Your granddad and I had run-ins with people who worked for Anthony Chow,” McEachern said, “including Gregor Hess. Only man I ever saw your granddad size up like he knew he couldn't take him.”

“And here you are years later,” I said. “My grandfather's dead, Hess and Chow are in jail, and you're working for Chow's son-in-law. You ascribe that to cosmic irony or your own ability to raise the spirits of the people you work for?”

“I work for myself,” McEachern corrected. “And I won't hear anymore shit from you. I do business with Chow companies — security, background checks. Why not? If I shunned every dollar that came from a somewhat shady deal, I'd be in the streets.”

Twisting his body to look at me.

“Goddamnit, Mike, this superior attitude of yours. I offered to take you on, and not just 'cause you're Jacob's grandkid, either. Because I know you got the aptitude for it. You throw that in my face. Fine. I think, Okay, couple years of being on his own might do him some good. Might help him ditch some of the fanciful notions he's picked up. I got another eight years of this, tops. I know I could sell the business to Schuster or Sidhu, but I still hold out hope for you, Mike.”

“Don't,” I said.

“Right.” He heaved a sigh and rolled his eyes the way Katherine sometimes does. “On account of your granddad is the only reason I don't put you out of business, and believe me, I could.”

“Could you?” I opened the door. “Thanks for the annual lecture, Roy. Same time next year.”

“Hold up,” he said, touching the collar of my coat. I shrugged his hand away. “Listen to me,” he implored.

I shut the door, folded my hands on my lap. Looked over at him expectantly, cocked my head sarcastically.

“I hit a similar snag with the Szabo case,” he said. “Wasn't just financial, why I broke it off with him. I took a look at the paperwork behind Imperial Pawn, their business license, lease agreements. If you know how to read a paper trail, you can find things out you can't otherwise.”

I nodded, cursing myself for not thinking of that. I made a mental note to write a real note for the office wall: J
UST
B
ECAUSE IT'S NOT
O
NLINE
D
OESN'T
M
EAN IT'S NOT
O
UT
T
HERE
.

McEachern said, “Turns out Lloyd's wife, Chow's daughter-in-law, sits on the board of a venture finance company which leant Mr. Ramsey a five-figure sum to renovate the store.”

“So once you saw Susan Chow's name, you torpedoed the investigation?”

He shook his head. “I didn't torpedo shit. I worked it until I was out of options and Szabo was a month remiss. What I didn't do, Mike, is intentionally pick a fight with Lloyd Crittenden.”

“I don't want anything to do with your friend Lloyd,” I said. “But I'd like fifteen minutes in a locked room with Zak Atero and a phone book.”

“Theo's brother,” McEachern said, nodding, a spark behind his gaze. Despite himself he was taking an interest in the case. “You think Zak was the car thief, picked Django up by accident. It's workable, though why didn't he just dump the kid at the nearest gas station? What evidence are you going on?”

“Ramsey and his daughter were discussing whether to warn Zak.”

“They told you that?”

“I heard it from them, yeah.”

He shook his head, grinning. “You bugged the pawn shop. You devious bastard.”

Despite myself I felt a little pride. “It was good, wasn't it?”

And then we looked at each other, and the grin and the pride faded, and we were adversaries again.

“Listen,” McEachern said. It was becoming his catch phrase. “With Hess and Anthony behind bars, there's not much Lloyd can do if you cross him now.”

“Good to know,” I said.

“I said
now
.” He tapped my shoulder with two fingers. “That's not to say that he'd just forget about you. One way or another he'll make you pay for crossing him. Maybe down the road, when Anthony is back on the street and Szabo's forgot about you. Then there's nothing to stop him from revisiting things. You willing to write that kind of check against yourself?”

I opened the door. “I have to go.”

McEachern's paw slammed down upon my knee. “Your granddad and I promised each other, anything happens, we look out for our partner's kids. If it was me, I'd hope Jacob would talk to my daughters the way I'm talking to you. Help me keep at least that much of the promise. Leave them alone.”

“Remember what you said to me when I asked you for the Szabo file?”

He shrugged. “I didn't want you on the case.”

“But remember what you said? It was to the tune of ‘go fuck yourself.'”

The righteous feeling of slamming the door on him and having the final word dissipated as I got to the front steps of my grandmother's house. I looked back. The van was crawling up the street, Roy McEachern hidden behind the tinted glass.

W
aiting in the foyer of Yeats Manor for Amelia to come down, keeping her father company, made me feel eighteen again. I half-expected Chet Yates to ask me whether my intentions for his daughter were honorable. I'm not sure how I would have answered him.

Sitting in an uncomfortable Stickley, holding a cup of organic Earl Grey, the bergamot strong enough to render the brew undrinkable, I felt Chet Yates's yellowish eyes searching me. I wondered if he recognized me. His concern seemed to be whether I recognized him. I kept an uncomfortable smile on my face and let him direct the conversation.

“Where are you and Amelia headed?” he asked after wrapping up a long anecdote about the bassist of a band I've never heard of.

“Not sure, but I think it's the Media Club. A friend of hers is dropping a CD.”

“I don't understand modern music,” he said, not indignantly, but lamentably. As if his faculties were no longer up to making any kind of critical judgment.

He set his cup and saucer down on the arm of the settee. His eyes followed the row of photos along the wall. “I was lucky,” he said. “I know I was. I dearly wish I could communicate more of what I learned to Amelia. But everything today is drum machines and Pro Tools and Auto Tune. What's worse is, instead of using these fascinating new inventions to explore, most people use them to cover up mediocrity.”

“I don't know much about art,” I said. “I've never really listened to pop music, I mean what gets on the radio. Nothing against it, it's just not my thing.”

“What is your thing?”

“Townes Van Zandt, Howlin' Wolf.”

“The Wolf,” Mr. Yates said, lighting up. “I saw him in London once.”

“Get the fuck out of here.”

“It's true,” he said. “I met a lot of those old musicians. Muddy, of course.”

“The greatest.”

“Sonny Terry and Brownie McGhee, Pinetop Perkins, Albert King, John Lee Hooker — I recorded the Hook with a bunch of European musicians in '86, no, '88. Spotty performances, but the old man still had it.”

“What was he like?”

“Old,” Chet Yates said, the word somewhat deflating him. “As we all get, sooner or later. I never got your last name, Mike.”

“Drayton.”

“Were your people British?”

“Protestant Irish on my father's side. The rest are Mennonites.”

“Pardon my ignorance but what is a Mennonite?”

“Damned if I know,” I said. “Deutschland by way of Russia, I think. It has something to do with buttons and zippers being Satan's handiwork.”

“My paternal grandmother dabbled in Vodou,” Yates said. His eyes went to the fireplace, a teepee of green kindling hissing and popping behind the grate. “Mind if I ask if you've been to this house before? Specifically on Thanksgiving?”

“What I saw isn't likely to become news any time soon,” I said.

“I appreciate that. I feel out of it sometimes. Like I'm a spectator in my own life, watching myself on a projection screen. I couldn't tell you why I had that gun out.”

“Your daughter said you were depressed. That's treatable.”

“The symptoms are,” he said. “The malaise goes deeper.” A door closed upstairs. Chet Yates smiled. “I won't burden you with a laundry list of my frailties. I did want to ask you if there was something I could do to compensate you for your troubles.”

“Not necessary.”

“Maybe not for you. Can you understand my distaste in finding myself in debt?”

I thought it through. “There's a black van parked outside.”

“Yours.”

“I'd be interested in purchasing it,” I said. “What would you take for it?”

“Whatever you feel comfortable paying.”

“A thousand, assuming it runs?”

We shook hands on it.

Amelia Yeats walked down the left staircase. She was wearing a checkered skirt and a leotard below that, and a zipped-up bomber jacket that concealed her top. Her long curly hair was loosed from its normal ponytail and hung about her shoulders. Velvet boots and a touch of jewellery completed the vision. I felt woefully underdressed and unprepared, a monster from an old Hammer Horror film cobbled together in haste and brought to life prematurely to wreak havoc on some quaint European village. As if to drive the point home, when I stood up to greet her my shin grazed the glass coffee table, toppling it and shattering the top. Chet Yates tucked his legs onto the seat next to him as Roanna the housekeeper swept in to assess the damage.

“Awfully sorry,” I said.

“It's just a table,” Mr. Yates said.

His daughter leaned over him, careful of the glass, and pecked his cheek. “You're heading out now?” he asked her.

“Unless you want to bore Mike with more talk about how much better everything was back in the old days.” To me she said, “That's my dad's favorite hobby. He doesn't even know who Daniel Lanois is.”

“The actor from
Last of the Mohicans,
” I said, trying out a joke that crashed even before takeoff. “We should probably go before I embarrass myself even more.”

T
he CD release was another non-event. I hung out at the bar watching a bunch of dapper gents in scarves and homburgs, some of who were the band, co-mingle with women that ranged from awkward bespectacled fanzine journalists to bronzed and glittering groupies whose vanilla perfume I could smell long after they'd departed. I watched Amelia Yeats glide through the sea of them, at times seeming to belong, and then giving off a wayward glance that made me feel that she too felt out of place. I like people individually. In groups of a dozen or so they begin to act like a hydra, or at least that's how I see them, one big organism that tells the same stories and interjects the same one-liners and demands the same polite nods and chuckles. Even drunk I prefer the company of a small group, or solitude, to a place in the crowd.