Last of the Independents (5 page)

“Cliff hired you.”

“Right,” I said.

“He told me this morning you might be coming by.” She pointed to a large grey box in the corner of the room, its empty reels like owlish metal eyes. “That's the reel-to-reel. I asked him if he had a source for new two-inch tape. He's working on it. He's a good guy to know. I'm so sorry about Django.”

“Could you take me through that Friday?”

She nodded, uncapped her soda. “He got here about ten with the Ampex. I had the money for him. We dickered for a little bit.” She shrugged, exposing more of that shoulder. “And then he left.”

“Django was with him the whole time?”

“Pretty much. He likes to bang on the drums, so he did that while Cliff and I discussed price.”

“He seemed okay?”

“Django?” She smiled. “He's a great kid. I gave him a CD of his namesake, which he seemed to appreciate. He didn't seem like he got many gifts.”

“You think the relationship with his father was ...” I let her finish the sentence.

“I don't know. Cliff seems like a good dad. Just strict. But then Cliff could've been worried he'd break something expensive. I told Cliff it's fine, let him play the drums. It's just stuff, right?”

I asked her more questions just to ask her questions. When Katherine came back to tell me we had to go, Amelia Yeats was telling me about the studio.

“I named it after a band I started in grade ten with a girlfriend of mine. We'd do Heart and Zep covers, as well as our awful originals. We were playing up that are-they-lovers angle. Got us an opening slot on a Bif Naked tour. We were never as good live as we were in the studio, since Alison was always nervous singing in front of an audience. But it was the first time I did something musical that didn't have anything to do with my dad.”

“We really have to go,” Katherine said over my shoulder.

“Your dad was who?” I asked, standing up but keeping my back to the door.

“He still is,” she said. “Chet Yates. The producer.”

“Wow,” I said, not recognizing the name.

“Yeah. When your dad's photo album has pics of Hendrix and Syd Barrett, you're kind of in the music biz whether you want to be or not.” She gestured at the room, the studio, the building. “But I've done all right for myself.”

“Who've you worked with?” I asked, but Katherine insisted and I let myself be dragged from the room. Amelia Yeats waved and walked us out, trailing behind to lock the door.

“Any other questions, call,” she said.

I
n the confines of the van, Katherine said to me, “It's ten past one.”

“Yeah.”

“I'm late getting the car back, Mike.”

“Yeah.”

“What a self-centred ass.”

“Her or me?”

“Both.”

“I thought she was all right.”

“No kidding,” Katherine said.

Puritans and True Believers

E
yeball
three parts Canada Dry club soda, add one part President's Choice red grape juice, a thimble's worth of lemon juice and the same of lime. It's important to add the ingredients in that order, as the grape juice is heavier and won't mix properly if added first. My grandmother took these tonics medicinally at two in the afternoon and again at seven, claiming they levelled off her blood sugar and took the place of a diuretic. When she called down to ask if I wanted one, I was as dead to the world as one of the Kroons' customers. I mumbled a yes instead of asking for tea.

I'd spent Saturday night back in the funeral home, and had the same to look forward to tonight. I'd lasted about thirty hours tweaked on caffeine and a disappearing-reappearing Yeats-inspired erection. I took a shower in the basement stall, then dressed and headed upstairs.

My grandmother had set up one of her TV trays on the back porch. We sat and looked at the carnage wrought by last night's windstorm. That morning, when I'd delivered my dog from the throes of constipation, the laurel bushes that served as a fence between us and our neighbour had been rocking ferociously. Now, as I ate half the tuna sandwich my grandmother made, I watched the dog inspect the fallen branches and root beneath the laurel leaves that carpeted our backyard.

“You sure you don't mind doing the yard?” My grandmother's way of introducing a chore she wanted done.

“No big deal, Gran.”

“And the doorframe, you'll take care of that?”

“I'll get it done.”

“I know. You've just been busy. Like your grandfather, always working even when you're not.”

We watched the dog toy with the slack clothesline, fumbling a clothes-peg about the yard with her snout.

“Too bad that's not a power line,” my grandmother said.

A
t 3:00 a.m. I woke up behind the desk in the Kroons' office, bathed in the glow from the laptop. I could hear what sounded like plastic being dragged across concrete. The screen showed no movement in the nearby rooms. I stood up, conscious of the bulge in my pants, thinking if I'd attended to that and ignored the yard work, I probably wouldn't have fallen asleep. I was glad there wasn't a camera on me.

I trained my Mag-Lite on the carpet, walked to the door of the embalming room, and threw the door open. It slammed off the wall. I hit the lights. Nothing.

The sound had stopped. I killed the lights and shut the door. Down the hallway and back to the room, silence except for my own footfalls. At the door to the office I heard the same scraping sound from the break room. I trained the light through the glass door and saw a mouse beat a swift retreat to the darkness of the space behind the cupboards.

I relaxed, thinking, that's exactly how the situation plays out in a horror movie, right before Jason Voorhees appears and eviscerates some unsuspecting co-ed.

I went back to the office and sat down behind the desk in the darkness and the silence. I turned off the Mag-Lite.

“Guess there's nothing to be afraid of,” I said, hoping it was true.

M
onday afternoon I stumbled sleep-deprived into my office, collected my notes and the list of questions I'd prepared, and headed out to interview the proprietor of Imperial Exchange and Pawn, the last place Django James Szabo had been seen. I was at the door when I remembered to dump the receipts I'd just collected on the table and Katherine's package on her desk (a special-delivery box that contained some kind of sex toy she'd been too embarrassed to have sent to her home because her father opens her mail). As I did this I chanced to look up at the car calendar and noticed it was Labour Day, a statutory holiday, and nothing was open. The only person foolish enough to be in their office on this fine rainless afternoon was me.

T
uesday I was outside of Imperial Pawn at 9:54 a.m. I spent the minutes in my car sucking back a London Fog and holding Thorstein Veblen's
Theory of the Leisure Class
in front of me and trying to make sense of the letter-like markings within it. It was the kind of book where you have to read every sentence at least three times to figure out what's going on, and by then you've forgotten the context. I try to alternate reading something educational with reading something fun, a sort of Nabisco Frosted Mini-Wheats reading program. I'd finished the Leonard on Monday; before that it had been Eric Hoffer's
The True Believer
. I liked Hoffer: every other sentence read like it could have been on a fridge magnet. The Veblen was harder going. Occasionally, though, you'd come across something like this:

As has been indicated in an earlier chapter, there is reason to believe that the institution of ownership has begun with the ownership of persons, primarily women. The incentives to acquiring such property have apparently been: (1) a propensity for dominance and coercion; (2) the utility of these persons as evidence of the prowess of their owner; (3) the utility of their services.

I was struggling with that when I saw a hairy arm twist the sign on the door to W
E
A
RE
O
PEN
. A moment later, the neon sign flickered to life. It was 10:02 a.m.

Imperial Pawn was located on the corner of a strip mall. There were a few parking spaces in front of the shop, and a larger lot around back. Cliff Szabo's Taurus had been parked on the side street. I'd looked the area over when I arrived, as if the months between the disappearance and now might have left some trace. But of course there was nothing to see. No traffic cameras, no nearby stores. Across the street were a Value Village and a large, empty parking lot. Doubtless the people there had been grilled by the police, but I made a note to ask them again once I finished with Imperial Pawn.

An electronic bell dinged when I entered the store. “Morning,” I said to the corpse behind the counter. He was sitting on a stool behind a cash register, arms crossed as if daring business to shows its face. Thick beard and thick eyebrows, a Chia Pet growing on each arm. A flattened Roman nose. He gave the slightest of nods.

Glass counters ran nearly the length and width of the store. Under the glass were cameras and iPods and Xboxes and paintball gear and jewellery. A shelf of DVDs stood in the middle, a CD tower in the corner. Shelves bolted to the wall held TVs and computer monitors, the odd turntable or snare drum. The cement floor around the shelves was reserved for power tools and speaker wedges. Behind the case was a door, open just a crack, leading to what looked like storage. In the corner above the cash register was a camera, trained on the exit.

“My name is Michael Drayton. I'm a private investigator. I'm sure you remember Cliff Szabo and his son.”

Recognition in his eyes. He said nothing.

“I'm also sure you told the events of that afternoon to countless people — the police and the media, and maybe other investigators. But I'd like you to tell it again, if you don't mind. What can I call you, sir?”

He seemed reluctant to answer, but at last he said, “Ramsey.”

“Mr. Ramsey, okay. And do you own the store, Mr. Ramsey?”

No response. He stared at me, unblinking, a statue of diffidence.

“Were you working here on Friday the 6th of March? If so, were you in the store when Mr. Szabo and his son were here?”

He shook his head.

“But you do know who Mr. Szabo is?”

He nodded.

“You do business with him every so often?”

Nod.

“How would you characterize Mr. Szabo?”

No response.

“What's he like? Good guy?”

Ramsey cleared his throat. “Good guy, yes.”

“And his son Django?”

“A good guy, yes.”

“How often did Mr. Szabo come in?”

Pause. “Three times.”

“Including March 6th?”

“Four times.”

“You saw him on the 6th?”

“Yes.”

“Did he usually buy or sell?”

“Both.”

“What did he bring in to sell on March 6th?”

“I don't know.”

“You can't remember?”

“I wasn't there.”

“On March 6th.”

“Yes.”

“Who was tending the store?”

“Tending?”

“Who was sitting where you are right now?”

He blinked. “My daughter.”

“She dealt with Mr. Szabo on that day?”

“Yes.”

“What's her name?”

Hesitation. “Lisa.”

“When will Lisa be in?”

“Not today.”

“Tomorrow? Thursday?”

“Thursday.”

“I'll be back Thursday then.” I closed up my notebook, the page empty. While we'd been talking a dreadlocked white kid in cutoffs and sandals had entered the store and started perusing the racks of dusty Nintendo games. I thanked Mr. Ramsey for his time. He didn't respond.

T
uesday, 2:50 p.m.

P
lace: Brahmin Stamps Coins and Collectables, 3rd Street.

S
peaker: Germit Gil, owner and proprietor

“Yes, I've done much business with Mr. Szabo. I believe he is a good man. I like his son very much. At least once a month I'd see him. Sometimes he brought his son. I liked them very much. They seemed happy. He sold me some silver coins that day. I still have them. A very good man. I'm very sorry for him.”

W
ednesday, 10:45 a.m.

P
lace: Coin Land, International Village Mall

S
peaker: Bill Koch, store manager

“Cliffy, yeah, he did stop by that day. Sucks for him, huh? He'd bring the kid but usually send him to the food court with a dollar. A single dollar, like four quarters. What can you buy with that, a packet of ranch dressing? He never seemed cross with the kid, but he's not an affectionate guy. But then I knew a guy in the service, nicest, most brave guy I ever met. They found two hookers buried under his house. Goes to fucking show you, doesn't it?”

W
ednesday, 12:10 p.m.

P
lace: Diaz Bicycles and Sporting Equipment, West Broadway

S
peaker: Arturo Diaz, co-owner

“You know how I know Django ran away? 'Cause whenever they came into my place Cliff would tell him not to go anywhere, not to touch anything, and Django would usually do both. We'd look around and he'd be gone. Then we'd find him downstairs trying to pedal one of the ten-speeds. Just the kind of kid he was. No, Cliff never hit Django that I saw, but maybe he should've. My dad tuned me up a few times. That's how we learn.”

W
ednesday, 2:00 p.m.

P
lace: Mumbai Sweets, Cambie Street and 49th

S
peaker: Ashraf Dillon

“Don't remember, sorry. Lots of people bring their kids to eat. Rice or naan?”

W
ednesday, 3:45 p.m.

P
lace: Emily Carr Elementary School, King Edward and Laurel

S
peaker: Henrietta Chang-Clemenceau, seventh grade teacher

“It was so horrible, so sad. It's why I changed schools. No, I never noticed any physical abuse, bruises and such. Believe me, if I had I would have spoke up then and there. But I'm pretty attuned to moods and attitudes, and Django was troubled. He'd rarely write in his Classroom Journal, and when he did it was about looking forward to the next Friday when his dad would take him out of school. I had words with his father about that.

“I guess that seems counter-intuitive, that you would look forward to spending more time with someone who treats you poorly — and believe me, I did witness Mr. Szabo treat Django like that several times, snapping at him to get his coat, expressing frustration when he didn't move fast enough. Have you heard of the Stockholm Syndrome? You may think it's bull, but I've seen it.

“Between us? What's so horrible, Mr. Drayton, is that I can't shake from my head the idea, the feeling, that Mr. Szabo killed his poor son.”

T
hursday I hung back until half past eleven. I'd made about fifty pages' progress in the Veblen, decidedly less on either of my cases. I'd met with the Kroons and we decided to give the Corpse Fucker two more months of weekends: if he hadn't reappeared by Hallowe'en, we'd leave the cameras up but forego the nightly watch. That meant resigning ourselves to another attack. No one was happy with that. Everyone agreed to it.

When I walked into Imperial Pawn I saw Mr. Ramsey seated on the stool showing unpolished jewellery to a lanky East Asian woman of about forty. They were the only two people in the room.

“Afternoon,” I said. “Is your daughter in?”

Ramsey looked at me as if he'd never set eyes on me before, and wasn't all that impressed now that he had. He turned his attention back to the woman, helped her with the clasp on a bracelet.

I leaned over the counter close enough so the two of them were within arm's reach. “Did some tragic illness befall her? A seventy-two-hour virus, maybe?”

“I like this one,” the woman said. Ramsey nodded.

Looking between them I said, “I don't understand why you're not more cooperative, considering you and your daughter are two of the last people to see that child before he went missing.”

The woman looked up, looked at me, looked at Ramsey. “What child?” she asked.

I took a flyer from my coat pocket and unfolded it. Two Django James Szabos stared at her, the petulant expression from the school photo and a lower-quality image blown up from a birthday photo taken by his aunt.

“He disappeared just out front, parked in a car on that side street.” I pointed through the wall. “Mr. Ramsey hasn't been much help. I'm not really sure why.” I turned to Ramsey and gave him an expression of innocent puzzlement. “Do you not want the child to be found, Mr. Ramsey?”