The Ambitious City (30 page)

“Archie.”

“Fuck! Don’t tell me that; I coulda got it. What’s yer hurry anyways?” And aside, “This kid’s getting on my tits, Murray.”

“Sorry.”

“Stop apologizing, fer chrissakes. Now gimme time to think here … yeah, so, Archie … Yeah, me ‘n’ Mort killed ’em one night in Jersey City. Killed ’em! We did the Catskills—everybody did—then we’d hit the road … Jeezus, we’d be gone for almost a year—”

“But you toured together?”

“Fuck, ya idiot, no! Do you think he’d want me killin’ him an’ Arch every night in every bum-fuck club in the country? No, we just knew where each other was, ’cause we had the same agent.”

“Oh yes, Irving Schubert, in Brooklyn.”

“Yeah, Irv. So Irv married my sister Flora and … Well, I kept tabs on Chaim—little shit even had Irv trained to call him Chas. So after I killed ’em in Jersey, I says to Irv, ‘Get me in every house that takes Greenblatt, but I wanna be there two weeks after.’ Ya know why two weeks?”

“No. Was it because you wanted the audience to forget about Chas and Archie?”

“Jesus Christ, are all the cops in Canada dumb? No, the opposite—I wanted them to remember the two of ’em fondly, give ’em time to let the memory mellow … Ya follow me now?”

“I think so, Katz. So, do you recall playing Dundurn two weeks after Chaim?”

“Near Toronto? Yeah, fulla smoke—a shithole town, that it?” “I guess so.”

“You guess so? You fuckin’ live there, doncha?” To his son he offered, “You got one dumb fuck on the phone here, kiddo.” And the son’s answer: “Pa, it’s a murder investigation. Just cooperate with him.”

“You see, Katz, Mr. Greenblatt’s body was recently brought up from the harbour here. He was in the trunk of a Packard with a dead girl. He’d been down there since the thirties.”

“He was pussy mad, that putz—always chasing. Nice car, though, I remember that. He had flashy taste. A girl … lemme think here …”

There was a beep on the recording and Ryan hit the pause button. “It gets good here. It took about five minutes till he remembered, but he did.”

“Glad you took out all the salty bits, Ryan.” Aziz smiled.

“Yeah, he’s sharp and has his marbles all right—some razor blades too. Has a thing about Chaim changing his name, even though he did too,” Vertesi said.

“But he kept the Katz part,” Aziz said.

“You’ll see, though, he comes around.” Ryan pressed the key. They could hear the old man shift in his squeaky chair, then what sounded like a muffled fart. Ryan raised his thumb and smiled broadly to confirm that it was.

“Yeah, so I remember now. Didn’t hear a peep about Chaim going missing till I got to Buffalo following his bookings, only to find out that he blew the gig. He never showed up—never showed up anywhere after that, neither.”

“But no one said a word in Dundurn?”

“Not then, no. But the next year, when I was out on tour, I hit there again—Christ, that place smelled like shit—I can still smell it.”

They could hear him taking a deep breath.

“So I asked the club owner about him.”

“Do you remember his name?”

“You think I’m senile, you little schmuck?”

“No, but it was a long time ago.”

“Not for me, kiddo. It’s like yesterday—well, okay, like last week. Yeah, so the guy’s name was Dressler. He also owned Club Lucky in Niagara Falls—same format.”

“Dancing, big bands and comedy?”

“Of course, yeah, but dinner too—good dinners.”

They could hear him turn away from the mouthpiece as he added,

“Not like this farkakte dive.”

“And he remembered something?”

“Not exactly, no. He said one of his dance girls went missing at the same time as Chaim … a pretty girl …”

“Rosemary McKenzie.”

“That her name? Anyway, I says to him, ‘Figures. Chaim loves girls—shiksa or yid, the prettier the better.’ Then Dressler says something like, ‘Not that one, I hope. That one is reserved, and if
Chas’s got his pecker in her, Archie’s gonna be a fuckin’ orphan.’ At that point I think I said something like, ‘Well, don’t look at me, I’m a fairy.’ ”

He laughed out loud; so did his son.

“I used that in a routine at stags—huge laughs.”

“Did Dressler say whose girlfriend she was?”

“Everywhere we played there was the mobs—Italian mostly, but also Irish and even Jews—so ya could take yer pick. Best strategy always was to play the gig, take the dough and get to the next gig. Yah know—what’s yer name, anyway?”

“Ryan.”

“Yeah, well … Ryan, here’s the point. There’s girls everywhere, but the pretty ones are always taken. And in those days a smart guy knew that—but Greenblatt wasn’t smart, and neither was Archie.”

“Did you ever play Dundurn again?”

“Sure. What the hell, there were only a few of us. Yeah, if I was honest I’d say Chaim and me, we were pretty much even, talent-wise, but Mort definitely had the edge on Archie.”

“People like cats, I guess.”

“No, kiddo, that wasn’t it. People thought Mort was human, that Archie was human—that was the whole fuckin’ point. Mort had the edge because cats are smart, but he was human! Haven’t you ever seen a ventriloquist, son, a good one?”

MacNeice heard deep sadness and resignation in the old man’s voice. “Sorry to say I haven’t.”

“Hear that, Murray?” And from a distance, “Yes, Dad, it’s a tragedy.”

Ryan pressed a key and the audio bar disappeared from his screen. “That’s all I got from him. But his son did say that if his father remembered anything else, he’d call and let me know. And just after I spoke to Mr. Katzenberg, I got lucky.”

Ryan turned back to the computer and tapped the keys until a
series of images piled up on the screen. “This is Dundurn’s paper from December 3, 1937. On the right is a sidebar article about a missing local girl, Rosemary McKenzie, and how police had been interviewing her family and friends, including”—he brought up the next screen—“an ex-con by the name of Freddy O’Leary. The article quotes several ‘unnamed sources’ who identified Freddy as Rosemary’s boyfriend.”

He clicked the keyboard again. “And here are three photos of Freddy. The first one is his mug shot; he was arrested for assault and battery of his mother three years before Rosemary went missing.” The photograph of a handsome young man, smiling at the camera as someone held a number in front of his chest, was oddly disturbing.

“Strange eyes,” Aziz said.

“An ex-con … He looks more con than ex—probably explains why people didn’t rush to identify him as Rosemary’s boyfriend.”

Click, click
. The next image was Freddy on the street on January
16
, 1938. “The guy he’s walking with was gunned down in the north end two days after this photo was taken. He was Freddy’s boss after Freddy got out of jail for beating his mother senseless.” With a cigarette dangling from his lips, O’Leary was glaring at the camera. His topcoat had blown open, revealing a tight, dark double-breasted suit, starched collar, tie and tiepin. He was wearing two-tone shoes.

“Same creepy eyes.”

“Yeah. Would you actually hire this guy or trust him?” Ryan asked as he clicked a key and the next image joined the other two onscreen. “This is a police crime-scene photo from July 2, 1945. Freddy had his throat cut outside the steelworks on Burlington Street; he was found there by the morning shift.” No longer handsome, Freddy’s face had grown puffy, his body bloated.

“Now there’s a boy who’s let himself go,” MacNeice said.

“Gotta weigh 220 at least, I think,” Ryan said.

“Maybe he missed Rosemary more than he thought he would,” MacNeice said. “Was anyone ever charged with his murder?”

“No, but police reported at the time that it was a mob slaying, that Freddy was suspected of being involved with an Irish gang trying to take over the local steelworkers’ union.”

MacNeice walked over to Ryan and held out his hand. Looking somewhat abashed, Ryan extended his, and they shook. “You have a real knack for asking the right questions, Ryan,” MacNeice said. “That was excellent police work.” Not to mention comic relief.

I
T WAS 1:12
p.m. when MacNeice and Aziz arrived at the hotel. MacNeice dismissed the uniform sitting outside, taking the key from him. Inside, Wenzel was sitting on the bed, watching
Cops
on TV. “Thought it would get me in the groove.”

MacNeice introduced him to Aziz and handed him the box of Nikes from Vertesi. They were basketball high-tops; Wenzel put them on, then awkwardly pretended to jump for a layup. The missing toes didn’t help. “You guys have been real good to me; I ’preciate it.”

“Today we’re going to go out to the farm so you can take us through what happened and where. Are you up for that?”

“Sure, sure … I guess.” He didn’t look sure; he looked scared.

“Wenzel, there will be four detectives there, plus a uniform in a cruiser to guard the driveway.”

He still looked scared, but once they were in the Chevy he seemed to brighten up, quietly rubbernecking on the drive through Dundurn and up the mountain.

Finally he piped up. “Saw you guys on TV this morning—you were great. Sounds like ya got your hands full, between this and the serial slasher dude …”

“Very true,” Aziz said.

When neither detective commented further, Wenzel busied himself with humming and looking out at the suburban tracts that soon gave way to tidy acres of farmland. When they approached the farm with the tall fence and razor wire, he went quiet. As they passed the cruiser at the gate, he slid down in the seat and didn’t look out the window again.

Williams came over to the car as MacNeice parked the Chevy. Vertesi appeared in the doorway of the large industrial barn. “Swetsky was tucking into a Phat Burger when we left Division. He said if you don’t mind, he’s going to sit this one out.”

“Not a problem. I think he’s probably had enough of this place.”

“It is creepy,” Aziz said, opening the door for Wenzel.

“Standing out here ain’t the half of it. Wait till you see the machine shop,” Williams said.

Catching Vertesi’s eye, Wenzel did a little shuffle, pointing down at his shoes. “Thanks!”

Vertesi gave a thumbs-up and smiled.

“Wenzel, why don’t you show us where you were when the shooting began.” MacNeice laid his jacket over the headrest of the front seat and closed the door.

“Yessir. Well, folks, follow me—” He suddenly limped away, rattling on like a tour guide, telling them how OSMC came tearing up the driveway, showing them the exact spot where it all started. He waved his arms around to indicate the field of fire and then headed for the second barn. Thirty feet beyond it he stopped, turned around, then stepped sideways to recall his position precisely.

“Shit, they never fixed the wall of that barn … Maybe they’re proud of those holes.” There were hundreds of bullet holes and
several from shotgun blasts, mostly clustered towards the front. “I was right over here.” He walked over a little rise and pointed to where his biker went down. “You see this little hill? I was lying back here—that’s where I stayed till it was over.” He was about to lie down to demonstrate, then realized he’d get his new clothes dirty, so he simply squatted to explain why they didn’t see him when they came to take the dead biker and his bike away. “Fuckers didn’t really care where I was at, neither.”

“If the shooting had stopped, why didn’t you go with them?” Aziz asked.

“I didn’t know at that point who I was more scared of, my guys or the ones in the barns. Anyways, I thought it might be a trick and the locals would never let us walk outta here. Honestly, though … I’d had enough of shootin’, no matter whose side I was on.”

“And the culvert where you escaped?” MacNeice asked.

“All the way across that field. Just this side of the forest, at the end, there’s this culvert. It comes out the other side of the road we came in by.”

“So the fire was coming from the windows and doors of this barn?” Vertesi pointed.

“Yeah, but also from the doors of the first barn and—maybe, I dunno—from the farmhouse too. Our guys were givin’ ’er too, just spraying those barns …” He waved his arm like a garden sprinkler.

They stepped inside the second barn, where the smell of manure—they must have hauled away dozens of shot-up animals after the murders—hung in the air. The cattle stalls, wooden beams and their supports were chewed up by gunfire, and the light pouring in through the bullet holes divided the space with dust-defined zigzag lines.

Back at the first barn, Wenzel stopped at the entrance. “Mind if I wait out here, sir? I don’t want to see it.”

“Sure,” MacNeice said. “I understand. Do you remember where they took the plastic bag?”

His shoulders slumped. “Yes, they went behind the farmhouse. I don’t know where exactly, but I could still see one of them at the back edge of it, so I think it musta bin close by.”

“Do you want to wait in the car, Wenzel?”

“No, sir, I’ll just sit in the sun here by the door.” He sank down and leaned against the warm metal wall with his legs outstretched. As MacNeice left him he was half-singing something to himself that sounded like “Ring of Fire.”

The three detectives followed MacNeice into the barn, walking past the rows of heavy equipment and recreational vehicles, back to the drain, which was still open, and the variety of cutting tools still sitting where Swetsky and crew had left them. They examined the workbench that ran the length of the back wall. Williams and Vertesi showed Aziz the shrink-wrapping machine that had been used to wrap the bodies, both those that were buried and the two that had been carried away. MacNeice stood quietly behind the drain, looking around and trying to imagine what it had been like for Hughes. He said a silent prayer, shook his head and walked over to a rack of shovels and spades.

“Montile, grab a couple of these shovels. We’re going to do some digging.”

Halfway to the entrance of the barn, MacNeice suddenly felt uneasy. “Something’s wrong,” he said, and stopped.

They were twenty feet from the open door. “Aziz, go over to the far side of the barn and stay there. If I’m right, call it in.”

“Boss, there’s a uniform out at the road and this place has been locked down for weeks—” Williams said, leaning the shovels quietly against an ATV.