Howard Engel - Getting Away With Murder

“He’s led such a strange life. It’s hard to imagine where to start looking for enemies. But, apart from the general hurly-burly of a life in criminal circles, and a lot of people who would figuratively like to wring his neck, I can’t think of a solitary name. Nothing stands out.”

“Thank you for helping out, Lily.”

“I only hope I haven’t muddied the waters.”

“Oh, one thing: what do you know about a policeman named Neustadt?”

“He’s the one who just died, isn’t he? That was a strange sort of accident. Like falling up a flight of stairs. Abe used to talk about him. He thought that he wasn’t straight. There was something not quite right, crooked, maybe, about him. I’ve heard others say it too. I think he went a little off his head, didn’t he? I know that Abe hated his guts, that’s all. Abe used to brood about Ed Neustadt. I suppose it was mutual. Those things often are. I think he was funny about women.”

“How do you mean, ‘funny’?”

“I met him a few times at different functions when he was deputy chief or acting chief. A woman senses these things.”

“If Neustadt wasn’t already dead, I’d say I’d found the man trying to kill your ex-husband.”

“Maybe you have, Mr. C. Have you thought of that? When did he die? If Abe discovered that Neustadt was trying to kill him, he’d put out a contract on him pretty quick. Maybe, you aren’t the only one working on this case. Maybe Abe’s already taken care of it.”

“But why would he hire me?”

“Why as a cover, of course. Don’t you ever read mystery stories?”

Brighton Motors occupied the space where the old county jail used to stand on the east side of Niagara Street. I could still remember the forbidding grey building with dead ivy clinging to the high walls. Now the property was a used-car lot specializing in British and foreign cars. There was a showroom in front with an antique red MG in the window and a garage with a dusty black Jaguar on the hoist. Beyond was a lot-full of dodgy investments in metal and rubber with prices marked on the windshields in large digits. I walked past three idle salesmen on my way to the office. They were staring out the showroom windows watching the wind blow paper garbage into snowbanks sheltering in the shadows.

Shaw was sitting behind a desk that was even messier than mine was in the middle of a case. He was a bull-necked, squat man with short-cropped red hair, kept that way to try to hide the fact that his hair was rapidly making way for a better view of the top of his head. The shirt he was wearing was on its second day, and the knot in his orange-and-black striped tie was staying as far away from the open collar as it could. I was happy to have the cluttered desk sitting between us.

“So you’re Cooperman. I’ve been hearing about you.”

“Nothing actionable, I hope?”

“You changed the balance in the legal social register in this fair city. Putting Julian Newby away like that. The local fan hasn’t been hit with anything like that since that big toxic-waste trucking scandal. Hell! You were involved in that too!”

“We try to be useful. What is going on between you and Abe Wise’s son, Hart?”

“Ah! The old boy speaks through you, eh? I was wondering in what form he’d appear.” Shaw swivelled around in his chair so that he could really look me over. Before this I’d been given an oblique survey while his main attention was turned to the venetian blinds.

“That’s a fair assumption, based on what you know, Mr. Shaw, but not necessarily correct. I may have my own reasons for wanting to know about this. And Hart has a mother too, you know.”

“What kind of silly smokescreen are you trying to spread, Cooperman? You’re working for the old man. Let’s not play games. Sit down and maybe we can see how we can both make a dollar.” I sat down in the worn customer’s chair with the stuffing just beginning to show from under the arms and waited. I was hoping that he would make the first pitch; Instead, he began rearranging an assortment of ballpoint pens in a shiny black distributor cap.

“The kid comes in here and gives me some bad paper, Cooperman,” he said when he had thought about it for a second or two. “That makes me mad. Anybody else and it’s an offence. But for him, it’s like rolling over in bed. He doesn’t even notice. It’s like he’s trying to tell me that he lives by a whole different set of rules from me and you. How would you react to that?”

“It’s pretty hard to prove intent to defraud, Mr. Shaw. Haven’t you ever bounced a cheque by mistake?”

“Mistake? What are you talking about?”

“We both know that, Shaw. The question is, what are you going to do about it?”

“I’ve already done it. Right away I called up Whitey York. There’s nobody like Whitey for making a sweet settlement. It’s in his court now, if you’ll pardon the pun. I’ll just sit back and wait.”

“Aren’t you taking a risk? Suppose Wise is involved. Or, suppose he makes it his business whether the kid likes it or not. They say kneecaps take a long time to heal. Are you up to this, Mr. Shaw?”

“Is that your message from Wise? I’m surprised at you, Cooperman. I thought you played it right down the middle.”

“Like you, Mr. Shaw?” Shaw grunted and fiddled with some of the paper on his desk. It wasn’t very convincing. “Who is Whitey York? I’ve heard the name, but I can’t place it.”

“I thought you kept up with these things? When Rupe McLay left Wilson, Carleton, Meyers and Devlin, Whitey York took over his office. He doesn’t drink as much as Rupe used to, and he chases more ambulances. Whitey’s a go-getter and still in his twenties.”

“God help us! Look, Mr. Shaw, this is from the horse’s mouth. Abe Wise is not on good terms with his son. Not only isn’t he interested in Hart’s bad paper, he’s not even interested in breaking your kneecaps. What Hart does is Hart’s business. If the kid can’t cover his bad paper, how do you expect him to pay your costs on top of the price of the car? I think you are holding a stone with the last ounce of blood squeezed out of it.”

“I hear what you’re saying, Cooperman, but I also see where you’re coming from. Wise’s paying your way, not Hart.”

“You think Abe Wise hires PIs to settle his small claims? Get smart. Get a little smart.”

“Sure, I know he has a lot of muscle. But what am I supposed to do with a rubber cheque?”

“Give it to me,” I said, holding out my hand.

“Whitey’s got it.”

“Great!” This was information, a fact if it held up, a scarce item in my trade. “What was the amount, if you don’t mind sharing it with a complete stranger?”

“We’re talking in the neighbourhood of forty-five grand, Mr. Cooperman. What with wear and tear on my nerves and costs.”

“Wilson, Carleton still on King across from the market?” He nodded and I put my hat back on. I looked through his back window, while I was buttoning my coat: more used sports cars than you’d see at a summer rally.

“There’s still bodies buried out there.”

“What?”

“Bodies. You know. This used to be the jail. They moved some of them, the recent ones, but they couldn’t find them all.”

“You mean bodies of prisoners who died in custody?”

“Those that the county wouldn’t bury. There were the two that were hanged buried back there. That old jail was right out of Dickens. Great Expectations and Oliver Twist. It was built back in the 1860s with walls twenty-five, thirty inches thick.” Shaw held his hands apart to show the distance, just in case I was slow with numbers and spacial relationships. “But six people escaped, you know. Not a bad record for the century or so it stood here.” He was looking out the window with me and, for the moment at least, not seeing his fleet of aging canvas tops and rusting chromium.