Howard Engel - Getting Away With Murder

The sign in front of Wilson, Carleton, Meyers and Devlin hadn’t formally added Whitey York to the establishment, but upstairs outside the new burgundy-painted front door they did own up to having an R.B. York as a junior partner in the firm. I could see where it had been added to the space vacated by Rupe McLay.

I gave my name to the receptionist and waited for her to check my name against her list of appointments. When she brought to my attention the fact that I was appointmentless, I suggested that she walk my name through Whitey York’s door to see if that helped. It must have, because I hadn’t advanced very far in Maclean’s magazine before a tall, youthful man with a shock of the fairest hair I’d ever seen outside a baby carriage was stooping over my reading. “Mr. Cooperman? This is a great pleasure! I just got a call from our mutual friend telling me that you might be paying a call. Will you come into my office?” I followed him and he led the way to the very place I’d had a long heart-to-heart with McLay three months ago. McLay’s decor was gone, of course. All those touches that advertised failure had vanished. A paint job and the best of new designer office equipment had been substituted. “Would you like a coffee?” he asked. I shook my head before discovering that I would very much like one. I must try to get closer to my innermost feelings.

The formalities out of the way, York sat behind his desk with a steeple where his fingers should be. I told him that I was representing Paulette Staples, the mother of Hart Wise, in the matter of the bad cheque. I told him that the money and reasonable costs would be paid if the bad joke stopped here and now. I was going out on a limb, but I couldn’t see any saw marks. “There is no way that you are going to involve Abe Wise,” I said. “Your harassment of the boy is becoming a serious hazard to his health. We are considering action.”

“Boy? That kid is thirty-five if he’s a day! And if his health can’t take a boilerplate form letter, then-”

“There has been harassment on the phone as well.”

“Harassment? You’re out of your mind!”

“We want this business settled, Mr. York, today.”

“I’ll have to discuss this with my client, of course, Mr. Cooperman.”

“You just got off the phone with your client, or have you forgotten?”

“We don’t want to be rushed into a hasty decision, Mr. Cooperman.”

“I thought that you were all in a tizzy about getting your rightful money? Have I been misinformed?”

“Ah, not at all. I’m still trying to assess our damages, but we are glad to see that reason and good sense are prevailing. Far too much time is wasted on unnecessary legal work.”

“I couldn’t agree more. Would you be able to send an invoice to my office by the end of the day?”

“We’ll certainly be in touch.”

“By the way, where is the car now?”

“Car? Oh, you mean the car! Hart Wise has that, I think. Better ask Shaw.”

“I’ll do that. Thanks, Mr. York. Good to do business with you.”

We shook hands, and in another minute, I’d climbed down the stairs and was walking through the open-air farmers’ market. I suppose I should have made my way south on James Street to my office, but I wandered around the market stalls for a few minutes, enjoying a glimpse of sausages and hams, cheeses, and early hothouse vegetables instead. It made thinking easier. I was wondering whether I had been wasting my time with Shaw and York. Was it their pressure on Hart that threatened to turn him into a parricide? I doubted it, but at least it was action, something accomplished.

Hart had been driving the Triumph when I saw him at his mother’s. There was no doubt about who had possession of the car. But Whitey York had been vague about it. As I guessed, neither Shaw nor York gave a damn about the car; it was Hart they were after. They needed him as a stick to get at his father. I had a sudden image of boys poking at a wasps’ nest. I began to feel pleased with my progress. I only hoped that Abe Wise had a sense of humour about expenses.

All of the local mandarins were there with their darkest suits and warmest coats on to wish a final farewell to Edwin Ernest Neustadt, late of this parish. They stood on the graves of other men and women to press as close to the open grave as possible. From my pitch at the rear, I could recognize many familiar faces wearing their most solemn expressions looking across the plastic green grass that had been thrown over the disturbed earth. I’m sure that I would have known most of the faces belonging to the backs in front of me as well. The Niagara Regional Police was well represented. The police band played a slow march and the casket was lifted from a gun carriage by six strapping officers in their parade uniforms. Pete Staziak was standing near a tall monument that pointed skyward, with his expression blending into the uniformly sombre vista. A eulogy was read by a high-ranking Salvation Army officer, an old friend of the deceased. Neustadt had, he told us, in ample quantity all of the manly qualities. His word was his bond; his virtues beyond enumeration. His time with the police force had seen many important changes, of which Edwin Neustadt had been a part. He was seen as one of the architects of the Regional Police which succeeded the earlier, more primitive Grantham Police Force. Neustadt’s elderly widow stood steadfast at the grave-side, supported by a married daughter and her husband. A hymn was sung, or at least attempted, while the police band tried to lead, then to follow, the singing. We heard the ashes-to-ashes section of the burial service. Again the words hit me as though they were directed at me personally. The coffin was lowered into the ground and the widow shook the hand of the Salvation Army eulogist. After that, everything began to break up.

I had spotted Abram Wise standing beside Mickey and his wife a few rows in front of me. It was Victoria I saw first. Her dark hair was covered by a kerchief. Wise was almost hidden by the people standing between us. Mickey’s attention to his boss’s other business gave me a sense of relief. I felt almost free, and postponed a look over my shoulder to see who was in charge of keeping me in sight.

I stood my ground as the company dispersed. The bandsmen marched off smartly as did the uniformed police. But Staziak was still talking to a brother plainclothes officer across the open grave from me. He was rubbing his hands in the frosty air. Wisps of vapour told me which of them was talking even when I couldn’t see their faces. Staziak stomped his feet and plunged his hands into his overcoat pockets.

An old survivor of the police force was being helped away by a middle-aged man in a windbreaker. “Did I have a coat?” he asked, not noticing the one he was wearing. Even in civilian clothes, you could see that he’d worn a uniform for decades. He kept looking back over his shoulder. “Wasn’t there a woman with us when we came?” The man in the windbreaker moved him slowly away from the grave.

Wise too wasn’t in a rush to leave the grave-side. He was examining the faces of those who had come to assist, as the French say, at the funeral. He seemed to be amused when he discovered people staring at him. When his eyes reached mine, he stopped. “What are you doing here, my friend?” he asked when he had closed the distance.

“You are my business, Mr. Wise.” I nodded a greeting to both Mickey and his wife. Mickey smiled back. “You told me that you were coming to the funeral. I was interested to discover why.”

“Did you find that out?”

“Not yet, but I may get lucky. Too bad Chief Neustadt can’t tell me.”

“A lot of grief died with Neustadt, I’ll tell you, Mr. Cooperman. A lot of grief and evil! How are you coming along since we talked?”