Howard Engel - Getting Away With Murder

“You mean the sports car that you bought from Shaw?”

“Yeah. The Triumph. He covered my bad cheque and now that I had the money, I wanted to pay him back.”

“May I ask where you got the money?”

“I unloaded a few things I didn’t need any more. And I moved. I was paying too much where I was living. The sublet gave me some cash in hand.”

“And Paulette?”

“Sure. She helped. Anyway, in the end he accepted the money and we got to talking about my future. For the first time ever, he was listening instead of telling me what he wanted me to do. It was okay. Then, he had to go because there were other people waiting. We started to shake hands and then he brought up Shaw and Whitey York and how they were trying to shake him down. I got mad and he became the monster he had always been again. That was my last view of him.”

“He had a thing about control.”

“Yeah. He governed by moral terror when I lived at home.”

“I still don’t like the way this bounces,” I said, shaking my head at the window opposite me. “Shaw and York are trying to get at your father through your bum cheque, right?”

“If you say so.”

“So why was Shaw killed?”

“Yeah, I read about that! I guess he was not a team kind of guy. What do you want me to say, Cooperman?”

“One thing is sure: he wasn’t killed over a debt as small as the one you’re talking about. Your dad could have bought ten Triumphs if he wanted to and put it down for petty cash.”

“A slight exaggeration. But, I get your point. A guy like Shaw could have had lots of enemies. Lots of quasisatisfied customers.”

“Okay. Back to the morning your dad was killed. Who did you see on your way in and on your way out?”

“Nobody special. Victoria was in the kitchen baking a pie. Mickey was cleaning his boots on a newspaper, also in the kitchen. The other fellows were out of sight, in the other house, I guess.”

“Did you see any strange cars in front or in back?”

“No. And there were no cars parked anywhere near the house as far as I can remember. Wait a minute! There was a Chrysler Le Baron, now that I think of it. Parked just outside the crescent where the house is.”

“Colour?”

“Red, I think. Sort of burgundy red.”

“Old or new?”

“Newish, although it had one eye bashed in.”

“A broken headlight? Remember which side?”

“Right side, I think. Yes it was. Why? Do you know whose it was?”

I told him that it sounded familiar but that was all, then thanked him for his help and told him that I might be getting in touch again fairly soon. I had to cut off the conversation, because he began to go into the whole thing again from the beginning like a television rerun. And I had a job to do for a change: I had to try to place that car.

With Chris Savas back on the job at Niagara Regional, and after a two-week vacation to Cyprus, I suspected that I might find both him and Pete Staziak at the little café run by a cousin of Chris’s. It was on Academy Street near the bus terminal, which was becoming an uninterrupted asphalt wilderness with a few old houses standing like brick icebergs in the sea. One of these was the home of the Spitfire. I don’t know why Chris’s cousin called it that, but that was what it said on the plastic sign, next to the familiar red-and-white Coke symbol.

When I got there, the place was deserted and I felt strange, like I’d walked into the women’s john by mistake. The cousin tried to place me but failed. His welcome was cordial but lacking the warmth I had seen on my earlier visits with Savas. I took a small table near the back and ordered a kebab of chicken. I somehow guessed that they wouldn’t stock my usual chopped-egg sandwiches. I had taken about three bites of the chicken-filled pita, when Chris and Pete walked in. Not only the cousin but the cousin’s wife were all over Chris like a rash inside of ten seconds. The warmth of the greeting spilled over on Pete Staziak. Even in Greek it made him smile. I nibbled my kebab with the bits of salad that had been thrown in with it. Two tables were pushed together and coats were collected. Pete was the first to spot me. He alerted Chris and soon I was included in the bubble of friendliness and moved plate, fork, body and napkin to their table.

At first we quizzed Savas about his holiday. There were no signs of a tan on his big meaty face, but his eyes, usually as cold as steel ball-bearings, danced with the pleasure of recalling it for us. “The island is still divided,” he said, draining a glass of something the proprietor-cousin had pressed on Chris. “There aren’t as many UN blue berets as when I was there last. My village is still lamenting the loss of its orchards on the other side of the mountain. They say that talks are going on, but that things will never get better.” Here Chris laughed. “They’ve been saying that since the Turks came the first time. When the Venetians came. When the English came.” Pete asked a few astute political questions and we all nodded at Chris’s answers.

Without our ordering from the menu, the proprietor brought a feast to the table-soft roast potatoes, hummus, and darkly roasted pieces of chicken, lamb and maybe even goat. As our faces became rosy with contentment and grease, Chris continued to tell stories about his trip, his family, and the adventures he’d had along the way. By the time the coffee came in brass ewers like the ones in the Lebanese restaurant below my apartment, Chris was beginning to sound hoarse. I just sat there listening and chewing on a slice of lamb cooked “in the thieves’ style,” which turns out to be roasted with herbs and potatoes in a sealed container.

It wasn’t really until after we left the café that Pete had anything to say that had a special interest for me. I told him that I had been retained by Dave Rogers and that I was thus still interested in Abe Wise’s murder.

“Just as long as you stay out of my way, Benny. That’s all I ask.” He tried to give me a serious look, but the shine of grease on his face torpedoed the effect. I mentioned it and he went to work with his blue-and-white polka-dotted handkerchief. I told him that I intended to stay as far away from his investigation as possible. Then I gave him an example of the kinds of questions I would not be asking him. Sometimes that worked with Pete. This time it didn’t.

“I knew it! I knew it!” he yelled, blowing me off the curb into Academy Street.

“Stored information’s no use to you, Pete. Information only gets hot when it’s in movement. That’s when things begin to happen. Like when there’s an exchange.”

“Benny, you know what you’re shovelling? Besides, you don’t have anything to trade.”

“Easy on him, Pete,” Chris said, putting a big hand on his partner’s shoulder. “He has to make rent this month. And he never got paid when we put Julian Newby away, remember?”

“Okay, okay. We’ll entertain a few questions.” Chris rolled his eyes and dropped behind us where he could watch this process of reciprocity advance. I guess he didn’t like what he saw because he quickly caught up to us again.

“Hart Wise told me that he’d given his old man some money during their last meeting. Did you find a cheque with his name on it?” Pete looked at me like I was a stranger. He thought a minute, then shook his head.

“Why would the kid lie?” he asked both of us.

Chris shrugged. “Maybe he’s invented the story of a reconciliation just for our benefit. Maybe there was no cheque.”

“What do you know about Julie Long’s boyfriend?”

“Oh, that’s a good one. Didier Santerre is another of your fast operators. Only he does it in black tie. His magazine has been losing money steadily for the last three years. Hart Wise isn’t the only bad paper hanger in town, Benny. Santerre’s face is as well known in local banks as the Queen’s.”