Howard Engel: A City Called July

I went through my mail without finding anything of interest, then got busy on the telephone. Pete Staziak couldn’t let me have the key to Larry Geller’s Queen Street office. It wasn’t right for the public cops to go around helping out the private cops even though, as I pointed out to him over the telephone, the private sector had once or twice …

“Don’t give me any of that nail polish, Benny. When have you done anything for me when it didn’t get you off some hook or other? You’re like that goddamned bird that cleans out the teeth of the mud-loving crocks in the bayou down south. Show me once where what you did for me and Savas …”

“I told you about Kogan, didn’t I?”

“Big deal, so we pull a drunk out of a doorway so he doesn’t freeze to death. Besides it was your doorway he was freezing in, wasn’t it?”

“It was next door. Okay, I’ll bother Geller’s wife for a key, knowing how much you’d love to get me on a B and E.”

“Ah, now you’re talking. You could loid the lock, set off the alarm and we could waltz around all night together. You know Rose Craig?”

“Never heard of her.”

“Geller’s secretary. She’s got keys. What’s more she’s still trying to deal with the traffic in there. Which means she has more guts than brains, if you ask me. I don’t see any harm in you snooping around there, as long as I don’t have to wait until Christmas to find out if you discovered anything.”

“You’re always the first to know, Pete.”

“Only when Shelley’s pregnant, Benny. With you, I’m always playing guessing games. I’m at the foot of your Must Be Told list. But I got faith in human nature, that’s what I got. So, go to it. Go up there and uncover all the clues we poor working stiffs have overlooked because of our superficial and hidebound ways.”

“I’m getting to recognize that line coming, Pete. Get off my back. I’m only trying to make a living. What do you want from me?”

“Damn it, Benny, I just told you, practically told you, to use my name with the secretary. What more do you want, a seeing-eye dog?”

It was a short walk from the office to Queen Street. On it I passed two banks that were in business and one that had become a restaurant. It was one of those places where they serve a vegetable fuzz of shoots on top of everything and you need a PhD to understand the menu. The fish-and-chips truck parked at the corner of St. Andrew and Queen was closer to my style. I bought a cone of French fries, doused them with malt vinegar and salt and began spearing them into my mouth. Kogan, the rubby, was asking for handouts near the chips wagon. He was looking elegant in a reclaimed crested blue blazer and grey flannel trousers held up with a few rounds of butcher string.

“How about it? Got any change? I was in the war, mister. Not your war; your dad’s war. Help a fella out.”

“Hello, Kogan. How’s it going?”

“Huh? Oh, hell it’s you, Mr. Cooperman. Nice day eh?” I gave him a warm quarter from the change I’d just collected from the purchase of my lunch. “Thanks,” he said, and I continued down Queen Street.

Outside the office of the Beacon, in one of the handy honour-boxes, I could see the headline through the plastic window: LAWYER DEFRAUDS LOCALS. That tore it. I’d had all the head start I was going to get. Now it was every man for himself. I fed the machine some silver and it clicked open when I pulled the handle. I read the top paragraphs in each of the three stories linked to the headline. The picture of Larry Geller looked at least ten years old. He didn’t look a bit ashamed of himself. I folded the paper in half and tucked it under my arm.

Geller’s office was in the Hamilton Building, about half-way down the first block on the west side of Queen. The shadow of the post office nearly darkened the entrance, which was formed by four glass doors, all but one locked. The elevator entrance was cut into a wall of solid native limestone, or so it looked. I pushed the button for the fourth floor.

I couldn’t miss Geller’s office; it was the one with a crowd of seven or eight people in front of the door with uniformly grim expressions on their faces.

“She won’t let anybody in,” a middle-aged woman, one of a group of three, volunteered. This verdict was confirmed by grunts of agreement from the others. An elderly man, flanked by what I took to be his lawyer, stood first in line at the door. Another old couple, rather formally dressed, hovered near the elevator doors. “She threw everybody out just a minute ago,” said the first woman again. “She’s cracking under the strain, if you ask me.” I wanted to try the door myself, but there didn’t appear to be any reason to believe that these people were part of a plot to keep me from visiting Geller’s office.

“She’ll have to come out for lunch, won’t she?” said the elderly man to his lawyer, who didn’t jump to give his opinion.

“And what a temper she has!” said a woman with a voice like the ping from a cracked crystal vase.

“Just stay calm, Mr. Friedman,” the lawyer whispered into the hearing aid on Mr. Friedman’s chest. “It’s not the end of the world.”

“Easy for you to talk,” Mr. Friedman said, moving his arms in exasperation. “You’re making money just standing here.”

“You should have stood up to her, Doris. I would have backed you up.” This from the woman with ghostly face-powder all over the front of her face.

“I wonder,” I asked looking at no one in particular, “if she’s read the story in the paper.”

“Paper? You mean the Beacon?” asked one of the ladies.

“Sure. It’s got the whole story, with pictures.”

All of them squeezed into one elevator car and were out of sight within twenty seconds, and I was alone in front of Larry Geller’s office door. “The coast is clear!” I shouted through the door. “They’ve all gone. I chased them all away. Open up and I’ll show you your boss’s picture in tonight’s paper.” For a second or two I heard nothing except the sound of the thought process itself maybe, then a chair squeaked and a voice near the door asked:

“Who are you anyway?”

“I’m not the paperboy, but I’ve got a copy.”

“If this is a trick …”

“Cross my heart. Look, my name’s Cooperman. I’m an investigator working with the Jewish community of Grantham. I’ve talked to Ruth Geller, and she knows I’m here.” She didn’t know, but I would pass the word along when I saw her again. The spring lock snapped open on the other side of the door. I turned the knob and walked in.

Rose Craig stood before me like she thought I was the leader of a mob come to break the door down. It took her a minute to see that I was alone, then she stopped glaring and took her hands from her hips. I squeezed past her into the office. She grabbed the paper from under my arm and threw it down on the receptionist’s desk with the headline staring up at the ceiling.

Geller’s secretary was a compact, well-proportioned redhead in a green blouse and tweed skirt. She looked like she’d been tossed in a blanket: she was nervous, twitchy and sloppy. White underwear showed through where too many buttons were unfastened on her blouse, a cigarette dangled from her lips as her head moved up and down the columns, spilling ash over her impressive bosom. Her hands were small and puffy, with short, none-too-clean fingernails. Newsprint was coming off on her red palms. She looked up at me and shot a glance over her shoulder. “They’ve been driving me crazy,” she said. “I couldn’t take it any more. You say you’ve talked to Ruth? That’s supposed to make it all right your being here. Let me tell you, Mr. Cooperman, not even Ruth is a complete friend. She has her own interests in this too. There are no friends. Not even me. If I don’t get paid on Friday, I’ll be looking for a new job on Monday.”