me about the way the dumps run,” Harry said, “the weigh-masters would have no reason to pay out to a company like Ace.”
“Other way around maybe,” I said. “You mean Ace has no reason to make the weigh-masters pay.”
“Right,” Harry said. He snaked his thumbs under the crimson suspenders. “ It would be much more probable if the two sides were working in concert, Ace and the weigh-masters.”
“Harry,” I said, “I knew there was a reason for consulting you.”
“The weigh-masters could be doing a favour for Ace,” Harry went on. “Supposing they’re giving Ace a break on the weight of the truckloads.”
I said, “That’d account for the extra time it takes to weigh the Ace trucks going into the dumps. The weigh-masters need the time to rig the weights.”
“If they weigh the trucks in light,” Harry said, “then Ace doesn’t have to pay as much to Metro for dropping their loads in the dumps. Lighter the loads, the smaller the fees.”
“And in return for that piece of shiftiness,” I said, “Sol Nash drops around and makes a little payoff to the cheating weigh-masters.”
Harry had a question. “Didn’t you say,” he asked, “it also takes longer to weigh the Ace trucks out of the dumps?”
“That’s what I said.”
“So the weigh-masters weigh the trucks out heavy. Get it? The weigh-masters make sure the trucks are lighter going in and heavier coming out. That cuts down the dumping fee Ace has to pay Metro at both ends of the transaction.”
“Neat,” I said. “I like it. Only thing is it’s all theory.”
“Pretty damned tidy theory,” Harry said. He was running his thumbs up and down under the crimson suspenders.
“I need to document it,” I said. “My client expects something in the way of hard numbers.”
“Yeah,” Harry said. “I understand.”
I kept quiet and let Harry figure it out.
“You want me to document it,” he said after a moment of reflection. “You want me to look at this company’s books. Ace’s books.”
I didn’t speak.
“I owe you a favour,” Harry said.
I said, “It crossed my mind.”
“Okay, you weren’t going to mention it,” Harry said. His thumbs were moving more rapidly under the suspenders. “You didn’t need to. I know I’m indebted. So, what else, I’ll go over the books.”
“Thanks, Harry,” I said. “But going over Ace’s books is the job. Something else is the favour.”
“Crang, you’re going too fast for me.”
I said, “Ace won’t be keen on you examining its financial records.”
“The hell, I didn’t think they’d exactly invite me in.”
I said, “Fact is, Ace isn’t going to know you’re examining the records.”
“But I thought probably you had access to their papers . . .” Harry said. His voice trailed off and he stopped rubbing his suspenders.
I said, “The favour is, Harry, that you trust me.”
“So you’re bringing the documents to me?” Harry said. He was sitting very still in his chair.
I said, “I’m going to take you to the documents.”
“You are?”
“Of necessity, Harry,” I said, “this will be a night job.”
16
I NEEDED THREE CALLS from the phone in Harry Hein’s office to locate James Turkin, the fledgling break-and-enter man. Calls number one and two were to his mother. She hung up the first time. I rang back and applied the old Crang persuasion.
I said, “Mrs. Turkin, I’d hate to feel obliged to ask James’ probation officer to visit you and your husband.”
She said she thought James was living with his married sister in Regent Park. She didn’t know the address. Did she know the married sister’s name? “My own daughter?” Mrs. Turkin said. Her voice squawked. “I should think I know,” she said. “We’re close-knit.” Yeah, like J. R. Ewing and clan. The married sister’s last name was Gruber.
The phone book showed a Gruber on Sackville Street, and I dialled the number. The woman who answered said James would be back from work at five-thirty. The woman had a pleasant voice. Was I a friend of James? His lawyer, I told her. She thought that was wonderful and looked forward to meeting me. I didn’t ask what James was working at.
Regent Park lies south of Gerrard and east of Parliament. It’s a housing development for low-income and welfare families that sprawls over several discouraging blocks. Not long after the end of the Second War, bulldozers went into the area and levelled the one-storey houses and shanties where Toronto’s poor Irish made their corner of the city. A planned community went in in its place. The plan produced brick low-rises and fourplexes done in institutional squares and rectangles. Grassy patches define the areas between the buildings, and there’s a battered recreational centre for kids. Regent Park has never been a neighbourhood calculated to produce tomorrow’s stalwart citizens.
At six o’clock I parked on Gerrard and walked down Sackville to a two-storey building that was split into four apartments. Two little boys were playing with a G.I. Joe on the scarred brown lawn in the front of the building. The G.I. Joe was short one arm. Both little boys were Vietnamese. A card with the Gruber name was inserted in a slot under the apartment mailbox on the lower left. I pushed the buzzer and James Turkin answered the door.
“Am I in trouble?” he asked.
“Not yet,” I said.
“My sister told me you phoned.”
James stood inside the door and held it open about a foot. The perfect host.
“I’m here to talk business,” I said. “Your business.”
James kept his deadpan expression in place.
“Invite the gentleman in, James,” a woman said from behind Turkin. I recognized the pleasant voice from the phone.
James opened the door and stepped back. He was wearing a short-sleeved red shirt with the words “Home Hardware” sewn in yellow across the breast pocket.
The woman inside had a smile to match her voice.
“You must be Mr. Crang,” she said. “I’m James’ sister, Emily Gruber.” We shook hands.
“Would you care for some refreshment, Mr. Crang?” Emily Gruber asked.
Odds
