Sometimes the crime is small, but to the victims, the results can be life-changing...

COMING TO TERMS

  By Chris Laing

Good Grief! This wasn't the way it was supposed to work. The payment had disappeared again, nothing left in its place. Second time this week. My job was to leave it in its usual spot and, in the morning, retrieve what the driver had left. What could be easier?

Jeez, if I couldn't perform this simple task, what hope did I have to be trusted for bigger jobs? And just the thought of the old man's disappointment withered my insides. I felt desperate, down to my last chance.

No choice now but to hire the detective.

Office hours were apparently irregular but I'd been told after school was best. From Hess Street Public, I crossed to Peter Street , stopping in front of a neat brick bungalow. Mountains of curling leaves heaped against a whitewashed fence, a concrete walk led to the rear. As instructed, I knocked twice, paused, then twice more. I entered onto an enclosed landing and next to the light switch; a sign read E T AGENCY , an arrow pointing down.

Cold as a cave down here and an earthy odor, perhaps from a root-cellar. I followed a narrow hallway to a closed door at the end of the hall and tapped out the same code before entering.

Emma Thomas stood staring at me as though I were a cockroach on her lunch plate. The ceiling light was turned off; two candles on floor-stands flanked her makeshift desk, their shimmering light giving her the appearance of an evil sorceress in the Saturday serial at the Tivoli Theatre

She was taller than her candles, and her blond Medusa-hair writhed all over her head. And skinnier than Popeye's girlfriend: long legs, long arms, the hands of a basketball player. She wore an oversized fisherman's sweater, against this underground chill I supposed.

Emma gave me the once-over, twirled her hand and I turned in a circle. I guessed she saw no need to frisk me because she pointed a bony finger at a three-legged stool and I sat, keeping my lip buttoned.

“You know what I charge?” A low throaty voice.

I bobbed my head, gazing into her wolf-slit eyes which she hadn't taken off me since I'd entered her lair, thinking that her daily fee was more than I could earn in a week. Maybe she'd be interested in bartering; I'd explore that later.

Brow furrowed, she said, “Do I know you?”

“Sure.” Why wouldn't she know me? We attended the same school for cryin' out loud.

She continued to study me, tugging back the blond strands flopping over one eye, before making up her mind. “OK … So what's your problem, bub?”

I explained my dilemma: the missing payments, no product left by the delivery guy, the possible loss of the old man's trust. Simply telling her made me realize just how tight a spot I was in.

She jotted in a small black book until I ran out of steam, then aimed the eraser end of her Dixon HB at me. “So what d'you want me to do?”

I'd thought of nothing else since deciding to see the detective. “One, find out who took the payments. Two, get them back. And three, stop it from happening again.” Sounding like a late-for-lunch radio announcer.

“That's all?”

“Yep.”

“You don't want me to beat the shit outta the thief?”

“That wouldn't help me.” But she certainly looked capable.

A frown as she considered my response. Finally, she shrugged. “OK. Any suspects?”

I shook my head. “I know who it is.”

Superman-eyes fixed mine and I felt a jolt from her X-ray vision.

“Charlie Burns,” I said.

Her thin lips formed a narrow line and an awkward pause followed. Then she padded to the door and held it open. That bulky sweater reached almost to her knees, and she wore no shoes. I stared at her crimson toenails, taking in the size of her feet. Lord love a duck, and I thought her hands were big. “Let's go, buster. Wait for me outside while I change.”

The after-church scent from the candles trailed me up the stairs. She joined me in less than a minute, wearing a too-short black skirt and a too-large red satin jacket, CONNAUGHT LANES stitched in black letters across the back. On her feet, a pair of high-top runners fit for a circus clown.

A cold rain reminded us of the season as we walked directly to my place, where I showed her the set-up. Emma fished out her notebook, pushed back her sleeves and diagrammed the scene. “What time's the delivery guy usually arrive?”

“Early morning. Still dark out.”

“Right. I'll look after it. See me again tomorrow.”

* * *

Next day. Same time, same basement. But no candles today. Instead, the bulb over her desk burned with an intensity matching her manner. And I was right about the root-cellar: a row of lumpy potato sacks slumped against the wall like jobless guys outside the welfare office on James Street .

I sat on the stool and she waited me out. I'd lost my investment again last night and I couldn't hide the frog in my voice. “Any luck?”

“Yep. It ain't Charlie Burns.”

Her words hit me like a punch in the gut and I had to wait for my breathing to slow. “But it must be him,” I said. “He threatened me.”

She shook her head and the snaky hair danced again. “'Fraid not, bub. But let's go see ‘im anyway. Hear what he has to say.”

Emma Thomas walked with a lope, giraffe legs covering the same distance as two of my paces. At Hess Street School a knot of tough guys horsed around near the ball diamond. As we neared, Charlie Burns stepped in front of his supporters and, like most bullies, braver than Tarzan when surrounded by his gang.

She touched my shoulder and we halted; to these bozos we might have looked like a visiting Amazon girl and her pet boy. In fact, she was the tallest and smartest kid in grade eight, while I probably escaped her notice as a mere runt two grades behind her

Bet she didn't even know my name.

Charlie Burns flashed Emma a sneering grin and glanced over his shoulder at his stooges, pointing an accusing finger at me. “Whaddya think, boys, is this little twerp another bastard from her mother, the whore?”

When Emma pounced, Charlie still had a smirk on his mug until she encircled his throat with one hand and twisted the front of his shirt into a ball with the other. Her face inches from his, she spat loud enough for his troops to hear. “Tell your goons to bugger off.”

Charlie's eyes bugged, liver-lips moving but the sound turned off. He managed to wave an arm and his crew slithered away through the brush behind home plate.

“Where'd ya hear that crap about my mother? From your old man and his boozin' buddies at the Bay Tavern?” Emma squeezed until his knees buckled.

When she released her grip, he crumpled like a heap of dirty laundry, clutching his throat. She knelt on the grass beside him, yanking him forward by his shirt-front and jerking her thumb in my direction. “You know this kid?”

“Seen … him … around.” Charlie sounded like he'd been run over by a steam roller.

“You give him a hard time? Threaten him?”

A sullen shrug, followed by a coughing fit.

“Been to his house lately?”

“N-n-no.” His eyes averted.

“Look at me!” Her nose against Charlie's, his piggy eyes wide and unfocused. “Stay away from this kid.” Her speech slowed to a walk. “And if I ever, ever hear you mention my mother again …”

Charlie Burns crabbed backward, wig-wagging his head and making a zipping motion across his blubbering lips.

We kicked the rusty leaves as we walked back to her place and I dared to ask her. “You sure it wasn't Charlie Burns?”

With a piano player's finger she mimed a metronome motion. “I'm setting a trap tonight. We'll visit the real culprit tomorrow.”

* * *

She waited for me after school. Charlie Burns and his cronies walked right past us without a hint of recognition. Emma gave me an arched brow and I grinned back

“Let's take a walk,” she said. “Gotta return something to a kid in my class.”

I tried to keep up with her down Hess Street then over to Barton where we headed west. She slowed her pace and said, “What's your situation … at home?”

I glanced up at her chalky face, her unruly hair, her impressive height. So far above me, yet I sensed, God knows why, she was interested in me. I cleared my throat. “My dad's a cop. Works nights.” Cleared it again. “My mom is … sick … sorta.”

“Hmmm.”

We walked a block.

“Brothers, sisters?”

“Nope.”

We walked another block. “How about you?” I said, not really expecting an answer.

“My old man's...” She choked on her words, her voice squeaky. Then a half-whisper, “Old man's gone. My mother works nights, too. In the … entertainment business.”

A flicker in her eyes made my heart flutter. “Oh ...”

We'd come to a halt in front of a tired two-storey house, its porch a junkyard of broken furniture. Three squealing kids scratched through this scrap, tossing aside a broken crokinole board and pitching Tinker Toy spools and rods into a rusted-out Radio Flyer with no wheels.

A rhythmic pounding drew us around back, where a burly guy in his undershirt broke apart wooden storage crates with a sledgehammer. Sweat rolled off his face and his bare shoulders glistened as he stacked the pieces for firewood. His muscular build reminded me of the guy who delivered our coal, but that man's features were always obscured behind his mask of coal dust. And this man seemed … gruffer.

Emma leaned close to me. “He's right-handed. Pick up that piece of wood and pass it to him. Mind his hand when he takes it.”

I squinted but followed orders. With a glower, the man snatched the wood from me and grunted something while I stared at his hand.

Ignoring him, Emma approached a scrawny girl on the stoop whose startled eyes flicked from Emma to me and then to the scowling man at the woodpile, embarrassed perhaps to be caught in these surroundings. I recognized her as another eighth-grader, a mousy dame who didn't look at you when she spoke. She gave Emma a grim smile

“Returning the notes I borrowed, Violet. Thanks.” Emma patted her shoulder. “See you tomorrow.”

Back on Barton Street , Emma nudged me. “Let's go down to the water.”

We turned at Bay Street , over the train tracks and through the scrubby trees before we reached the shore of Hamilton Bay. We sat on a washed-up log and inhaled the aroma of dead fish and rotting vegetation and diesel fuel. “I like the smell down here,” she said.

A pair of ducks bobbed in the tiny waves, taking no notice of an empty Dr. Lyons Tooth Powder tin which floated between them. She pointed out two freighters in the distance, waiting to unload their cargo at the Steel Company of Canada . The setting sun sparkled off the water, lighting up a pair of sailboats near the Burlington side of the bay, fluttering like butterflies, soon to be cocooned for the winter.

For the first time, she seemed to let down her guard, her coiled-up energy idling. I pictured a diamond-back slumbering in the desert sun.

She trained her detective's eye on me and waited.

“His fingers were stained purple,” I said.

She nodded, gnawing the skin around her fingertips. Then she took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Couple nights ago, I noted two milk bottles on your porch, tickets in their necks. No visitors until five-oh-five when the milkman arrived in his wagon, took the tickets, but didn't leave any milk. Just flicked his horse's reins and left. But there's no proof. My word against his.”

She pushed back her wild hair, absently twisting the longest strands. “So last night I coated the tickets with a chemical. Worked like a charm, eh?”

I stared down at the oily water lapping at our feet. The ducks had moved on; the empty tin remained.

Jeez, the milkman.

She continued. “Question is, what to do about it. Report his theft to the cops and he might go to jail.”

I frowned. What would happen to those kids running around on the porch?

“Or, report it to Royal Oak Dairy, he'll lose his job.”

Hell's bells, what a choice. The kids wouldn't be fatherless, but without a job in these hard times, the result would be the same.

“Or, I could talk to him. Show him the error of his ways. And our evidence. You might not get your dough back, bub, but the thefts will definitely stop. I guarantee it.”

I narrowed my eyes at her. “How could you guarantee it?”

I had to strain to hear her. “I've seen him visiting my mother.”

“But he's married.”

“That's my point.” Her voice now colder than a brand-new ice-box.

I gazed across the bay, puzzling out what she meant, finally catching on. Holy cow. This whole damn world was a mess

When I turned to Emma, she sent me the hint of a sad smile. Then she leaned against me almost playfully, nearly toppling me from the log, her eyebrows raised.

“Deal?” she said.

I extended my hand and she swallowed it in both of hers, shaking my whole arm as she yanked me upright.

“Deal,” I said.

Walking up Bay Street , she stopped under a street light by the Supertest gas station, bent down and levelled her eyes at me. “My fee?”

“Y-yes.” I crossed my fingers behind my back. “I was thinking of a barter.”

Her face looked like she'd bitten a lemon. “Barter? For what?”

I gathered my courage, hesitated. Was I crazy to think she'd even consider this offer? My voice quavered, as nervous as if I'd gambled my entire collection of baseball cards. Including the Babe Ruth

“Friendship,” I said.

An unbelieving stare was her initial response. “But … I don't even know your name.”

See? I was afraid of that.

“Max … Max Dexter.”

I held my breath, as though this were the most important moment in my life. Her Mesmer-eyes drilled into mine and I swallowed the lump in my throat.

Hope and despair ping-ponged in my brain as I detected a tiny twitch across her lips. And was that a tear in her eye?

Holy mackerel.

Emma Thomas kissed my burning cheek.

In a whisper she said, “Deal, Maxie.”