Book one in the series available for free download from Amazon, Apple Books, Barnes & Noble, Rakuten Kobo and Google Books.
A Canadian Hard-Boiled Crime Mystery Series
Mo Gold And Birdie Mysteries by W.L. Liberman
Series Excerpt
Birdie and I had some legwork to do, catching up with people, following a trail over eight years old. We stirred dead ashes in the grate of a fire that burned out long ago.
Holding Aida Turner’s list, I got in the passenger side of the Chevy Biscayne, white paint job, red leather interior--a large, comfortable car with enough under the hood to keep me happy. Birdie slid in behind the wheel then fired the ignition. The Invisible Man pressed against my kidney.
I looked over the list that Aida Turner had written out so carefully in her neat hand and then took another peek at the graduation photo. The hint of a smile touched on Henry Turner’s handsome face, an earnest expression, honest and sincere, almost guileless. I noted the strong jaw, the even white teeth--a good-looking kid and I thought about the young Alison Foster and her influence on him. Maybe she’d been one of those good-hearted souls who was color-blind and saw only a person’s inner qualities? Maybe. But that wasn’t the brash sex-bomb who’d sashayed into my office.
“Time to pay Mrs. Lawson a visit,” I said.
“Now you’re talkin’. Let’s rattle her manicure.” Birdie guffawed loud enough to make me roll the window down. After he subsided, he added, “Man, there’s a lot going on there.”
I had to agree.
Birdie pulled around the back of our building sluicing through the alleyway. There might have been two inches of clearance on either side. If you parked here, you had to have a ragtop or else, shinny out the window. Neither of us had put a nick on the Chevy yet and I wanted to keep it that way. Two parking bays sat between a dumpster and a rod iron staircase. I used my key on the back door and we pounded the stairs. We found visitors waiting for us on the landing outside the door, still rattling the knob.
“Hey,” I said. “You’ll crack the glass if you shake it any harder and it’ll cost you eight bucks to have it fixed.”
Detective Sergeant Roy Mason straightened up, frowned, and dropped his bony hand to his side. Inspector Harry Callaway snorted. He chewed on a toothpick, something he did regularly, ever since his wife forced him to give up cigars. Callaway was a large, smooth Irishman, with graying hair slicked back from his forehead, a lantern jaw and cold, blue eyes. He wore a grey suit to match his hair and fiddled with a grey fedora in his right hand, rotating it along the brim through his thick fingers. Roy Mason stood tall and skinny in a caved-in way. A taciturn man given to sniggering. I couldn’t stand Mason, considered him to be the worst kind of cop. A prick who stepped on the face of the next guy to make himself look good. But Callaway was okay.
“Allow me,” I said, shaking out a bunch of keys and fitted one into the lock. Callaway dropped into the half-wingback while Mason lounged in the corner watching. “What are you having?” I asked.
“The usual,” Callaway replied.
I poured the two of us a belt of Canadian Club each. Birdie didn’t drink much and I wouldn’t give Mason spit if my life depended on it. We clinked water glasses.
“Slan,” Callaway said.
“L’chaim,” I replied.
Callaway hesitated, then took a sip of the Scotch. I sat behind the desk, Birdie rested in his usual spot on the credenza and swung his leg in a long arc. I could see it annoyed Mason to no end. I shook out a Sweet Cap, snapped my lighter and took a long drag.
Callaway ran a stubby forefinger around the glass rim. “Had a call,” he said.
“Oh yeah? Good for you.”
Callaway ignored me.
“A guy named, Lawson. Some big shot industrialist. He complained to me loud and long about the treatment of his wife by one Mo Gold. Wanted me to throw the book at you. I told him you hadn’t broken any laws recently but since we were acquainted I’d have a quiet word. That seemed to pacify him for the moment. And that’s why I’m here. So, humor me, Gold, and tell me a story, one that I’ll like, all right?”
I laughed. “This is getting comical.”
“Put me in the joke,” Callaway replied and Mason sniggered. I shot him a look and he stopped.
“Mrs. Lawson,” I began. “Young, beautiful, sexy, born rich, married rich and trouble from the tips of her toes to the tip of her nose and all those curves in-between. If I were her husband, I’d be on the floor barking if she blinked at me.”
“Well,” Callaway drawled. “Maybe that’s just you.” Birdie guffawed.
“Maybe.”
So I filled him and Mason in on what happened, more or less. Told him I’d refused Alison Lawson’s dough and that put the peeve into her and she must have run to hubby and complained about how rude I’d been when I’d been very polite, excessively polite in my opinion.
“She just doesn’t like to hear the word “no,” I said. “Probably the last time was when she threw Pablum at her nanny during snack time.”
Callaway rolled more of my Scotch around his tongue.
“Think there’s any proof to the pilfering beef?”
“Not a chance. I told her it was a matter for the police. She said they didn’t want the unnecessary publicity and also didn’t want her husband to be bothered with this. Said she wanted it to be handled discreetly. Offered us a hundred a day.”
Callaway whistled. “That’s pretty good scratch.”
“We can’t be bought. We have our principles, don’t we Birdie?”
“I was thinking about a new suit I saw in the window of George Richards,” Birdie boomed.
“There you go,” I said. “We’re incorruptible. Besides, I didn’t like her attitude. So what are you going to tell the husband?”
Callaway yawned.
“Nothing to tell. I told him I’d look into it and that’s what I did. End of story. I don’t care for these big shots, either. They piss me off to tell the truth.” Callaway glanced up at Mason, who, studiously, examined the hair on his skinny knuckles. Callaway cleared his throat and stood up reaching for the door. “What’s this I hear about a stiff in Chinatown?”
“We tried calling you,” Birdie said. “But you were off-duty.”
“He was a card dealer, wasn’t he?”
“That’s right. Ying Hee Fong,” I replied.
Callaway chewed his lip. “You guys found him?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“John Fat Gai was looking for him--said he was skimming the take from his table.”
“That so?” Callaway chewed the toothpick for a while, then looked at Mason. “Roy, step out for a moment. I need a quiet word with these two.”
Mason looked surprised and hurt but covered it fast. “But…” Callaway jerked his head, then turned away from him.
Mason left reluctantly pulling the door closed behind him, none too gently.
“The walls have ears,” Callaway said. “You guys working for John Fat Gai?”
“He asked us to find Ying, that’s all. And we did,” I replied. I decided to keep my brother out of the picture for now.
“You kill him?” Callaway’s voice went low, descending into a husky whisper.
I sighed, sat back in my chair and stubbed out the Sweet Cap.
“I’m surprised you’d ask me a question like that. You know me better. That’s the way we found him. He was dead in the alley, all right?”
Callaway nodded and examined his fingernails for a while.
“He was one of my guys.”
“What? A cop?”
Callaway shook his head. “A snitch. He was giving us good info on John Fat Gai’s operations. There’s at least half a dozen murders we figure John is good for.”
“That’s all? I think you’re miscounting,” I said.
Callaway slammed his meaty palm on my desk.
“We were making good progress until this. Now it’s all gone to shit. Someone fingered Ying to John. Then he hires you two to find Ying? Ach…” And he swiped at the air raising a breeze. “It all stinks.”
“Yeah. Maybe.” I glanced at Birdie who’d remained stridently impassive. “What’re you gonna do about it?”
Callaway glanced up at me sharply.
“That’s just it, to the department, Ying’s just another dead Chink in Chinatown. I kept this one to myself, no one else knew and he still took two slugs in the head.”
“Maybe you talk in your sleep?”
Callaway smiled ruefully. “Yeah, maybe. You guys hear anything, I want to know about it first.”
“Sure, sure, you got it, Callaway.”
“Why you working for that gangster anyway?” Callaway asked.
I shrugged. “It’s a job, nothing more, nothing less.”
Callaway snorted. “I thought you had some scruples, Mo, what happened to ‘em?”
“Well, it beats going hungry.”
“Sure,” Callaway replied but I heard the disappointment in his voice.
I looked over at Birdie who studied the polish on his shoe tops.
“Anything else?”
Callaway said, “The way I hear it, you’d be hard pressed to collect anything from John Fat Gai. Most of his associates end up dead.”
“Funny,” I said. “I heard the same thing but somehow I think John will come across for us. He likes us. We get along swell. Besides, we’ve got strong survival instincts and what with God on our side, well…” I shrugged.
“Sure you do,” Callaway said. “If you find out anything interesting about John that you think I should know, you can reach me any time. I’ll always take your call.”
“We work odd hours.”
Callaway glanced at his watch, it was going on ten p.m. Neither Birdie nor I made a move. “No kidding.”
He sat back for a moment, grinding his teeth with gusto.
“This Mrs. Turner. She on the level?” he asked.
I said, “Why would she start to steal after all these years? And then, take items of little or no value? Doesn’t add up.”
The Irishman nodded. “I’m with you but still, I’ve got to take it seriously when we get a complaint from a prominent citizen.”
“I understand completely,” I said, thinking the Super must be breathing down his neck pretty hard. “We’re gonna have to talk to Mrs. Lawson, just so you know.”
“I ain’t responsible for you,” he said to me. “Or you,” and swiveled toward Birdie who smiled at him.
“That’s the last thing I want,” Birdie said. “I report to me and to God, no one else.”
Callaway rolled his eyes. “Where’d you get him, anyway?”
“I didn’t--he got me--some foxhole in Holland I think it was. We had a few bodies piled up around us.”
“Oh yeah, that. I forgot.”
Callaway pushed himself out of the chair, stared nostalgically at the empty tumbler for a moment, then put on his fedora. Callaway had been in the Navy, a lieutenant commander and flew Corsairs. He had that roll when he walked as if the deck still heaved beneath him. At the door, he paused. “Remember, you find out anything about Ying, you let me know.”
“Of course,” I said.
“God bless,” Birdie intoned and Callaway shot him a funny look. Then I shot Birdie a funny look but he remained oblivious.
After Callaway pulled the door behind him, I turned to Birdie. “Let’s start with Aida’s list. We can tackle Mrs. Lawson later. She’s not going anywhere.”
“What about Ying?”
“We’ll start with his digs, see what we can find.”
Birdie rose to his full height and gave me an evil grin.
“I haven’t been to confession in a while. It’s time to do something that might make me feel a little bit guilty.”
“Time for Eli to take a little trip. Lay low until this mess blows over,” I said.
“Think he’ll take much convincing?”
“Leave it to me. C’mon, I’ll drop you on the way.”
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