Loren D. Estleman - Amos Walker 17 - Retro by Loren D. Estleman Read Free Book Online

chuckling. We discussed terms—in U.S. dollars, he was no provincial bumpkin—and he said he’d be in touch. Politeness is Canada’s chief export, after Moosehead beer and stand-up comics.
    I didn’t pat the urn again or speak to it when I’d hung up. We hadn’t been that friendly before the incineration.
    Lawyer Meldrum’s check was giving my wallet heartburn. I went out to sock it in the business account, holding back afew hundred for bribery and gasoline, deposited a sandwich and a cup of coffee in my personal account, and let myself back into my hobby room.
    The telephone was ringing. It was Llewellyn Hale at Loyal Dominion. He’d found Delwayne Garnet in just under fifty minutes.

SEVEN
    T he customs agent on the foreign side of the Ambassador Bridge looked like trouble; but then that was the idea. He was six-two, with his cap squared off across his sandy brows and a jaw that ached for a chinstrap. The morning sun was at his back, limning his uniform in purple.
    He glanced at my driver’s license, handed it back, and asked what my purpose was for visiting Canada. When I said, “Business,” his gray gaze went to the urn strapped into the passenger’s seat. “What’s in the container?”
    “Cremains.”
    He waved me over for the full treatment. I climbed out of the car for the patdown and smoked three cigarettes while a pair of uniforms pawed through the upholstery and lifted the hood and felt the trunk lining and poked at the undercarriage, looking for terrorists and undeclared fruit.
    I’d left the munitions behind, which was a wise choice, because they found the catch to the gun compartment I’d tricked out under the dash and sprang it open. They’d seen my investigator’s license and carry permit, so they didn’t ask any questions about it. One of them tugged the cover off the urn, slid out the aluminum canister, twisted loose the top, and stirred thegritty contents with his fingers. He was older and darker than the others and might have been American Indian.
    “Who is it?” he asked.
    “Client. I’m delivering her to her son.”
    “I always thought human ashes would be more fluffy.”
    “You wouldn’t if you knew her.”
    He put everything back together and held it out. “Sorry for the inconvenience, sir. These days we have to be careful.”
    I cradled the urn in one arm like a loving cup. “It was ‘cremains,’ wasn’t it? I should’ve said ashes.”
    “Enjoy your stay in Canada.”
    I shook loose of Windsor by way of Queen’s Highway 401 and followed it for two hours through miles of forestry the lumber sharks of Fifth Avenue and Pall Mall hadn’t managed to get their hands on, then took 2 along the shore of Lake Ontario, which on a cloudless day in June offered no horizon, rolling unbroken into blue infinity. Miles out, the occasional turnturtle profile of a laden ore carrier crept among the waves like dragons on an Old World map.
    Toronto’s a clean city, not much crime of the violent kind, and no place for a professional who pays his bills with the interest accrued from human misery. From that perspective, there isn’t a thing wrong with it that twenty years of crooked politics and a casino or two couldn’t cure. The motorists obey the law without much horn action and the swarms of Hollywood second units that shoot there on location have to send back to the states for bags of trash to make the place look like New York City. Even the little man on the pedestrian WALK signal has good posture.
    Loyal Dominion appeared to be doing well, despite the inequity in abductions, blackmail, and street thuggery; but then I supposed even Canadians stepped out on their spouses and ran away from home. A discreet sign bearing just its name stuck out perpendicularly from a four-story brick building that sparkled from recent sand-blasting. Its neighbors included the local office of a large United States travel agency and one ofthose places that sell coffee in giant cups with whitecaps. I drove