Last of the Independents by Sam Wiebe Read Free Book Online Page A

Cliff Szabo — a match made in heaven right there. Did he try to pay you with ten percent of his business?”
    Ignoring him I said, “He was your client from April till August.”
    â€œOff and on, depending on when he felt like paying us. When he laid that ten percent scheme on me I told him I’d love to work for free, pal. Just convince my ex-wife and two kids in college. All seriousness, Mike, don’t allow a client to gyp you out of dough just because he’s got a sad story. Sad stories are free.”
    â€œI’d like an overview of what Aries did for Mr. Szabo. Who you interviewed, what information you gathered.”
    â€œAll in the report we prepared for him.”
    â€œWhich he left in your office.”
    â€œAfter tossing it at me.”
    â€œHe was distraught.”
    â€œSure,” McEachern said, “but not about his poor little kid, about paying us the nine grand he owed us.”
    â€œHe’d like his copy of the report.”
    â€œThat ship has sailed.”
    â€œI’d appreciate it.”
    â€œYou I like even less than him,” McEachern said. “Only reason I haven’t told you to go fuck yourself yet is on account of your grandfather. Tell you what, though. Szabo comes up with the nine he still owes us, I’ll c.c. you all the copies you want.”
    â€œAny media coverage he gets he’ll be speaking about the investigation,” I said. “You want me to recommend he tells the CBC that you took his money and were no help to him?”
    â€œYou really think you’d come out ahead in a PR war, Mike?”
    I took a breath through my nostrils and held it until I could pick out the Pine Sol and the death-smell and the lingering aftershave of Thomas Kroon the Younger.
    I said, “How about for a few minutes you not be a prick and email me the report so we can maybe find this kid?”
    â€œFuck yourself, Mike.”
    Click.

IV
    Enola Curious
    T he next morning I gave myself a whore’s bath in the cramped washroom of my office. I plugged in the plastic kettle and traded my suit for black jeans and a blue flannel shirt, loose-fitting and faded: the two best qualities in a garment. I made a pot of Earl Grey and stood out on the narrow wooden balcony watching the clouds douse Beckett Street and listening to Blind Willie Johnson.
    The night had been uneventful. The elder Kroon had opened up around six. When I told him nothing had been disturbed, he said, “Maybe we’re done with all this awfulness.”
    Ben had only been half an hour late and I was back at the office by 7:15. I could’ve gone home, walked my dog, taken my grandmother out for a scone. I could’ve gone to sleep. But I felt like doing exactly what I was doing, which was, or amounted to, nothing.
    The buzzer buzzed. On the monitor Cliff Szabo climbed the stairs carrying a milk crate full of papers. I held the door for him, directed him to put the crate on the table.
    â€œHere’s everything,” he said.
    It didn’t amount to much. A comprehensive missing persons report with dental charts and a description of the boy’s clothing, the full report of the brown Ford Taurus with VIN and license number, an inventory of the car’s contents, including a photo of the repainted Schwinn Stingray. Szabo had also collected press clippings and copies of the flyers. I moved the Loeb file onto Katherine’s chair so I could spread the Szabo clippings out.
    â€œYou taught Django how to drive?” I asked him.
    â€œI let him drive around parking lots.” He drank from a bottle of water he’d brought with him. “People are so stupid when they drive, he should start now so he doesn’t become like them.”
    â€œFisk seems to think he took off in the car.”
    â€œWhere would he go?”
    â€œNo idea,” I said. “Is he close to any of your relatives?”
    â€œHis mother died when he was two from an