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  His voice rose to a shout and I expected him to kick again but he didn't. He lowered his voice instead and chuckled. "Only this time, no luck. This time you came here and found two of us working and the dog. And that's how come you both got your arms broken and the dog tore the crotches right out of you."

  The big one blustered, waving his hands to keep away any blows. "Waddya mean? He didn't bite us. We didn't get hurt, not bad, anyway."

  Willis laughed. "Not yet," he said. He turned and picked up the two-by-four from the table. I read the anger in his face and knew he was serious. It was time to take charge.

  I picked up the phone. "OK, Mr. Willis. I'll call the police to come and get these turkeys."

  He whirled to face me, feet apart, the blustering bully's pose that is so vulnerable to the pre-emptive kick. He had the two-by-four in his hands and he looked as if he intended using it on me. "Forget the phone, sir," he said softly. "This isn't police business."

  I dialled the police number. "Put the club down and relax," I told him calmly.

  Instead he hunched himself like a bull, pushing his lower lip out, holding the board in both hands, the way you hold a rifle for bayonet work. I held the phone, listening to the ringing and watching his eyes for the flicker that would tell me which move to make. But the blow didn't come my way. Instead he spun around and brought the club back to smash down on the small man. I dropped the phone and caught the board at the moment he reached the end of his back swing, pulling down. He lost his grip and stumbled, swearing.

  "Forget it," I told him, replacing the phone on the cradle. He straightened himself up, blazing with anger.

  "You're fired!" he shouted and pointed at the door as if he expected me to bow my head and shuffle out.

  I touched Sam on the head and pointed to the two men. "Keep," I told him, then jerked my head towards the door and told Willis, "Let's step outside, Inspector. We have to talk."

  He glowered at me, the fury still white hot in his eyes. But he was pro. He had no cards left to play here so he went along with me, but first spoke to the two prisoners. "One move and he'll have your throats out."

  We went out into the softness of the September night. I was in front but I moved to one side as soon as I was through the door, so Willis wouldn't feel tempted to take out his frustrations in a sucker kick. I'd seen how quick he was with his feet.

  We stopped a couple of yards from the door and spoke in low voices so the men inside wouldn't overhear. He went first, the anger and the words boiling out of him. "What in hell are you playing at? These guys beat up that kid last night. Don't you care what happens to the other guys you work with?"

  There would have been more but it was all on the same note so I held up one hand and took over. "Maybe Simon didn't explain to you that I'm moonlighting on this job as a favor. By profession I'm a policeman. I know the rules better than most security people."

  In an instant he was ingratiating. "I know that, for crying out loud. I know about you. But these are unusual circumstances and you're out of uniform."

  "Look. We have no proof these two worked the kid over. It's likely, even probable. But no judge would convict them."

  "Exactly." His voice took on the anxious whine you hear in used-car salesmen when the customer reads the price tag for the first time. "That's just the point. They'll get a slap on the wrist and sent on their way. I want them to know they can't push a Bonded guy around the way they did." I didn't answer and he bored on with the final argument, the one he thought justified all his actions. "Hell. If people can't depend on our guys to take care of themselves, how can our clients depend on our services?"

  "If you work them over, you're no better than they are. And no smarter." I cut him off as he tried to interrupt. "Why not let me talk to them, try and find out who sent them. This thing is starting to look organized. This is the third night they've been here, it's not personal, it's business. Let's find who's behind it and go after him."

  Willis drew in a long soothing breath that seemed to cool him down completely. When he spoke again his voice was pitched naturally. "These are the fellas who hurt the kid last night. It's them who oughta suffer. But I understand what you're saying."

  "It's the only way," I assured him. "A few bruises won't mean much to these guys. But if we find out who sent them we can go after him full bore."

  He sniffed again and then said, "I suppose it's the only way."

  "The only way I'll go for," I promised him. "Just play along for a couple of minutes. No violence, okay?"

  "All right." Like a schoolboy forced into an apology he stuck out his hand to me. I shook it, instinctively turning sideways to him first, clear of his feet. I still didn't trust him. "No hard feelings," he said.

  "None. I can understand how mad you got, knowing your employee was hurt." I couldn't, honestly. If he was professional he should have been able to accept the realities of his job and do it by the book. A copper has to, no matter what his personal feelings may be. That's why so many of us end up with broken marriages or drinking problems.

  We went back in, him in front. I took out my wallet before I followed him and was busy tucking imaginary bills into it as I came back in. "Okay, Inspector, I'll take the big one." I pointed at the man and crooked my finger. "All right, you, on your feet."

  He squirmed and looked around, wildly, at his partner, at Willis, at me. "You said you was callin' the cops."

  "There's been a change of plan." I smiled at him, trying to look like Willis. "If I call the cops, the next thing you'll be out on bail. The inspector just explained it to me." Willis snickered, right on cue. I reached down and grabbed the man by the collar. "Come on now, don't make it any harder on yourself." He came, awkwardly, trying to comply and stay out of my reach at the same time. I picked up the two-by-four and hissed at Sam to come with me. I didn't need him, except for his part in the charade but I didn't want Willis to have any unfair advantage if he tried to hurt the little man while I was outside. I still didn't trust him any farther than I trusted the prisoners.

  I shoved the man down the steps and walked him ahead of me, steering him with little jabs on the shoulder until we were off in the middle of the site, out of earshot of the trailer.

  The earthmover with its slashed tires stood there, a hulk of steel and shadows. I shoved the man up against it, face first, taking one wrist and holding it behind him, not applying any pressure except for the tacit pressure of fear. "What's your name?"

  The question threw him. He was anticipating pain, not words. "Hudson, Charlie Hudson."

  I lifted his wrist a fraction, not enough to hurt, enough to let him know that I could, if I wanted to. "Which arm you want broken?"

  "Hey! No! Hey! Come on, sir! I never hurt the kid."

  I kept my voice bored. "You were here." He still spluttered, trying to turn his face to me over his shoulder. "Yeah. We was here. Me an' Kennie. But it was Kennie done the kickin', not me."

  "Your turn to use the two-by-four, was it?" Never acknowledge the usefulness of information as long as it's pouring out freely.

  Hudson squirmed, trying to face me so he could look convincing. "Hey, no sir. You seen Kennie. He's meaner'n a snake. Like he was in the joint as a kid an' a bunch of guys gave him a hard time an' since then he's mean."

  "And you're not. You're mister nice guy?" I lifted his wrist a millimeter and he responded with a short moan, fear again, not pain. I was ready to believe him. He and Kennie were the typical Mutt and Jeff pair of wasters. One big and dumb, the other small and smart. He'd been here with Kennie, no doubt of that. He might even have kicked the kid in the head a time or two, but not out of malice, just to be sociable. He wouldn't have wanted Kennie to think he was chicken.

  But he was. He was a mass of fear and I used it, shoving him a little tighter against the dew-misted metal of the earthmover.

  "Who sent you?"

  He tried to turn, surprised at the question, but I kept the pressure on and he burrowed his face against the metal in fr
ont of him. "Who sent you to slash the tires and hurt the kid?" I repeated, tonelessly.

  "If I say, will you let me go?"

  "Talk fast," I told him contemptuously. "Right now I'm supposed to be kicking your head in."

  "His name is Tony." It came out in a half scream. "Honestagod that's all I know. Tony."

  I spun him by the wrist so he turned around with his back to the machine. I stood back a pace, clear of his feet. Sam growled, low and savage. "That's not good enough. Tony who?"

  He shook his head, scrubbing the back of his skull against the metal. "I don't know, and that's the God's truth. He was just Tony. He knew Kennie. We was havin' a beer at the Millrace, down on Queen Street near the track. This guy comes in and him an' Kennie get talkin' an' he asks would we like to make a double sawbuck."

  "Was that for cutting the tires, or hitting the kid?"

  "For both. We was s'posed to make trouble." He paused a second and when I didn't respond he gabbled on. "But I never touched the kid. That was Kennie. You seen him t'night with that two-by-four. He would've killed ya."

  It all rang true. This guy was just bluster and belly. He'd charged me because he'd thought I would catch him if he didn't. But he had no guts, and no deep meanness in him.

  "Tell me about this Tony. What's he look like?"

  Now his hands sprang to life, drawing a picture in the air. He sketched a height with his left hand, perhaps five-ten, then wide-apart hands for wide shoulders. "Biggish guy, dark, moustache, good dresser. Wears a suit. No bastard else in the Millrace ever has a suit on, never."

  "How old?"

  "Thirty, thirty-five, you can't never be sure with Eyetalians." This was a slip and he bit off the word as soon as he realized what he had said.

  "Does he sound Italian?"

  He shook his head. "No, Canadian as you 'n' me."

  "Then what makes you say he's Italian?"

  "He's got one of them, you know, Jesus on a crosses, on a chain round his neck. An' with bein' called Tony an' all."

  I switched the questioning. I had what I wanted, now I needed some insurance. "Where're you living?"

  "Around." He said it without embarrassment. "I been in a room on Shuter Street since Friday. Before that I stayed with Kennie at his mother's. She's in an apartment up on Woodbine, close to Gerrard."

  "What number?"

  He told me, and gave me her name and the fact that she was a widow and worked at a dry-cleaner's on the Danforth. Then he got fearful, covering himself against my following the story down.

  "You won't say nothin' to her, eh. I mean, she don't know Kennie's up to nothin'. She thinks he's workin' at the car wash with me."

  I got the name and address of the car wash and the fact that he and Kennie had just been released from Burwash where he had served most of two-years-less-one-day for rolling drunks.

  "Okay, I'm going to let you go. We're going to walk to the roadway nice and easy and you're going to run to the corner. Run every step of the way or the dog will get you." I patted Sam on the head and he snarled, on cue.

  Hudson nodded eagerly and I ushered him past me and walked him to the gate. I opened it and told him, "Run!" and he did. I didn't even stop to watch, just turned away with Sam, back to the trailer.

  Willis was writing in a notebook. The little man looked up from the floor and licked his lips. I could tell he had been talking and didn't want his partner to know. He dropped his eyes and waited until Willis snapped his book shut and asked.

  "You kick the other guy's ass good?"

  "Good." I nodded and he grinned.

  "Fine. I was just having a little chat with Kennie here. Now it's his turn, just wait while I show him off the premises."

  "That'll be my pleasure," I said. I still didn't trust Willis. But he didn't object. "Just don't put him in the hospital," he said and laughed. I beckoned to Kennie and he came towards the door, head down as if there were cameramen outside, ready to take photos and show them around the store where his mother was respectable.

  We walked a few paces and I told him, "Stand there," and he did, as promptly as a Marine grunt under a drill instructor, except that he turned his head towards me, suspiciously.

  "We can do this two ways," I explained. "Either you can talk or we can do what the Inspector promised and get my dog to tear you up. Which way's it gonna be?"

  "Waddya want?" There was a tight, frightened vibrato to his voice. I could see his buddy had been right. He had been brutalized in the pen and the memory lived with him, night and day. I kept my voice calm as I asked him, "Who sent you to hit the kid and mess up this site?"

  He sighed a big theatrical sigh and said, "What kid?" but I hissed at Sam and he growled, moving closer, his teeth gleaming in the light from the roadway. Kennie covered his crotch with both hands, "Okay. It was Tony."

  I went through the same routine of questioning but he knew no more. I wasn't surprised. Only cops and judges and hockey players have last names for guys like Kennie. Everybody else is known casually. Tony was Tony, no last name. The only extra information I got was that Kennie had done jobs for him before. "Takin' care of guys who owed him money," he said proudly. He was small for the job but maybe Tony's clients were even smaller, or maybe they rolled over when they came up against his mad-dog ferocity.

  When I'd got all the information he had I told him, "The guy in the shack wants your head on a plate. So you yell, and you run, got that?"

  He had and he did, leaving the gateway in a ripple of footsteps with a long, fearful yell. I watched him go, still unsatisfied. We should have gone by the book and charged them both with attempted assault. Maybe the Crown Attorney would have got information out of them in the morning, when they started plea bargaining. Or maybe they would just have gone back inside for breach of parole. Either way, the law would have been served.

  I shook my head and went back in. Willis was standing hunched over the table, shoulders rounded as he studied the Sunshine Girl in the paper. "I just love that young stuff," he said happily. Then he closed the paper impatiently and turned to me, airing his smile again. This time it looked more relaxed and genuine.

  "Well. Did your play-acting work?"

  "Yes. I got the name of the guy who sent them, no idea why they were sent, just the guy's name."

  I expected him to press me for details but he didn't. Instead he raised both hands to shut me up.

  "Listen. I like your moves, Bennett. What I want is you should follow this guy up on your own. Don't mention Bonded Security. If there's any questions, tell people it's a criminal thing from your own jurisdiction, anything. But keep us out of it."

  I must have looked surprised. He made a placating little gesture. "Yeah, I know that's not the way I came on when I got here but I've been thinking." He took off his hat and rubbed his hand over his slicked down black hair, then settled his hat back on, the way a soldier does, tipping it forward first, then easing it back. "I've been thinking. You're a pro in this kind of stuff. What I am is something different. I'm a guy who sells our company's services. You're the investigator, so investigate, and I'll do my job. Stick at it for a week and if you get results we'll double that five yards, make it a grand."

  "How far do you want me to go?" It was a deliberately clumsy question. I didn't understand him or his offer. His mouth was talking peace and logic, but his eyes were still full of anger. I watched him for body English as he answered, checking for any convulsive movements, sublimated blows that would mean he wanted me to hurt people.

  He put both hands flat on the grimy table. "I want you to find out who set us up, that's all. The authorities can take it from there."

  I nodded, agreeing. "Fine. In that case, I'm going to need a few bucks for expenses."

  "Our limit is fifty a day," he said instantly. "Come into the office in the morning and draw a hundred. But I want receipts or it comes out of my hide."

  Chapter 4

  They don't give receipts in places like the Millrace. It's cash and carry. All you
r cash, if possible, for more beer than you can carry. That's why the floor is covered in gray vinyl tile that can be slopped over with a wet mop when the need arises. As Ontario beverage rooms go, it's close to the average. Until the 1960s it was illegal to allow the public outside to see into any place where people were drinking. This means that most old beer parlors are in windowless basements. And Canadian breweries aren't allowed to promote, so the gloom isn't cut with neon beer signs like they have in cheerful corner bars in the States.

  Like most places in town, the Millrace had a cocktail lounge up on the main floor but I didn't bother going in there. When guys like Hudson talk about a bar, they mean the beverage room. Beer is cheaper down there, and that's the name of the game. They aren't looking for atmosphere. In any case, I knew Tony wouldn't be up there. His kind of operation goes on at the despair level of civilization, which is a pretty fair summation of the basement at the Millrace.

  There was a casual crowd in there when I arrived at seven the next evening, most of them truckers or mechanics from the transport company down the block. They looked tired and dirty but were yukking it up before going home. I did the routine thing, holding up two fingers to the waiter and dropping a fin on the table. He dropped my two glasses of draft and three-eighty in change, I slid him a quarter and he stuck it in his tips pocket, all without a word.

  I'd brought the evening paper with me and I folded it open at the racing page. The trots were being run at Greenwood racetrack just down the road and I figured Millrace patrons would be horseplayers and the paper would make good camouflage.

  The names and data made no sense to me but I sat and looked them over and chewed a toothpick while my head played with the idea of who Tony might be. From the description I'd got, he figured to be a loan shark. Probably he had a circuit on race nights. First he would hit the Millrace and a couple of other bars where the hopefuls were gathered, dreaming of the big win. Then he'd go down to the track to lounge around in his suit with the crucifix gleaming while a stream of contacts brought more hopefuls to him. The only thing that didn't fit in was why he was hiring muscle for construction site sabotage.