A Fine Conundrum: A 'Joey Fine' Mystery

By Arnie Greenberg

In the late summer of 1970, its hot in Montreal, Canadaand getting hotter. Between the high temperatures and the political unrest in the city, the heat is on for private investigator Joey Fine.

Short on work and long on bills, Fine needs a case and fast. It arrives in the form of a knock-out dame named Martha Dawes. She wants Fine to investigate the missing funds from her fathers will, believing her younger half-brother has left town and taken the cash with him. Fine agrees to help and plunges into a crime that takes several twists and turns, involving some of Montreals politicians.

When Marthas brother turns up dead and theres no sign of the money, however, Fine realizes theres more to this case then mere embezzlement. He uncovers a slew of illegal dealings with some of the seediest underworld characters hes ever imagined. Worse, Marthas husband, Jerry, is somehow involved. This isnt exactly what Fine signed up for.

Even so, he keeps diggingbut what he finds just might make him wish Martha Dawes had never walked through his office door.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Aug 1, 2012
• ISBN: 9781475936933

Arnie Greenberg

Arnie Greenberg is a retired professor from Montreal. He taught at Vanier College for 25 years. He also wrote, and helped produce scores of children’s television programs for the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation, including Reach for The Top. He has written plays about Hemingway, Gertrude Stein and Pablo Picasso, as well as a law text and nine novels. He lectured in France, Italy and the United States on ‘Paris in The Twenties’. He now lives in Vancouver, Canada, with a view of the Rockies and the Pacific Ocean

Book preview

PART 1

THE BEGINNING

1.jpg

Typical Montreal flats

Chapter 1

Everyone calls me Joey. I’m Joseph Fine and proud of it. Please don’t call me anything else. I don’t abide those who make fun of my name, especially my family name. So if you’re thinking it’s a ‘fine’ name, don’t say it. I’ve heard it before. Jokes about the Fines don’t amuse me. Just call me Joey. It was the late summer of 1970, in Montreal. Things were starting to heat up, hotter than I thought. The temperature was high too. That Thursday I was sitting behind my desk, feet up with my hat tilted low to ward off the unsympathetic sun. Across my lap lay the Montreal Gazette Sports pages. The baseball season was coming to an end and the political atmosphere was the pits or as my Pop would say, it was a ‘shandah’ (a tragedy). I was nodding off to the sounds of my ticking clock and the grumbling of my neglected, almost hollow, stomach. All I had eaten was a stale bagel and a cup of weak coffee. I worked as a private eye, a gumshoe, for almost a year with too few clients and very few results unless you think finding some guy who missed a furniture payment, a big success. Private Eyes don’t have it too easy. Looking for work is like going around in circles looking for your tail. I worry that one day I’ll find it. Sometimes I feel like an old gramophone record or a tired, dutiful horse in the center ring of the big top, struggling to earn a daily feedbag. The diploma in the cheap frame on my peeling wall proved only that I had taken a correspondence school course and had sent the school more money that I had collected since then. Clients were as scarce as a hare in a foxhunt. You put up a shingle, get a listing in the yellow pages, and you wait. Even the mention of my name in the local fish wrappers brought only the occasional query. It was sweltering and the rent was due. I remember it well. It was definitely Thursday when it all started. All good or important things start on a Thursday. Don’t ask me why. That’s just the way I see it. This would be no different. It was almost the end of the baseball season so I’d have fewer things to keep me busy. I liked baseball, girls, hot cars and good food but not necessarily in that order. I had always had a fondness for baseball but now that Montreal finally had a professional National League team, my interest grew to excitement even though we suffered more losses than wins. But our day would come. (From my mouth to God’s ears). What I didn’t know was that I was about to get my first good, paying job. What followed was in all the rags, even the French ‘Allo Police’ and the Yiddish Kenadair Adler (The Jewish Canadian Eagle). It started as a normal search, without many problems, but it soon became a ‘conundrum’ . . . a puzzle . . . ambiguity . . . poser . . . riddle. I called it the ‘case of the missing will’. It would be my first ‘biggie’. My office was on Main Street in a typical old building above a dry goods store. Here in Montreal the street used to be called only St. Lawrence. Now it’s just ‘The Main’. It’s in an old Jewish working-class area in the geographical center of town where east meets west. There are some great restaurants, bars, and clubs or discount shops all around. You could buy fresh-killed chickens and carry them home by the neck. I grew up not far from there and still lived close by. I found it basic and cheap. But it was hot in summer and I froze in the winter. I had few choices so I took a two-year lease and was determined to make a go of it. My office looked down on the corner of Pine Avenue where the traffic was heavy and the streets filled with fun seekers, con artists, shoppers, derelicts and pushers and a few ‘ladies of the night’ at all hours. Being in the proximity of the old Jewish quarter, there were at least five good delis within a three-block radius. From this humble neighborhood came the best smoked-meat money could buy. Schwartz’s was an institution. It was full of people at all hours of the day and night. That suited me. I had a constant yen for lean old fashioned smoked meat on rye with double mustard, French fries and a Pepsi, all for $1.25. I had always been known as a gourmand. Where else could you get such a wholesome meal for a buck and a quarter, tip included? If it wasn’t smoked meat it was bagels, fresh from the fire, covered with cream cheese and ‘lox’. That’s a Yiddish word for smoked salmon. With hot coffee & a fresh bagel, it was heavenly. Or you could get a typical hot dog, ‘steamée’ and frites for very about fifty cents. Even a bowl of Russian Borscht was only thirty-five cents with all the rye bread you could eat. Someone said a falafel take-out would open soon. I was sure they’d go under. The locals weren’t ready for that, especially one called ‘Falafal Are Us’.

I had a traditional upbringing in a Jewish home. What that means is that I was catered to and could do no wrong. I was a prince. I had a solid high-school education and a framed diploma. Now I’m a private eye and life ain’t so easy. One look at my office and you’d understand. I needed a wife or a housekeeper. Well, maybe just a housekeeper. I couldn’t afford as wife. Actually, I couldn’t afford a housekeeper either.

The phone rocked me back to reality. Shrill phone calls can do that to a guy. I thought I’d let it ring especially since mine rang so rarely. The only call I had all week was from the bank. I was ten days late on a loan payment. The bank manager was not amused. To break the monotony, I reached for the noisy culprit.

I growled. This is Fine. How can I help you?

It was a short conversation. The line went dead. I liked it that way. I went back to my newspaper, looking for something interesting. The Expos would be playing their last stand in Montreal in a few days. The days were getting shorter. The winter accumulation of snow would be here soon. There was a touch of anticipation in the air but at that moment the promise of autumn’s Indian summer hid behind a threatening cloud.

About an hour later as I was dozing with my feet still up and hat brim low over my eyes, I heard a feint knock at the door. I tilted back my hat. Enter, I barked. I was not ready for what I gazed at.

She was tall, dark and curvaceous and dressed to kill, in a matter of speaking. She was tanned and sultry with a tinge of the orient in her dark eyes. She wasn’t smiling. I was. I automatically straightened my gravy-stained tie and lowered my feet.

How can I help you? I asked, showing her to a chair. She sat and crossed her legs. She reached for her purse and took out a filtered cigarette and lit it with a gold lighter. She exhaled, leaned forward and spoke. Her voice was low, sexy low, but not as low as the cut of her blouse, if you get my drift.

I lost something, she said. I’d like you to get it back for me.

"I studied her manner. She had class. Not learned class but the class of somebody born with it. I liked her immediately. I’m that kind of guy. But I couldn’t figure out what she lost. She seemed to have everything there in the right places right in front of me.

Tell me what you lost. I’ll try to find it, if it’s findable.

Oh, it’s findable. I know exactly where it is."

Then it ain’t lost. Is it?

Oh, it’s lost all right. Possibly forever, but I still want you to try to get it back.

I was completely confused.

I’m confused, I smiled. I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

It’s my inheritance. I’ve lost it.

You mean, spent it.

No, I never had it to spend. My half-brother took it illegally. My father had remarried when I was much younger. Things happened and I got married. Now I need your help. Until I heard of you, I was sure I’d never see any of it again.

Thanks for the compliment lady, but I think you need a lawyer, not a private eye. It crossed my mind that for the first time I didn’t mind second hand smoke.

That’s the problem, she said, leaning dangerously closer. My half-brother is a lawyer. He’s a shrewd and dishonest man.

She told me her sad tale. Her name was Martha Dawes Convoy of the Rupert Dawes family. Everyone called her Marty. Daddy had been in shipping and importing. He had amassed a fortune but when he died, there was no will and her half-brother from a second marriage, Sydney Boyle Dawes, moved some paper around, sold off the assets and said he lost the money. Syd’s practice was not worth a plug-nickel and yet he always lived with certain flair. Syd bought friends in high places. This got him into the right clubs which was pretty good for a man of thirty-five without many clients or traceable assets to speak of.

He has the money, she said as she stubbed out her cigarette. It’s partly my money and I want it. When I asked for it, he laughed and said it was gone and there was nothing I could do about it.

And how can I help you? I’m a private eye, a good one, but even I have limitations.

That’s not what I heard. she smiled again. I heard you find things.

I was tempted to ask her where she heard that fable but decided not to push my luck.

But you know where the money is and where your brother is. Can’t you just find him?

No, she replied, uncrossing her legs. I tried not to stare but it wasn’t easy. He seems to have disappeared and I want you to find him. I’ll pay what it takes.

It takes sixty a day plus expenses. I guarantee nothing and we review whatever I uncover in 5 working days.

She stared at me with a slight frown. I was certain she was about to decline my offer.

No problem, she exhaled.

I take two days in advance, I added.

She reached for her purse and handed me two C notes. Here’s two hundred. It’s more than you want but it’s all I have with me.

I folded the bills and slipped them into my pocket. Good, I said. I can’t make change anyway."

She gave me her brother’s home address, office address and telephone numbers.

How can I get in touch with you? I asked, hopefully.

You can’t, she retorted. I’ll get in touch with you.

I tried not to show my disappointment. Just like the phone call you made an hour ago?"

She rose. I was just checking to see if you were in, she said slowly.

She stopped at the door. She knew I was still looking at her shapely gams.

Have a nice day, Mr. Fine, he said. But before I had time to say, call me Joey, she was gone and suddenly the office was hotter. I found it odd that for the first time I wasn’t bothered by someone else’s cigarette smoke.

I undid my tie and with sweaty hands I reached for a pad. I wrote down what I knew. I checked Syd Dawes numbers. They were exactly as she said. He had a fancy address on Forden Rd. in Westmount and an office on Sherbrooke West. I dialed and a sultry voice answered after the first ring. I could usually size up a dame by her voice.

Dawes Enterprises, she said.

Sydney Dawes, please, I said with a certain authority.

I’m sorry, sir. Mr. Dawes is away this week.

Can he be reached? I asked, biding for time.

No sir. He’s on vacation.

Can I ask where?

I’m sorry sir. He didn’t say.

Does he call in, sometimes?

No sir. He rarely does.

I was getting nowhere. O.K. princess, I quipped. I’ll call another time.

Can I take a message? she asked, half-heartedly.

Yeah, I replied, tell him a friend of his sister’s called.

She sounded surprised. Did you say, his sister? Mr. Dawes doesn’t have a sister. Are you sure you have the right Mr. Dawes?

For a moment I was taken aback. Oh, he has a sister all right. You just tell him she’s looking for him.

I put the phone down. I was totally confused. I made a few more notes. It was nearly three o’clock. I had to cool off and clear my head. I headed for the door.

A cold beer across the street at Larry’s would do the trick. I walked into the empty bar. It was too early for a drink but it was late in the afternoon somewhere and I needed the fortification. Thursday was a day that Larry started later so he was reading the paper at the bar. I took a stool and ordered a Molson. It was served in silence. Larry was a man of few words. Unlike the usual barmen, he spoke only when spoken to.

I took a chance.

Do you know a lawyer named Sydney Dawes?

He never looked up from his paper. Yeah, he growled. I know him. He’s a shyster."

I was surprised. That’s him. How do you know him?

He comes in here. He owes for a tab he’s runnin’. Maybe that’s why I haven’t seen him lately.

What do you know about him? I continued.

He had a rich father. He doesn’t work much. He comes around from time to time. I don’t trust him. As they say, ‘He has a black heart’. He talks too much and he’s loud.

I was feeling lucky. Do you know his sister?

He looked up. I never heard mention of no sister.

Half sister, I corrected.

Naw. Never heard of no sibling.

I liked Larry, but grammar wasn’t one of his long suits.

When he comes in can you give me a call? I have business to discus with him. There’s a twenty in it for you.

For twenty I’d call my own mudder and she’s dead.

(I swear, he called her his ‘mudder’)

I walked out into the damp rain. The last wisps of summer were not quite out of the air and with the restart of construction and the crews repairing potholes; it was a good time to stay indoors. I went back to my office. It was time to call in a favor. Tommy Holmes was a cop, a good cop but not