Bran lifted a hand to flag down a cab. “Good.”
The first two cabs sped by us as if we were holding up signs saying “We’re going to rob you.” The next one stopped because Bran held up a fifty.
According to his driver’s license Keith Shaw lived in Parkdale, a handful of blocks from my house.
I didn’t try to analyze the odds of it happening.
Decades ago the neighborhood had been for the Toronto elite, granting easy access to Lake Ontario and bringing in the rich and their friends to lounge by the lake. Large mansions filled the narrow streets. But times change and the wheel turns and Parkdale had devolved into a lower-class community where prostitutes controlled street corners and if you wanted crack you just needed to put your hand up and wait for a drive-by dealer.
I’d gotten my house cheap and my first task had been the removal of a pair of addicts from the alley right behind me. A firm talk, backed up with a few punches, had convinced the addicts to take their needles elsewhere—I’d pointed out the free needle exchange down the street. Maybe I couldn’t stop them from shooting up but I could lessen the chance of stepping on a needle while getting to my car.
Shaw lived in one of the many dilapidated apartment buildings a few streets over where they rented apartments in three-month deals. For new arrivals to Canada it was a great opportunity to save their money and get a fresh start if you could avoid the temptation of the ever-present pimps and drug dealers offering easy money for little work.
“What a dump.” Bran stated the obvious as we pulled up. The cab driver shifted in his seat, eager to get moving.
I couldn’t blame him. Bran paid the fare and we got out. The cab pulled away and spun around the corner back toward a safer area of Toronto.
Bran gave the tall towers a curious look. “Interesting décor. The shower curtains blocking off the balconies sure make it colorful.”
I glanced upward to where a handful of apartments had blocked off open access to the concrete boxes with brightly decorated shower curtains. “Probably pot plants.”
He followed me up the chipped cement walkway to the front door. “No kidding?”
I shrugged and pulled the door open, smashing into a scent wall of urine. “Might be. Might be sleeping quarters for a large family who can’t afford a second apartment. Around here no one asks.”
He looked around. “Hard to believe you only live a few streets away.”
“I can walk the same distance from your condo and find the same type of area. All depends on where you go.”
The buzzer panel hung off the wall, barely attached by a series of wires. I ignored it and tugged on the locked door.
It opened on the second tug with an annoyed click.
“Ouch.” Bran shook his head. “That’s not good.”
I didn’t say anything. Shaw’s address put him on the third floor. I stopped inside the empty room masquerading as a lobby and pondered my options.
“Let’s try the stairs.” I gave the elevators a wary glare. “Wouldn’t trust those.”
Bran chuckled. “Love you to death but don’t want to spend the next six hours waiting for a repairman to show up.” He sniffed the air as he pushed the stairwell door open, using his sleeve for some sort of protection. “Smells bad.”
“Elevator would smell worse.” I drifted by him, taking the steps two at a time.
We’d stepped over a handful of needles and crushed soda cans serving as makeshift crack pipes before we reached the third floor. Bran opened the door and stepped through.
“Do we have a plan?” he asked.
“No.” I led him down the hall. “Unless you want to duplicate your last great entrance.”
“I was sort of all kinds of awesome.”
“Don’t start believing your own PR, mister. We’re not out of the woods yet.”
Bran stopped in front of the apartment door. “Not yet.” He smiled. “As long as you’re with me I’m fine.”
“Good. Let’s try the easy way first, ’kay?”
He pouted as I pounded on the door.
“What?” The muffled shout came back.
I kept knocking.
A head stuck out farther down the hallway, sized us up and disappeared again. The faint smell of marijuana drifted over us.
“What?” The door opened a fraction of an inch. A bleary bloodshot eyeball glared at me. “Whattauwant?”
“You know Keith Shaw?” I asked.
The eye narrowed. “Who wants to know?”
Bran pulled out a wad of cash from his pocket. “We owe him some cash. Looking to pay up.” He glanced left and right. “Let us in and we’ll talk about it. Don’t want to be chatting out here in the hallway.
I glared at Bran. The last thing we needed was to be mugged on our way out.
The cheap gold-colored chain serving as a barrier jingled as the eyeball studied the thick pile of bills for a few seconds.
The door closed.
The door opened.
The rank smell of body odor was overwhelming as we entered the dimly lit apartment. It took a second to adjust and realize what I was seeing.
The apartment was decorated in post-garage-sale décor with nothing matching but the mold on the walls. An odd water stain looking something like a happy face spotted the far wall and I could smell beer and urine, each trying to top the other.
“And you are?” Bran extended his hand to Shaw’s roommate.
The sliver of a man smiled, then rubbed his palm on his dark blue T-shirt before taking hold. “Frank Yupp. Two P’s.” He gave me a nod. “So you got something for Keith?”
Yupp had to be in his sixties, maybe seventies judging by the scattering of thin white hair on his head. A scattering of homemade tattoos on his hands identified him as a longtime criminal.
Bran put the wad back in his pocket and withdrew a slender leather case. He flipped it open to show his Toronto Inquisitor identification.
I scowled and bit my tongue.
“We’re doing a story on female guards sexually harassing male inmates.” The words poured like warm honey off his tongue. “Keith was supposed to meet us earlier today for a meeting but he didn’t show.” Bran tilted his head to one side. “Any idea where he is?”
“The Inquisitor? Oh, wow.” Frank scratched the back of his neck. “I read your stuff all the time. Best thing inside, if you know what I mean.”
Bran beamed. “Thank you.” He looked around the sparsely decorated apartment. “Since Keith kinda stood us up, I was wondering if I could interview you.” He patted his pocket. “We pay very well for informants.” His free hand dug into a pocket and came up with a notebook and pencil.
The young man grinned. “Sure.” He jabbed a thumb at me. “Who’s she?”
“Rookie learning the ropes,” Bran replied. “Say hello, rookie.”
“Hello, rookie.”
“She’s the silent type. Now let’s get down to it.”
I loved seeing Bran at work. He knew when to talk and when to listen, when to push for more information and when to sit back and let his target babble.
Like right now.
The chatter went from bawdy prison stories during which Yupp revealed he’d been in for breaking and entering (but totally not legit, he was set up by the cops donchaknow) to how he’d met Keith Shaw in a prerelease program and accepted his offer to room together. They also shared the same probation officer.
“So what are you doing now?” Bran asked.
Yupp shrugged. “Working in a soup kitchen/food bank. Only thing I can get right now and they pay shit.” He grunted. “But it keeps me in the clear and looks good on the resume.”