A Little More Free Read online

  “But you will be, now the Olympics are coming.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  Whitmer looked around the bar and said, “Before Expo we got raided all the time. Do you know how many bars like this got closed down permanently then, because the city didn’t want to admit we exist? Eight bars shut down, gone.”

  “That was almost ten years ago,” Dougherty said. “Before my time.”

  “So it’s going to happen again, and now it’s your time. What are you going to do?”

  The period ended and the bar got crowded with guys looking for more drinks. Dougherty got pushed off to the side, but he stayed and drank his beer. He watched the whole second period, no goals, thinking about what he would do if the city tried to clean up again before the Olympics.

  And he was thinking that Whitmer, like the bartender at the Mystique, had recognized David Murray.

  The third period started and a couple of minutes in, Canada scored, but the Russians got that back a couple minutes later on the power play, and it stayed 3–3, tight-checking game, no one giving an inch, and Tony O and the Russian kid, Tretiak, stopping everything thrown at them.

  The place was tense. Every single guy staring at the TV.

  With two minutes left, Paul Henderson got around a big Russian defenceman, Tsygankov, and fired it past Tretiak and then fell and crashed the net. The red light came on for a second but then went out.

  The bar was silent for a moment, and then the Canadian players jumped over the boards and skated out to Henderson, celebrating, and the bar exploded, guys jumping up and cheering.

  Whitmer was by Dougherty then and he said, “This is just like ’66 against Detroit, remember? Henri Richard scored in overtime, crashed into the net, and Toe Blake sent the rest of the team out to celebrate before the refs could call it back.”

  “I remember,” Dougherty said.

  Every guy in the bar stayed on his feet for the last two minutes of the game, holding their breath until the final buzzer.

  “Jesus Murphy,” Whitmer said, “that’s two games in a row Henderson scored the winner. Harold Ballard must be going insane.” Dougherty didn’t get it, so Whit­mer said, “Henderson’s negotiating a new contract now — that goal will get him an extra twenty-five grand.”

  Dougherty said, “I guess. He should sign it today, he’s never gonna score a bigger goal.”

  “There’s one more game,” Whitmer said, “and now it’s for all the marbles. You never know.”

  The bar started to clear out, but a few guys looked like they were going to stay right there for two days until the next game.

  Dougherty waited and finished his beer and then got out his wallet. Whitmer came over and said, “I bet this is the last place you expected to watch this game.”

  “You’ve seen this guy, haven’t you?” He held up the picture and watched Whitmer nod a little.

  “Not in here, though, this wasn’t really his scene, you know?”

  “I don’t know anything,” Dougherty said, and Whitmer said, “Good of you to admit that, Constable, that may help you in your job.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “People are talking about organizing, forming a committee.”

  “He was on a committee,” Dougherty said, “the War Resisters.”

  Whitmer smiled a little, sadly, Dougherty thought, but he couldn’t be sure.

  “No, this committee … You remember the ‘We Demand’ manifesto last year on Parliament Hill?”

  Dougherty said, “Not really. There’ve been a lot of manifestos.”

  Whitmer laughed at that and said, “I guess so, yeah, everybody has one these days. Well, after that a committee started in Vancouver, GATE, Gay Alliance Toward Equality, and then one started in Toronto, Gay Action Now.”

  “Those initials don’t spell anything.”

  “They sponsored something back in the summer, called it Gay Pride, lots of people went.”

  “When in the summer?”

  “August, near the end of the month, a big party on one of the Toronto Islands, why?”

  “Was he there?” Dougherty was still holding the picture.

  “There were a lot of people.”

  “Out in public?” Dougherty said.

  “Better blatant than latent.”

  “I’m trying to find out who he was hanging around with, what he was doing. His friends, no one saw him for a while.”

  “He may have been in Toronto,” Whitmer said. “I can’t say for sure. I can tell you he didn’t come to any of the meetings here.”

  “All right, well, thanks.” Dougherty put a couple of two-dollar bills on the bar and started out.

  Whitmer said, “We’ll see you again, Constable.”

  Dougherty said, “Yeah, I guess you will.”

  Outside on Peel, Dougherty checked his watch and figured he had just enough time to get to Station Ten and change into his uniform to start his four to midnight. Walking back along de Maisonneuve and seeing people spilling out of the bars he realized that the whole city was likely going to shut down for the final game.

  And then he wondered what would happen if we lost.

  Or if we won.

  CHAPTER

  NINETEEN

  Dougherty got to HQ on Bonsecours Street just before four and headed straight to the homicide offices on the fourth floor. Carpentier was standing beside his desk talking to Detective Ste. Marie, so Dougherty thought he’d have to wait and stood by the office door but Carpentier said, “Entrez, Constable, venez ici.”

  Ste. Marie said, “We were just talking about your friend.”

  “David Murray?”

  Carpentier said, “Greg Herridge. What did you call him, Goose?”

  “Yeah, Goose.”

  Dougherty saw pictures spread out over Carpentier’s desk: David Murray, Goose, the biker who’d been dumped on Atwater and a couple of other guys with their eyes closed who likely weren’t sleeping. Not Rozovsky’s postcard work.

  Ste. Marie said, “He’s trying to dump them on me.”

  “They’re all organized crime,” Carpentier said, “they’re all yours.”

  “This guy is a biker.”

  “Mais oui, they work for the mob: they’re the muscle and the street dealers, they’re part of the same war,” Carpentier said. “It’s all organized crime, that’s yours.” He looked at Dougherty and said, “Right?”

  Dougherty said, “Um …” and wished he was anywhere but here.

  “It’s territory,” Ste. Marie said. He picked up one of the pictures Dougherty didn’t recognize and said, “Martin Michaud, killed in St. Léonard, chuté there, anyway, probably by your Point Boys en représailles à whatsisname, Goose?” He looked at Dougherty and then back to Carpentier and said, “You already have the men for the investigation.”

  “Le constable n’est pas assigné à mon équipe.”

  “Well, maybe not assigned, but he’s working for you,” Ste. Marie said.

  Dougherty was pretty sure he saw Carpentier shrug but then the detective said, “It could have been the Italians or the bikers, the St. Henri Dead Men, they lost this one, Tremblay.” He tapped a picture.

  Ste. Marie said, “Could be,” and Carpentier said, “Look, if we’re going to get a break, it will be from a stooler trying to make a deal, so, Robert, I’m just ­asking you when it comes up, when you’ve got ­someone and he says he knows something about any one of these, let me know right away.”

  “Bien sûr.”

  Now Dougherty was positive he saw Carpentier shrug as Detective Ste. Marie started to walk away.

  When it was just the two of them in the office, Dougherty wasn’t sure he wanted to say what he’d come to say, but Carpentier was waiting. “It’s possible David Murray wasn’t part of this mob war.”

  “Why do
you say that?”

  “He may have been involved in something else.”

  “What?”

  Dougherty paused for a few seconds and then said, “He might have been a homosexual.”

  “So?” Carpentier said. “Homosexuals sell drugs, too.”

  “But he was keeping it a secret.”

  “So how did you find out?”

  Dougherty said, “I played a hunch,” and Carpentier said, “Good for you — you’re a detective now.”

  “Well, we’ll see about that.”

  “Yes,” Carpentier said, “nothing is for sure, of course.”

  “Rozovsky had a picture of a guy who was beat up after he left a bar, a fruit, and he said that these guys usually didn’t call the cops.”

  “The fruit said that?”

  “Rozovsky, he said it was unusual that he had to take the evidence pictures, usually there was no investigation, so, I just thought,” Dougherty said, “that Murray seemed to be dropping out of everything — his friends hadn’t seen him for a while, he seemed to be keeping secrets.”

  “But that was because of the drug smuggling.”

  “Maybe, but maybe it was this.”

  Carpentier said, “And someone recognized him?”

  “Yes,” Dougherty said. “More than one, really, but only one would admit it. He said they’re organizing committees.”

  “Who isn’t these days?”

  “Murray wasn’t on any of them, but he might have gone to Toronto for some kind of gay party.”

  Carpentier said, “All right, well, you don’t really have enough,” and he paused, and Dougherty said, “For a detective to follow it up,” and Carpentier said, “Yes, but it’s good work, you should keep going with it.”

  Dougherty said, “You’re right, it probably has nothing to do with it. It’s probably the drug smuggling. Probably the same guy who killed Goose killed Murray.”

  “Probably.” Carpentier turned back to his desk and started packing up the files, the pictures of the murder victims, and said, “But you keep going. Good work, Constable.”

  “All right.”

  Dougherty walked out of the homicide office feeling pretty good, thinking it was probably a waste of time but at least Carpentier was okay with it and then he started to get worried, not knowing what his next move should be.

  But really, he knew there was only one next move, only one person to talk to.

  * * *

  Judy said, “What difference could it possibly make if David was a homosexual?”

  “It might help us figure out who he was hanging out with.”

  Judy nodded a little, thinking about it, and he figured she was going to help if she could. When he’d knocked on the door of the house and she’d answered, she wasn’t surprised or upset to see him, she wasn’t worried anyone would see them together, she’d just said, “Look at you, out in the middle of the day.”

  Dougherty told her he’d just come from talking to Carpentier, from telling him about this hunch about David Murray.

  Now they were sitting in the kitchen at the back of her house, and Judy was saying, “I’ve heard some talk about a committee being formed.”

  “Who’s doing that?”

  “I don’t know if I can tell you.”

  Dougherty said, “What?”

  “All the people who live here in this house, everybody I’ve been hanging out with for years, they don’t trust cops.”

  “There are some cops I don’t trust,” Dougherty said, “but this is you and me.”

  “I know that. But what are we?”

  “What?”

  “You and me, what is this?”

  Dougherty said, “I don’t know, what’s it supposed to be?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Dougherty didn’t say anything. He hadn’t thought about it at all, but he knew enough not to say that, so he waited, and finally Judy said, “Okay, never mind. But this, with David, it doesn’t sound like a fight, like a couple would have a fight.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, it just seems so severe.”

  Dougherty said, “All we know is it happened.”

  Judy nodded and said, “I might know someone.”

  * * *

  “Yeah, we all hopped on Flight 602.”

  “David Murray didn’t take a flight, he drove here from Wisconsin.”

  Stan smiled a little and said, “It’s just an expression.”

  They were in George’s on Stanley Street, a Hungarian coffee shop that Dougherty was surprised to see so crowded in the middle of the afternoon. Judy had set up the meeting and she was sitting across from Dougherty, smoking one of Stan’s Gitanes and drinking espresso.

  “Flight 602 is the Mohawk Airlines flight from New York to Toronto,” Stan said, “so guys use it as an expression for going to Canada. They don’t usually fly.”

  Dougherty said, “Oh,” and drank some of his own coffee, regular with milk and sugar.

  “And it’s a song now, Chicago Transit Authority, I guess they’re just Chicago now.” Stan drank espresso and said, “‘I only wanted to be just a man fulfilled, but a little more free.’”

  Judy said, “A little more free.”

  “I get it,” Dougherty said. “Not drafted.”

  “That’s too much government,” Stan said. “We’re trying to get away from the communists telling us what to do every minute of the day.”

  Dougherty was going to say, Yeah, but we have to fight them for that freedom, but he knew Stan would have a better argument, or at least be able to argue all day like the long-haired student he was, probably something about becoming what it is we’re fighting against or is it just the same thing in a different disguise, and he didn’t want to get into that now, so he said, “You knew David pretty well.”

  Stan shrugged and said, “Not very well.”

  “But you were getting to know him better. You were in Toronto with him in August?”

  Stan looked sideways at Judy but didn’t say anything, and she said, “It’s just for the murder investigation, nothing else.”

  “You know,” Stan said, “that a man can be denied landed immigrant status in Canada if he’s homosexual?”

  “No,” Dougherty said, “I don’t really know anything about immigration,” and Stan said, “Well, that’s okay, not many immigration officers know much about it, either.”

  He motioned around the café with his hands and said, “All these Hungarians, they all came here after their revolution against the Soviets failed, you know about that?”

  “A little,” Dougherty said, “Ten, fifteen years ago?” He wasn’t interested in a history lesson from this guy, but he was learning to listen more and let people tell their stories, it usually loosened them up enough to start talking about what he really wanted to hear.

  Stan said, “Nineteen fifty-six, sixteen years ago. Refugees came to Canada, maybe thirty thousand, maybe more. You notice all these Hungarian coffee shops and restaurants.”

  “I like the Coffee Mill,” Dougherty said.

  “On Mountain Street. You like the paprika chicken.”

  “Yeah, it’s good.”

  “You ever have the schnitzel at the Riviera?”

  Dougherty said, “No, but I’ve had the strudel.”

  “So, do you think any of the refugees they let in were gay?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, I can tell you,” Stan said, “if any of them were, they would have kept it a secret.”

  “Okay.” Dougherty didn’t really understand what this guy was getting at — of course a fruit would keep it a secret.

  “I’m Hungarian,” Stan said, “but I was born in New Jersey. It’s always hard to find a place to fit in. Am I American? Hungarian? Canadian? Student? War resister?�
� He paused and then said, a little more quietly, “Gay?”

  Dougherty said, “It’s not a crime anymore.”

  Stan shrugged. “It could be again, we don’t know.”

  “Is this what you talked about in Toronto,” Dougherty said, “with David?”

  “It was mostly a party. David didn’t come to the meetings.”

  Dougherty said, “He went to meetings here, though, in Montreal?”

  “A couple, maybe.”

  Dougherty looked at Judy and said, “He was dropping out of the War Resisters and the Milton Park stuff, but he was doing this?”

  “I didn’t know,” she said. “But I’m not really surprised to hear it. The odd thing was David dropping out of sight, dropping out of the groups. He did like to be involved.”

  Stan said, “I knew him a little from the resisters but not much. Then I saw him in Toronto.”

  Dougherty felt there was more to it, more that Stan wanted to say, and he wasn’t sure if he should push him or wait. When it seemed like the moment had passed, Judy said, “What is it?”

  Stan looked at her and fidgeted with his little coffee cup and shrugged and said, “I think he wanted to be more involved, David. I think he wanted to be more, I don’t know, active in the movement? If you can call it a movement.”

  Judy said, “What was stopping him?”

  “His ride,” Stan said, “the guy David drove to Toronto with.”

  “Were they a couple?”

  “They were very … reluctant to be public about it, how’s that?”

  “Obtuse,” Judy said. “Is that the right word?”

  Stan was smiling and he said, “There’s a lot of fear. It’s a scary thing.”

  “Who was it?” Dougherty said. “Who was David with?”

  Stan looked at Judy and then looked away, towards the kitchen at the back of the dining room.

  “Richard Burnside.”

  * * *

  Walking on de Maisonneuve Judy said, “You didn’t look surprised at all.”

  “I’ve heard them connected before,” Dougherty said. “I thought Murray knew Burnside because of the drug smuggling, I thought Burnside was supplying the rock bands.”