I wiped the last of my egg yolk with some rye toast and settled back to drink a second cup. Will excused himself to get back to work, and Gus and me shot the shit and caught up. He told me that the township had approved a small subdivision up near the new Crandy Manufacturing plant. His daughter was thinking of moving up there because her husband had been offered a job with Crandy once the plant opened. Here's the thing: I had no hard feelings at that particular point. My anger over it seemed to surge and then kind of wane, plus this was Gus, an old friend who'd give you the shirt off his back if he had to. So I told him to wish his daughter and son-in-law well for me. Baxter walked in, dusted some snow from his coat, and dropped his mailbag near the coat rack. He sat with us and warmed his hands around a cup that Gus had reached over and poured for him. He told us he still had half the mail to deliver, but needed some coffee and toast. He was a little nervous or something, not his easygoing self. After we'd done the “Hi, how are you” routine, Baxter said, “So, I've got some news.”
Baxter's news was usually good and trustworthy. People in small towns tend to befriend the mailman, especially a jovial type like Bax. Gus and me leaned in, ready for the dirt, but Baxter looked at Gus and then over at me.
“This is, ah, sort of touchy information that has to do with your oldest boy, Bert.”
I put down my coffee and lit a cigarette. Gus said, “You want me to go over to the counter and flirt with Grace? I can if it's private.”
I told him to stay put. They both knew Russ. They both knew the trouble I had with him. Three heads are better than one.
Baxter had been on his rounds the previous Friday and got talking to Eddie Taft, an old-timer who lived right off the main road in town, just around the corner from the diner. Taft was fixing his snow blower and bragged to Baxter about the ratchet set he was using. He told Baxter he'd bought it from the Street brothers for $25. He went on to say that the Streets had a load of tools they were planning to sell down in the city, but they sold a set to Eddie Taft as a favour because Eddie plowed their laneway for free now and again. Baxter said that Eddie seemed proud, like it was an honour to have a couple of thugs doing him favours. Baxter took a look at the ratchet set Eddie was using. He asked Eddie where he thought the Streets had gotten it. Eddie said who gives a shit, for $25 he wasn't asking questions, this was a damn good set of tools. I felt my gut just sink as I listened to Bax. I snubbed my smoke in the ashtray and looked him in the eye.
“Mine?”
“Yeah, I've gotta believe so, Bert, it was made by Proto Tools. I remember how you used to buy those sets at their big sale every year. Plus Eddie Taft said that Russ was in the Streets' car when they dropped by to sell it. I don't mean to be a wind-bag, but I know those tools were from your shop, Bert. Eddie looked damn uncomfortable when I told him so. Shrugged his shoulders and said, ‘Well they're mine now, Baxter, and I'd sure appreciate it if you kept this to yourself.'”
I let the news roll around in my head for a few seconds. I knew that Baxter wouldn't have mentioned it if he weren't certain Eddie Taft had bought property that was stolen from me. Gus spoke up and said, “How many spare tools do you have, Bert?”
“Quite a few. I sold some, but there's a load still in the basement at the station. I thought I might put an ad in the paper in the spring, make a few bucks from them.”
“Looks like Rusty and the Street boys beat you to it. Bastards,” said Baxter.
“Did Russ ever ask you about them tools and maybe you forgot?” said Gus, all hopeful, wanting to believe that maybe Rusty wasn't lifting property from his own father.
“Never. But I'll be damned if I'm gonna sit back and let him sneak around pulling shit like this,” I said.
“Call the police on him, teach him a lesson,” said Bax.
My gut was gurgling away by that point. I could pretty well feel my ulcers dancing around in there.
“You know what guys, I just might. For now, I'm gonna hit the road and have a poke around downstairs at my old gas station.”
When I got to the station I felt pretty strange. For starters, I'd let the gas wells run dry and the pumps were wrapped with thick, black tarps. There was no use in buying more gasoline when Dunn Road had been closed and traffic diverted. I'd had the odd car ramble by looking for gas, but word soon got out that I was dry. The place looked like part of a ghost town, gray and deserted. I went inside and stood for a second, took in the silence, observed the stillness inside the two service bays. Those bays were hopping at one time, always cars on the hoists, Vic and his apprentice and me working away. Russell or Kenny the part-time kid answering the bell when someone drove across the hose and up to the pumps. The place gave me the creeps now that it was so quiet. There was water dripping somewhere, but other than that it was like a fucking tomb in there.
I went down the narrow wooden stairs to the basement. It was just a big rectangular room with a few steel shelves and rusting old cabinets where we'd store extra cases of oil, fan belts, and other supplies. I kept spare tools down there. I was a bit of a collector, I guess. I'd built up a decent little stockpile. I walked to the cabinet where I kept the ratchet sets, wrenches, screwdriver sets, stuff like that. I closed my eyes as I opened the door.
Here's the thing: I never kept inventory. I could glance down there and tell if we needed replenishments. And as I stared into that supply cabinet I knew I'd been screwed. There was shit missing. It looked pretty sparse in there. It took a good hard swallow to chase the heat back down my throat. It made me ill to think that Rusty would steal from me. And that maybe those Street brothers had been with him.
I went back up to the office and sat down behind the old desk where I'd once been the man in charge. I sat there until dusk, watching the house. I saw Travis come home and then leave with his gym bag under his arm. He waited at the end of the drive until a kid in a white Toyota picked him up and they sputtered off. The kid's car needed a muffler, and I made a mental note to tell Travis to invite the kid over for a free repair job. I didn't turn on the light once darkness fell. I smoked and watched the glass desktop, the burner on my cigarette lighting up my fingers and face. I recall my mind that night moving in a different direction. I was less concerned with why things happened, more concerned with what I would do about it. This was my boy who'd done this to me. Stealing from his own father after all the grief we'd already taken on the chin. That's something only a scumbag would do.
I called the police. It used to be, way back when, that you could ring straight through to the police station. That had all changed, and I had a hell of a time finding out who was on duty. I knew most of the coppers pretty well. But the OPP had this big central dispatch by that time, and the lady kept on asking me:“Do you need to see an officer or not, sir?”
And I kept on saying:“Depends on who it is.”
Finally I got connected to the shift supervisor, who put me on hold to go and find out who was on duty.
About an hour after I'd picked up the phone, Big Rich Franklin pulled up in his cruiser, parked alongside the dormant gas pumps, got out, stretched, put his hat on, and wandered into the office. I didn't know Big Rich as well as some of the others, but he was a decent guy, used to be with the Windsor police. He was no dummy and he seemed like a good, honest cop. He asked right off if I'd had a break-in. I told him no. And then he sat down across from me and took out his notebook. I let him in on a few facts, some background on Russell Commerford. And then I told him what Baxter had told me. He scribbled in the notebook; his big paws moved pretty gracefully when he was writing. When I was through talking he didn't say too much at first. He scratched at his wide forehead with his pen, finally said, “Did you mark or engrave the tools you kept down there?”
“No.”
“Well, that's okay. I could go over to Taft's place, ask to see this tool set. I could bring it back over to you. If it's yours I could go and get Russ, talk to the Street boys.”
“What'll happen? Will Russ be charged?”
“Well, maybe.”