At Spadina they broke up, with Mr. Kennedy and Black Flag heading south. The Cramps kid continued along Queen, but I had to pull ahead with traffic now building behind me. I drove a block past the kid and turned, dropping the van into park ten yards north of Queen. I was lucky. He continued straight and I spotted him just a few moments later, dropping onto a bus-stop bench.
I stared, then in a moment of spontaneity turned off the engine and stepped out of the van. It took me less than twenty seconds to jog up to the bench and drop down next to the kid.
“Hey, fancy meeting you here.” I put my arm around him and pulled him tight to my side, in case he tried to make a run for it. But my sudden appearance had clearly shocked him, because other than a twitch at my voice, he froze.
“Cat got yer tongue?”
“N — no.” His voice came out shaky and high pitched. Up close I could see that he was fifteen at most, a faint moustache growing in for the first time.
I glanced over my shoulder and smiled at a woman in a dark overcoat and leather boots as she strode by. No reason to draw attention to us.
“Tell me, how did you happen to hear that we had been mugged?”
I suppose even the meek have a backbone. He sat silently staring at his lap. I gripped his arm and squeezed. He struggled, not real happy with the direction this was going. But his upper arm was thin enough that I could close my fingers around it, and I wasn’t about to let go.
“Speak up, or I’m going to finish what we started.”
“Some guys were talking outside the Riv last week, and one guy was bragging about it.” The Rivoli was a long-standing club on Queen West, not far from where we were seated, as a matter of fact.
“Aren’t you too young to drink?”
“Yeah, but sometimes you can score an invite to a party.”
And a place to spend the night, if you were lucky.
“What was this guy’s name?”
“I don’t know.”
I squeezed again.
“I don’t know! He was a big huge guy, German or something. Dressed like a Gino.”
Nice. Though it did sound a lot like my Russian friend.
“Name?” I squeezed one more time, until I saw tears in the corners of his eyes. Seemed he didn’t know Niki’s name.
“Alright. Then how did you know where to find me?”
He shrugged. “Dumb luck. Saw your van.”
Shit. Maybe the ring was affecting me. I made a note to myself. First indicator of possible disaster.
“Then where can I find this guy?” I knew one place I could find him, but maybe my punk friend had some other ideas.
“I don’t know!” I squeezed. “Alright! He hangs out along Queen West some nights, I think he’s a dealer. Rev, maybe a bit of coke.”
“Rev?”
“It’s new. Hard to get a hold of, but supposed to have an unbelievable kick.”
Great. Niki the Jerk was getting kids hooked on drugs. I nodded for the kid to continue.
“I’m not sure where he lives, but I think he said something about the Century Club once.”
OK. More than I had before. I stared down at the kid, and then it sunk in. Fifteen years old. I was in grade ten, just got my first job cutting lawns for the summer. High school hockey and a new interest in girls. Meanwhile, this kid was living on the streets.
“What’s your name?”
“T-toby. Toby Barnes.”
“Well, nice to meet you, T-toby.” It was not particularly nice of me to imitate his stutter, but I was in no mood to be nice.
“Tell me about yourself. Better yet, you got some ID on you?”
“Y-yeah.”
“Hand it over.”
That got his attention. I let him fumble in his front pocket, then watched as he pulled out a grimy brown leather wallet with a zipper. Moments later I had his Health Card in my hand.
“OK, T-toby Barnes of Kenilworth Ave. What is that, off the Beaches?”
He nodded.
“Your parent’s place?”
“Mom’s.”
“And where would you be resting your weary head these days?”
“Covenant House, mostly.”
“Gerrard Street, off Yonge?”
He nodded.
Covenant House was the largest youth shelter in Toronto. With nighttime temperatures between 20 and 50 degrees Fahrenheit from the end of September to the beginning of May, sleeping outdoors in Toronto was a death sentence for the thousands of kids living in the streets. Runaways, abused kids, those without work — the numbers kept growing. Places like Covenant House were a lifeline for kids like Toby Barnes.
“You got a phone?”
“Yeah.” He showed me a cellphone tucked into his waistband.
“Let me see the number.”
He told me the number, but I insisted on checking the screen.
“OK, T-Toby,” I flipped his Health Card into his lap. “Thank you for being such a help. Now — here’s the deal.”
I pulled my own wallet out, and after a moment of thought, handed him a twenty.
“If I hear you spent this on booze or drugs, I’m going to pound your ass.” I lifted his chin to make sure he saw I was serious. “Now, I may need to call you from time to time — ask you to keep your ear to the ground.”
I thought about it, then handed him another ten bucks.
“For a calling card. If I call, you answer. If I ask you to meet, we meet. You understand?”
T-Toby looked at the cash in his hands. Probably as much money as he might see on his best day working squeegee.
“Yes.”
“Alright kid. Get outta here. Find a roof before it gets too dark.”
CHAPTER 20
The incident with the punk rock trio settled it for me. It was time to have a chat with Niki and the Legenkos.
This time I didn’t stop at the park bench. I parked just off St. Clair and marched over to the Ruscan Industries offices. Straight up the front stairs and through the doors into the reception area.
What looked impressive outside looked even more so inside. The entrance opened out into a large two story atrium, bracketed by a mezzanine accessed by a central staircase. Front and centre was a semicircular reception desk the size of a small coffee shop, manned by a single receptionist. On either side, under the overhang of the mezzanine, was an actual coffee shop with a display of pastries and fruit, and on the other side, a series of seating areas — boxy leather sofas and reclining chairs, the leather an olive color, with rosewood frames and arms.
Seemed appearances were important at Ruscan.
I also spotted out of the corner of my eye a private security guard, leaning nonchalantly against one of the floor to ceiling columns. He was chatting on a cell phone, but he nodded his head when we made eye contact. Great.
Start from the beginning, I thought. I turned to the receptionist, who struck me as one of those professionals who have a way of listening that makes you think of plastic. Face and body set in posture and expression, the look one of rapt, pleased attention.
“I’m here to see Maxim Legenko.”
She paused, looking at me, but I felt like being difficult.
“I’m sorry, sir. Mr. Legenko is on leave. Is this a leasing matter, or…?”
Made sense. Guess it’s a bit hard to continue as CEO of a public company when you’re the subject of an ongoing criminal trial.
“How about Elena Legenko? Is she in?”
It was amazing. No change in facial expression at all. She could have been a computer-generated hologram, for all I knew. A computer-generated hologram with a very large mole at the corner of her mouth. Not a Cindy Crawford mole, either. Think creepy cleaning lady mole.
“Is Ms. Legenko expecting you?”
“No. Tell her it’s about Niki Kuzmenko and her husband.”
That seemed to get her attention. A flush of red caused her cheeks to glow, which made me think that Niki must have made his presence known around the office. She hit some buttons on the phone in front of her and spoke into her headset, studiously avoiding looking into my eyes.