Rita Y. Toews is a Canadian writer who took up the challenge to write
seriously at the age of 50.
She has assisted with the writing of two novels, "The Price of Freedom" and
"Prometheus" released by CrossroadsPub.com in 2001. Several of her children
's stories will be available through the same publishing company later this
year. Rita has been published in "Zygote", "Western People", "Mysterical-E"
and "Coming Home" magazines. As well, one of her stories has appeared on
the Winnipeg Free Press web site.
Rita is currently working on a mystery novel set in her hometown of
Winnipeg, Manitoba, with Hungarian author, Alex Domokos. Here is one of her short stories, Whose Little Girl, a mystery with a
twist ending.
Whose Little Girl
Rita Y. Toews
The crabs and gulls found her before the kids did so she
wasn't a pretty sight. She was lying face down on the shingle of
the beach, the tide sucking greedily at her thighs and legs,
inviting her back in for another lethal swim. I hoped like hell
the runaway I'd been hired to find wasn't this body at my
feet.
Her close cropped techno-coloured hair and the body piercing
told me she was just a kid, so Detective Stuart Granger had done me a favour
by tipping me off about a young floater. I guess that meant I owed him
one - again. When you're a private
investigator it pays to have a former brother-in-law working for
the cops.
The sand and weeds shifted around the pathetic figure and
something odd on her right arm caught my attention; I felt my gut
clench and the cigar I was chewing on suddenly tasted foul.
Squatting down for a better view didn't change what I saw there. The barbed
wire tattoo encircling the biceps had a name, like a calling card, carved on
one of the barbs; she had been one
of Willy "The Barb" Barconi's girls.
"I don't know about you, Paul, but this is the kind of stuff
that keeps me awake at night," Stu remarked as we stepped back to
make way for the police technicians. "Kinda makes you want to go
home and give the kids a.... Aw, shit! Sorry Paul," he said
miserably as he dug his hands into his pockets and hunched his
shoulders.
"S'okay, buddy," I reassured him with soft jab to the
shoulder. "You don't have to keep treating me with kid gloves."
I missed working with Stu. A few years back when I'd been on the force
with him, we were as close as brothers. He'd even introduced me to his
sister, Cheryl, and Cheryl and I ended up tying the knot. Every time I
thought of Cheryl I had to fight back the grief and bitterness that rolled
through me like a
shock wave. Cops don't make the best husbands, but some women
seem to be able to handle it better than others. Cheryl hadn't
been one of them.
Damn! Why did I quit the force after it was too late?
And why did I decide to become a PI! It was just more of the
same old, same old that I'd been trying to get away from. Well,
if nothing else, over the past year I'd come to grips with the fact that it
wasn't just my job as a cop that Cheryl had been running away from. Her own
personal demons had been hounding her too. Whatever the cause, a large part
of me died with Cheryl that night. I flung my cold cigar at the nearest
gull. With a scream of fury he spiralled off. I felt like screaming back.
The sight-seers where starting to gather behind the barrier
of yellow "crime-scene" tape - vultures at the feast; and the
first of what would soon be a flood of media, pulled into the
parking area. This would make page one of the dailies for sure.
The cops had spent enough time and tax-payer's money cleaning up
after The Barb's dirty dealings and the big boys down at City
Hall were screaming for results. The body count was now
averaging about one a week and we weren't talking wrinkled flesh
here - they were getting younger all the time. The evidence was
at our feet.
The girl seemed to be about the same age as the one I was
looking for, and although my clients hadn't mentioned that their
Mary was into body piercing, a lot could happen to a kid who has
lived on the street for a couple of weeks. She might even be
desperate enough to earn her next meal through the likes of The
Barb.
My frustrated clients had contacted me after the boys in
blue weren't able to turn up any leads on the disappearance
of their daughter. In my considered opinion, little Mary fled the home in
question to put some distance between herself
and her overbearing father, but then no one asked for my
opinion. The sign on my door says "Paul Tarrant, Private
Investigator", not "family counsellor". After ten minutes with
dear old Dad I was ready to tell him to take a hike, but the
stack of overdue bills I kept cramming into the bottom drawer of
my desk had a way of reminding me that I didn't have the luxury of choosing
my clients.
The police photographers finished recording the pathetic
tableau from every angle imaginable and Granger signalled the lab
boys to take over and bag her. As they shifted her body, the
right hand emerged from its envelope of seaweed and sand to
reveal a huge ring of crude coloured glass perched on the ring
finger. Better on the hand than in her navel, I guess.
I'd seen enough, and I had no desire to chat with anyone on
the force who might recognize me. Following the shoreline, I
began to walk along the beach. Turning into the chill wind I
took a couple of deep breathes, hoping the sea air would blow the
smell of death out of my nostrils. In the distance the white
sails of a sail-boat shone in the afternoon sun as it rode the
waves; a picture of serenity. What were they doing out there in
their picture post-card setting - screwing on the deck? Yah,
well maybe one day if I got my shit together... but right now I
had a job to do. Have fun, guys, I thought as I headed for my
car.
The fastest way to learn the identity of the girl was to
follow the tattoo lead. That meant a visit with The Barb. My
brother-in-law may have the weight of the police department
behind him, but that meant he had procedures to follow. Being a
private eye gave me the edge in situations like this and since
The Barb and I weren't exactly strangers to each other, I fully
intended to use whatever advantage I had.
My acquaintance with The Barb went back to my early days on
the force; he'd been a small time pimp then and we'd managed to
get under each others skin. I'd been idealistic enough to think
I could put an end to prostitution single-handedly and he'd taken
my diligence personally. After Cheryl's accident he'd spread the
word around town that he wasn't going to be losing any sleep over
"a certain cop's tragedy." I wonder if he'd mellowed any.
I knew The Barb liked to frequent a number of establishments
so I started working my way downtown. I didn't have to make too
many enquiries. By the time I hit "the Stroll" one of his girls
directed me to his latest hang-out--at Jenny's. The sun was
shining, it was a beautiful spring day, and just the thought of
spending a minute of it in Jenny's was enough to send my mood
even further into a tailspin. I decided to make a slight detour
and take the scenic route to Jennie's. The Barb wasn't going
anywhere.
Heading down Oceanview I watched the action on the
sidewalks. Your typical assortment of cheesecake, freaks and
oddballs that liked to parade their stuff along the beach walk.
Most of them were young. They were the perfect target for The
Barb or any other sleaze ball that could offer the promise of
some big bucks and a little nose candy. The younger they were
the harder they fell for the line. Where were their mommas, or
for that matter - their dads, when the kids needed them?
Now Stu, he really knew how to raise a kid; his Ruthie was a
girl with her head on her shoulders! This fall she'd be starting
in Medical college. It was easy to see that for Stu the sun rose
and set on his little Ruthie, and I couldn't blame him a bit.
I thought again of the kid on the shingle. Was it Mary
Thornton? If not - what was her story? Did she have a mom, or
dad, who thought the sun rose and set on her? She looked pretty
well fed. Didn't look like she'd been living on the street for
very long. Her clothes were the cheap flashy stuff that all
the kids wore, so no clue there, and I hadn't noticed any tracks
on her arms. How had she ended up like a piece of garbage
floating on the tide?
I turned the car in the direction of Jenny's. I'd delayed
my visit long enough.
Jenny's was one of those places you had to know about in
order to find. Regulars only, or the guest of a regular. No
walking in off the street. The crowd that gathered there was the
scum of the earth and The Barb was the king of it all. I noticed
right off that he had his own table and was holding court like
some demented Nero. He sure wasn't going to be happy to see me
come in.
As I picked my way through the scattered tables I caught the tail end
of the conversation he was having with a couple of his retainers who were
about to leave. It was obvious from his expression and body posture that he
was dealing with a problem.
"... see what you come up with, and check back with me right
away."
As soon as he saw me approaching he put on a grin that was about as
phony as a three-dollar bill. "Well, well" he said as I drew nearer, "it
looks like I'm going to be buying a drink for one of our more refined
citizens." He settled himself more comfortably in his chair, crossed his
legs and ran his finger along the crease in his $150.00 pair of trousers.
The smirk on his face was just begging to be slapped off. My hand itched
for the pleasure.
"Hi ya, Willy," I greeted him as I took a seat. I shook my
head to dismiss the advancing bar-maid but if he took it as an
insult to his hospitality he didn't show it; the smile on his
thin face never wavered. Despite the smile, I was getting vibes
that our relationship hadn't sweetened any, even though I'd gone into
business for myself.
"You and I may have a bit of business to discuss. One of
your little ladies washed up on the beach this morning. Know
anything about it?" I lit one of my cigars to kill the smell of
his cologne.
"Hey, come on, Tarrant!" he said as he waved a well-
manicured hand in my direction. "What makes you think I would
know every little slut that struts her stuff along the coast?
What kind of guy do you think I am? And besides, you and I both
know that you have no authority to come in here questioning me
like this. I'm a private citizen minding my own business in a
public place."
"Sure, Willy, but let me ask you anyway, okay? I got a
client who's looking for their little girl and I hope like hell I
can reassure her daddy that she didn't go for a midnight swim."
My fingers fished through a bowl of peanuts on the table,
hoping to find a stray cashew. No luck. I had to settle for
leftover beer nuts but I palmed a handful anyway and started
working my way through them.
"So - you missing one of your girls, Willy?" I continued as
I made myself more comfortable in the chair. "She'd have been
missing for maybe two-three days. Young, short blond hair."
I noticed his smile start to slip a little. Bingo! I was
on to something here.
"You probably know the one I mean, eh, Willy. Ring in her
nose and one in her eyebrow. About five-one, five-two. She had
one of those tattoos your girls like to wear on their arm to let
everyone know who they belong to."
The smile was gone now. The hands that had been toying with
a fancy cigarette lighter went still. Leaning forward in the
chair, his eyes searched mine. "Sounds like she was just a kid!"
He managed to recapture a little of his bravado but Willy was
worried. Settling back in his chair again he tried to brush the
conversation off. "You know I don't deal with kids. And who's to
say she wasn't just trying to make a fashion statement with the
tattoo. The way I hear it, they're all the rage these days."
"Yup," I continued, ignoring his protests. "Looked to be
about 15 or 16. Can't be sure of course. Probably a real pretty
little thing. Had a gaudy ring on her finger with a purple
stone. Oh, know her do you?"
All the cockiness left the Barb as a hoarse wail of anguish
rose from his throat. It was the same gut-wrenching cry that had
ripped from me a year earlier, when a bitter wife mixed booze and pills and
took a late night drive into death with our little Emily. So, Willy and I
had something in common after all - I guess all men think the sun rises and
sets on their little girl. Funny, I never knew the Barb had a kid.
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Y. Toews
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Bonnie
Mercure, your Fiction
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