Free Dead & Buried by Howard Engel

didn’t see him, he called out. I admired his direct approach. It brought two cups of coffee within a minute.
    Pásztory had a friendly, lopsided grin that sat on a face that must have been dour in repose. Brown eyes came magnified through his thick, steel-rimmed glasses. He was going bald in front and wore the remaining fringe rather long over his neck and ears. He gave me the same sort of appraisal as we talked.
    “You wrote those pieces in the Beacon about the toxic-fuel scam last spring, didn’t you?”
    “Yeah, I used my uptown name on those: Alexander Pastor. Did you see that the Globe took them too? They were in a lot of papers.”
    “Didn’t you win some kind of award with them?”
    “That’s right, the Rushton Cup. I keep pennies in it.” He was still trying to place me and not getting anywhere. “This environmental stuff, this is not your usual beat, is it?”
    “Right. I’m normally a family-law man. Reading about toxic waste steals my sleep. Your article made me feel the ozone layer being peeled away. Ugh! I have to limit my exposure if I want to survive. No offence. I’m just being honest. Like it’s not that I don’t agree with you. That’s not the point. I just have to control my intake, or it’s like living through an earthquake all the time.”
    “That’s a good description. We have to make this planet last at least until we have the technology to move to another one when this one won’t support us any more.”
    “Yeah, ‘Beam me back to Saturn, Scotty!’ Right?”
    “And what if we don’t have the technology for that?”
    “Then, we’re out of luck.” Pásztory added both cream and sugar to his coffee. Rather a lot of both.
    “Sorry to sound off at you, Mr. Cooperman. I get carried away sometimes. What can I do for you? What do you want to know about?”
    “I’m interested in Kinross and the kinds of games they’ve been playing.”
    “What’s your first name again?”
    “Benny.”
    “Okay. Call me Sandy or Alex. I get both. I changed my name just when it was becoming popular to be a fine old Hunky name like Pásztory. A name like Pastor comes out of Saran Wrap.”
    Pásztory’s fingers were stained with nicotine. He was a messy smoker. I could see where the holes in his sweater came from.
    “I can tell you a lot about Kinross and about the parent company, Phidias Manufacturing. Hell, I can tell you something about almost every company working in the peninsula. Some are small independent operations; some have the mob playing a quiet role, like in Sangallo Restorations in Niagara-on-the-Lake. That’s Tony Pritchett’s little game. He launders some of his dirty money buildingdriving sheds and sand-blasting old brick houses along Queen Street. Have you heard of him?”
    “In Grantham, it’s hard not to have heard about Anthony Horne Pritchett and his boys. But I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting him.”
    “He likes to keep a certain distance from his dirty companies, even the ones he only puts money into quietly. But saying this is one thing, the difficulty comes in proving the allegations. Even when I get in trouble with libel, I have to prove my way out or pay up. I’ve had to do that twice now. It’s like putting your head in a noose.”
    “Do you let that stop you?”
    “Hell, no! But I’m trying to tell you that you need more than Boy Scout instincts in this racket. Tony Pritchett doesn’t fool around. And even the companies with no links to organized crime can play tough. Does Kinross know that you are snooping around?”
    “I talked to Dr. Gary Carswell who—”
    “Yeah, I know him. You might as well have sent your picture to Norm Caine, Benny. You won’t get through the gate pretending to be a salesman or in some sort of disguise.”
    “Hell, I thought I’d slip in dressed like Captain Hook in Peter Pan.”
    “Don’t joke about things like that. I’ve known guys who tried to do things that dim. One got his arm broken.”
    “Are you telling me