Crang Plays the Ace by Jack Batten Page A

kinds of people do it that got the land out in the sticks and nothing on it.”
    I sipped my beer. It tasted soapy. To me, all beer tastes soapy. I drink it only on occasions of crisis or diplomacy. In the Press Grill, I drank it out of tact. Blend in with my companions. Be one of the guys.
    â€œYou’re on to something, Crang?” Griffin said.
    â€œNot what I want to be on to,” I said. “But it’s yours for the taking.”
    I wasn’t looking for scams that lost money for Ace. I wanted the kind that might be turning Ace a profit.
    â€œLet’s take the usual drill a driver goes through,” I said to Ernie Andrychuk. “He weighs a load in at the dump, drops the load, and weighs out empty. The weigh-master or whatever you call the guy in the building at the scales gives him a sheet of paper and he goes on his way.”
    â€œThat sheet of paper, it’s called your waybill.”
    â€œGot it.”
    â€œWeigh-master keeps the original and a copy and the driver gets the other copy.”
    I asked, “What does the driver do with the waybills he’s accumulated at the end of the day?”
    â€œPlace where I worked, Donnelly Disposal, it was kind of small compared to Ace, nine or ten trucks is all, we handed them in to the dispatcher back at the yard.”
    â€œAnd from there, Donnelly billed the customers, that right?”
    â€œSure, the customer pays a flat rate, fifty bucks a pickup or whatever, plus more for the weight of the load which is what your waybill tells ya.”
    Ernie drained off the rest of the beer from his stein. The pitcher was empty and we paused while Griffin rounded up the waitress for a refill.
    â€œThink about this one, Ernie,” I said. “Why would it take the weigh-master over at the Leslie dump a half-minute longer to process an Ace truck than a truck from another company?”
    Ernie’s face lost its merriness. It scrunched into a puzzled expression. His busy little mind must have been telling him he was going to flunk ancient history after all.
    â€œDon’t sweat it, Ernie,” I said. “Try another one. You know anybody in the business who rides around in a pink Caddie? Dark guy with a big nose?”
    â€œSolly the Snozz.”
    Ernie came close to shouting the answer. Saved by the last question. Passed the test. Good grades to take home to Mum and Dad.
    â€œThat what you call him?” I asked.
    â€œWell, me, I don’t, not to his face anyways. He’s Sol Nash. Works at Ace, I dunno as what, but I used to see him all over the place. He’s got a driver who’s a boxer, a pro I mean, when he’s not suspended for hittin’ the referee or something.”
    â€œWhy would Nash drop in on the weigh-master at Leslie Street?”
    â€œHe goes regular to all the dumps. Who knows why? I never heard of office guys from other companies doin’ that. But everything’s different about Ace.”
    â€œSuch as?”
    â€œBigger, that’s for sure. They got two hundred trucks at least. I bet more, even. And the drivers they hire for them trucks, nobody messes with those guys unless you wanta get your arm broke or something. They’re bikers, those guys, Hells Angels or whatever you call them.”
    Ernie poured more beer from the pitcher into his stein.
    â€œHow am I doin’, Mr. Crang?” he asked.
    â€œPeachy, Ernie,” I said. “You earned a B-plus.”
    â€œSorry about Ace’s trucks takin’ longer on the scales. Can’t figure that one.”
    â€œYou think it’s important, Crang?” Griffin asked.
    â€œEverything’s important,” I said, “if you don’t know the answers.”
    â€œYou’re keeping me posted, promise?”
    â€œI’d do anything for another visit to you scribes in your natural habitat.”
    Griffin turned in his seat and looked around the room. It was filling up with men and women who