Guest Fiction: Garland Fiske's Big Score

Another Eldorado tale from ACF's favorite storyteller!

Author’s note:

Sometimes a man leaves little trace of passing through this world, regardless of his actions. Type Garland Fiske’s unique moniker into the World Wide Web and all one comes across is a society notice in a small-town Ontario newspaper from 1938. The Colborne Express, December 15^th: “Mr. Garland Fiske of Toronto spent the weekend with his parents, Mr. and Mrs. Harry Fiske.”

Beyond that, he vanishes as if swallowed up by time itself - no obituary, no marriage certificate, not even a listing in the phone book. However, he didn’t die in a pandemic or in the war, because, on the morning of September 27, 1971, he entered Parkwood Motors on Yonge Street and bought a new Duchess Gold Cadillac Eldorado.

After much research, I can now fill in some of the blanks. Of course, dear reader, I have taken the liberty of reconstructing scenes and dialogue for narrative effect — April

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Garland Fiske had initially dreamed of joining the police force with ambitions of being a detective, like his literary hero Chief-Inspector Roderick Alleyn. He ended up studying chemistry at the University Toronto and after graduation in late 1939, immediately enlisted.

Instead of being sent overseas to reinforce the British Expeditionary Force, as his parents feared, he began a bureaucratic pilgrimage through a series of training camps around the Dominion. As a university graduate, he was made an officer. The army was unsure what to do with him, despite his remarkable consistency at being average in all military disciplines.

Nevertheless, June 6^th found him face down in the sand off Courseulles-sur-Mer, having taken three hits from Hitler’s buzzsaw, the MG-42. He never fired a shot in anger. He wouldn’t have even made it back to a hospital in Blighty if a medic hadn’t stepped on him later that day, eliciting a faint groan.

He recovered, but not enough for front-line service. The army was again at a loss for where to assign him. The war was winding down, the Russians were days away from their Reichstag photo op.

His chemistry degree made him a "boffin" in the eyes of Whitehall. They transferred him to the Combined Intelligence Objectives Subcommittee, Operation Matchbox. It was a British, and hence Canadian, operation to poach as much German intelligence, industrial and military technology, and personnel as the Americans would leave them.

The assignment given him was military reclamation. Securing Axis hardware for study, disposal, or transfer. And of course, deny it to the bally Reds.

That was when he first met Hans, a Luftwaffe major whom he was supposed to be interrogating regarding Messerschmidt AG’s Czech operation.

They were sitting in a small office in the former sports school at Flensburg, now part of the British Occupation Zone. According to the pin up calendar, courtesy of Esquire magazine, it was almost 1946. Fiske stared across a rough wooden desk at the German, who was clad in a blue-grey uniform devoid of insignia. If he looked closely Fiske could see the holes where the stitches holding the eagle and swastika had been picked out. It was Fiske’s job to find out as much as possible, and as quickly — but instead, he was the one being questioned.

“So, second lieutenant,” Hans took care to pronounce it the British way, “where do you see yourself after the war?”

“It is after the war now,” Fiske answered. “Your Fuhrer is dead, or on the run in South America.”

“No, I mean, where do you want to be, a low-ranking officer, still writing reports no one reads — or, perhaps, living the good life? A beautiful motorcar, an expensive Frau, a nice home with a white picket fence like in the movies.”

Hans pressed on, becoming more animated.

“There is much money to be made. After so much suffering, do we not deserve it? Do you think the army will reward you? It will ship you home to an entry level job as a clerk. Those who did not go to war, your juniors, will then be your bosses.

I do not wish to stay here, left to the tender mercies of the Bolsheviks. I suggest that you help declare me a strategic person of interest to your government. Eventually a ticket across the Atlantic, a new start. Is your west like in the cowboy and Indian books?”

Having baited the hook, Hans tested the line.

“In exchange I can offer you a lucrative business opportunity right now… or perhaps you are content with your lot?”

This two-minute conversation took over two years to execute. Hans got his ticket out and the nascent Israeli air force got a squadron of Czech built ME 109s. Fiske then returned to Toronto, not Hollywood rich as promised, but pretty damn comfortable.

The next few years found Fiske living off his military surplus windfall while also working at Addison Cadillac on Bay St. The job added an air of respectability as well as a steady supply of rich Rosedale widows. The cars sold themselves, each model year flashier and more expensive than the last. He spent his commission freely - winters in Hialeah or Havana, away from the freezing wind, slush, and salt of Toronto. He treated himself to a used XK120 that he stored in a rented garage in a laneway off Molson St.

Cut to a slow August afternoon in 1958; the short-lived recession had left him unoccupied and staring idly out the showroom window. He smoked his way through a pack of Craven A’s, unsuccessfully willing passersby to enter the dealership. He had been hooked on the damn gaspers since the war, included in his rations don’t you know.

In the showroom’s front window was a brand-new Kiowa Red Eldorado Biarritz. The Cadillac convertible looked like a crimson shark ready to swallow its floor mate, a minnow of an Opel Rekord. Addison had recently added the small car to its GM roster. Fiske wasn’t keen on compacts, particularly German ones.

The bright sunshine highlighted dust on the convertible’s paintwork. At over seven grand Canadian, it would no doubt accumulate more dust before finding an owner. Tired of waiting for any prospects to appear, Fiske walked from the dealership to the the Royal York Hotel, which sat directly across from Union Station. Perhaps Toronto’s only two impressive pieces of architecture, he mused.

He passed the huge billboard proclaiming a new east wing addition, reinforcing The Royal York’s claim to being the largest hotel in the British Commonwealth, and entered the Princess Lounge. Pale red banquettes curved gracefully around delicate tables, with just enough room for a Martini or two. Fiske preferred to spread out, taking a seat at the long-mirrored bar where he could see the wall clock. Best not get back to work too late.

The "Businessmen`s Luncheon" was just that — men only — and strictly enforced. Located in the hotel’s arcade floor, the lounge was where deals, both business and political, were done in the city. Ladies were free to patronize the Imperial Room in the lobby for high tea.

Garland eschewed beer for their signature drink, a vodka with grapefruit foam, very refreshing. Someone with a German accent was calling his name. Fiske turned around with grapefruit foam dripping off his chin. His mind vapor-locked for a few seconds before locating the file card in his head that identified Hans, his old Luftwaffe business associate, grinning and hailing him.

“Ach mein Gott! If it isn’t Garland Fiske, war hero and founding father of the Israeli air force.”

“Hans, keep it down; this is the Princess Lounge.” There was a moment of silence. “In Toronto!”, Fiske added for good measure.

“Don’t be an old woman, Garland; I am no war criminal. I was never a party member (Fiske doubted that) and am now a proud Canadian. Shall I sing the Maple Leaf Forever right here in the restaurant?”

Hans certainly looked like a prosperous Canadian. If he had to guess, the suit was Brooks Brothers (ready to wear but nevertheless) and his monogrammed shirt, tailor-made in Chinatown. On his wrist was a Hamilton Ventura. Hans truly looked like he had parachuted in from Madison Avenue.

“Nice watch, remarked Fiske with a mix of envy and sarcasm, “does it come with a matching ray gun?” The gold forward-look timepiece, with its gold and black leather band, was the world’s first electric watch. He had seen the ad in Life magazine.

“Embrace the new, Garland. Why, we will surely soon reach the moon — von Braun and the boys in Huntsville will get us there.”

Over a few more cocktails followed by dinner, the two reestablished their partnership. Fiske gave notice at Addison’s soon after and embarked upon a successful import-export business.

Together they dealt in weapons, counterfeit bills, even people. Hans’ old comrades, now firmly ensconced in the economy of the West German miracle, proved themselves most accommodating. Small arms went out as dental equipment, while larger items nestled in wooden crates emblazoned with the Opel lightning bolt.

By the time Castro declared himself a Marxist-Leninist in 1961, Fiske had already become something of an expert in arms trading.

Over the ensuing decade the enterprise kept them both flush. Fiske took a house in the leafy suburb of Oakville and a trendy condo on Yonge and Eglington (or as it was known at the time, Young and Eligible). He maintained offices above a Chinese laundry on Avenue Road. Which seemed to be rarely open, and it often occurred to Fiske that it might be a front for something other than dirty laundry.

The quiet suited him and the physical address lent his business some much needed legitimacy. The gold letters on the frosted glass of the door spelled out Universal Imports, Toronto, Montreal, London & New York. It all sounded very proper and above board, but if truth be told, the cities where “U.I.” did business were distinctly more exotic: Cairo, Baghdad, Salisbury, etc.

The office was set up with a waiting room and a desk for a secretary or receptionist, with a virgin IBM Selectric still under its plastic dust cover. The magazines were recycled, unread, every six months from a corner store newsstand a block away on Macpherson.

It was all for show. Fiske had no need for a receptionist, and the office was his private sanctuary. Here he felt safe and protected, above such petty concerns as paying taxes and laws against gun running. Papers were kept in a safe hidden under the grey metal filing cabinet. The other safe in the wall, tucked behind a depressing Group of Seven original, was just misdirection in case the Mounties, Mossad, or the mob decided to pay a visit.

By the dawn of the seventies, things had begun to slow down. Only museums wanted WW II tanks and planes, even if there were any to be had. The Six-Day War hadn’t done the used-panzer market any favors. Artillery and automatic weapons were evergreen, but old German stock was far behind the AK-47 as the assault rifle of choice.

Yet Fiske had alimony and mortgage payments to make for the foreseeable future. He had even entertained the unpleasant thought that he might have to go back to selling cars. So it was with good cheer that he accepted a call from Hans in the late summer of ‘71. They would meet in the cool and dark back booths at the Black Forest Inn in Hamilton. Best schnitzel this side of his mother’s kitchen, according to Hans.

They were perhaps each other’s only real friend. He had known Hans on and off for a quarter of a century, but knew little of his background or personal life. Once, after too many shots of Ratzeputz, celebrating the Leafs’ Stanley Cup win, Hans had mentioned a family. The rest is a little fuzzy. Did he say they were killed in an air raid, or did he abandon them on the wrong side of the Iron Curtain?

He arrived 15 minutes early but was not surprised to see Hans’ burgher-like, late model Electra sedan already parked in the prime shady spot near the door. Fiske maneuvered his ‘66 Thunderbird Landau as close as possible to steal some of the shade from August’s merciless sun. The Ford lacked air conditioning and was already showing some signs of rust. His Jag, of course, had been sacrificed during the divorce.

Entering the mock Bavarian hunting lodge, it took a few seconds for his eyes to get accustomed to the darkened interior. Hans waved from a back booth, a cozy trestled affair decorated with plastic grape vines. His sometime business partner’s hair was a little grayer but still worn in a high and tight military manner. Hans sported his usual monogramed shirt but now with a pair of oversize gold cufflinks that looked like meteors fallen to earth. A smaller space rock pin secured an Empire Club tie; the jacket of his moss green three-piece suit was thrown over a chair. A Pulsar digital had replaced the Ventura on his wrist.

Before Fiske finished squeezing into the booth, a gum chewing teenage waitress in a dirndl handed him a menu. “Hurry up and order,” said Hans, “we have much to discuss.” Fiske pushed his chair back and unbuckled his belt a notch — or two, the Huntsman’s Platter had perhaps been a little too ambitious. With a contented sigh he brought out a fresh pack of Craven A’s. Hans preferred imported US Tareytons, "Us Tareyton smokers would rather fight than switch!" he explained with a wink.

Hans waved away the proffered Chow Keong Hand Laundry match book for a gold Dunhill that he used to light both their cigarettes.

Not until the coffee and strudel were finished did the old German go into his pitch.

“The Americans didn’t get everything under Operation Paperclip. It’s easy to overlook something important when you don’t know what you are looking at - something that is, as they say, outside your frame of reference. But that is a future endeavor, mein Lieber, right now I want to talk to you about toy trains.”

Fiske almost spat out his coffee. Hans’ comic timing would rival a vaudeville act.

“Not children’s toys”, explained Hans “but one of the biggest and most valuable collections in existence, to say nothing of its historical significance. Did you know that my old boss, Hermann Göring, President of the Reichstag, Chief of the Luftwaffe, and Reichsminister of Aviation, was a model railroader?

An entire attic at Carinhall and then a huge cellar was given over to his obsession, which covered almost 400 square meters. Göring worked on his extensive layout from the early thirties right till the end of the war. A team of model makers lived on the grounds: two Märklin employees and occasional staff from Siemens & Halske, an electrical engineering company.

When the Russians were getting uncomfortably close, the Chief couldn’t stand the thought of those filthy reds getting their hands on his spoils of conquest - the pilfered art, furniture, and toys. On his orders the whole place was blown up by a Luftwaffe demolition squad.

I’ve been looking a long time. At first there were more stories than evidence. This is what I have been able to piece together.

Maybe he changed his mind at the last minute, or maybe it was a member of staff trying to secure a nest egg for after the war.

Valuable petrol and two Opel Blitz trucks were used to load up the rolling stock and as many of the buildings that could be disassembled and crated. I estimate that they saved 85-90 percent of the layout, even the control panel. And in good German fashion each item was meticulously recorded.

They were the last trucks out of the gates before Göring’s palatial hunting lodge, not the mention the grave of his first wife, turned to rubble.

It was bad luck for them — but not for us, Garland, that the crates ended up behind the Iron Curtain.

My contact got them from someone in the East German Youth Organization, Freie Deutsche Jugend who traded them for a higher spot on the waiting list for a new Wartburg. I wish I could tell you more, but the crates had gone through numerous hands by then, their significance dimmed with each trade or theft.”

“Hans, I can go into any Eaton’s department store and buy a new electric train set for around $25.” said an unimpressed Fiske.

It was Hans’ turn to act incredulous. “Don’t be so short-sighted. Train collectors – sorry, model railroaders - are a special breed and will pay a great deal for high-quality prewar merchandise, some still in their original boxes. This is not your cheap Hong Kong plastic shit.

The Göring collection is the holy grail; is that blasphemous, when speaking of my old boss? The fat flyboy had good taste in cars, women — and yes, toy trains. He would host parties and invite the guests, military brass and foreign diplomats downstairs to watch him play with his toys.

I got to see it once. I was at Carinhall, delivering a proposal from Heinkel for some Buck Rogers jet bomber. All I needed was a signature.

Göring was very entertaining; everyone was in high spirits. It was late 1941, and everything was going our way. We couldn’t lose. Trying to finish my assignment I was swept along with the merry guests to the attic like a small fish against the current.

It really was an impressive sight, Garland; I was a small child again peering in wonder at the Christmas displays in the windows of the Wertheim Department Store on the Leipziger Platz.  Planes, model cars and of course trains whizzed around in dizzying patterns, and in the center of it all was Göring himself controlling his scale empire like one of your Rothschilds or Rockefellers. The assembled ministers, diplomats and movie stars clapped and cheered.

I caught his eye then; he waved me over. Perhaps I would be allowed behind the controls, but it was not to be. The Swedish ambassador cut in front of me and the brief connection we had was gone. I handed over my documents and returned to Berlin that evening.

He had rolling stock by Trix and Märklin plus custom-made locomotives in O and I Gauge, buildings, bridges, even hills and forests, all to scale. An early version of a Rennbahn, a slot car track, and planes that could fly overhead on wires and drop little wooden bombs.

Not just German manufacturers, Garland - he had trains from English and American firms, Lionel and Tri-ang. Most were purchased before the war broke out, but he likely had embassy staff finding him foreign trains from high-end department stores around the world.”

“How much are we talking?”, asked Fiske.

“We need twenty grand: I’m putting up five. We share transport costs. Prospective buyers won’t be a problem. We could clear half a million, maybe more if the well-heeled train buffs get into a bidding war. Usual 49 / 51% split.

The seller doesn’t realize the potential value, and he doesn’t have the necessary expertise to get the items out of the country. Most of the upfront cash is to grease the palms of East German officials. Like good communists, all they care about is money.

It’s the bureaucrats in Bonn that we really must avoid. Now that they have caught all the Parteibonzen, party big-wigs, and paid reparations to half of Europe, they are turning their attention to ‘unresolved property’ issues.”

Hans barreled on, warming to the topic and his own cleverness,

“I have a contact in the East, they make model trains, mostly based on pre-war molds. He will get us a few thousand pieces - locomotives, rail cars, and accessories - plus a few hundred extra empty boxes. Each box has a serial number. We will re-package all the Chief’s toy trains in new socialist boxes, being careful to catalogue each item to a corresponding box’s serial number. Crates full of new product on top and the re-boxed Göring collection on the bottom will be shipped from the port of Rostock in the GDR to Montreal.

Once we collect in Montreal, we will separate the wheat from the chaff, so to speak, at a quiet warehouse in Toronto.

The remaining communist toys we will sell to a department store chain or toy company at a reasonable markup. Think of the honest write-off you can declare on your taxes to convince the authorities you are the legitimate businessman you pretend to be.

The buildings and other diorama pieces will be shipped as architectural models destined to the German themed Christmas village outside of Detroit.”

Hans took a breath. “This is our big score. We pull this off and wir werden wie Gott in Frankreich leben." Then, for Fiske’s benefit: “We will live like God in France.”

It all went as Hans had described: money changed hands, no one got shot, and the product was successfully exported, then imported.

The sale took a little longer, because Fiske and Hans were adamant that the collection would not be broken up. It was all or nothing. In the end it came down to three competing buyers: a rock star, a big-shot movie producer, and an heir to a construction fortune.

Fiske flew from Pearson to LAX, rented a Caprice, then drove into the desert.

His destination was a modernist mansion in Palm Springs, that to Fiske’s eyes looked more like a Hollywood coffee shop. Once buzzed through the front gates, he parked the Chevrolet between a lime-colored Pantera and a faded red, mid-Fifties Chrysler.

He was escorted through the airport-sized foyer by the maid. In a sunken living room, a man with his back turned to him was watching a huge console color television. On the screen, Formula One cars raced in the rain. Jo Siffert was battling Jackie Stewart for the lead. The maid gently encouraged him past and forward until he was back outside in the blinding sunshine.

He stood in a green oasis at the center of which was a pentagon shaped swimming pool. The aqua blue mosaic tiles made the water look like it had been imported directly from Tahiti. So still and clear was the water that he could not resist brushing his hand across the surface to prove it was really there.

Fiske collected the cash payment in a supermarket brown paper bag while standing beside the pool. He was disappointed the money didn’t come in one of those briefcases with the combination locks.

He never formally met the winning bidder; the guy managing the hand over was a private dick on retainer to the studio. He only caught a first name - Bill. Despite being a little younger than himself, Bill looked distinctly yesteryear, thought Fiske; stingy brim fedora, dark herringbone suit with thin lapels and an equally thin tie. Straight out of a pulp novel, or maybe the CIA?

One week later he was back in Toronto. With abundant cash in his account, he intended to reward himself in style, beginning with his favorite breakfast. The Honey Dew Grill Restaurant at Yonge and Carlton was no longer the trendy destination of his university days, yet it retained a nostalgic glamour that kept him a customer.

The early-morning sunlight was kind to its tired streamlined façade. At sidewalk level, few pedestrians noticed the accumulation of grime on the ornate neon signage or the tarnished stainless-steel cladding. Inside, a blue-grey haze of cigarette smoke enveloped the Monday morning clientele of suits and secretaries, blue-collar shift workers and a smattering of unkempt bohemians. All seeking solace from the city’s noise and late September heat.

He walked the length of the establishment to a corner booth. The leather seating was lined with cracks; its stuffing compressed from decades of use. Briefly shifting his gaze to his table’s surface, he noticed the silver patterned Formica laminate had begun to chip and peel under the relentless onslaught of cutlery, cigarette butts and coffee cups.

When I was a student, this place seemed so modern, thought Fiske.

A waitress made a bee-line to his table, her sandals clacking on the worn linoleum. While ordering, he took note of her unusually long, dark hair and the beaded necklace she wore over her uniform. Order taken, he extracted an oversized brochure from his monogrammed leather briefcase. Its dark blue cover was embossed with classic Cadillacs of the past. Noise from nearby patrons receded as he inspected the lavish status symbols within.

A Cadillac said you’ve made it. A line he had used himself, more than once, to help close a sale back in the old days. And now he wanted to let everyone know: he had made it.

Breakfast arrived: eggs Benedict, coffee, the restaurant’s signature Honey Dew orange juice and a slice of apple pie for dessert. After a final cup of coffee, he paid at the register, making sure to leave a two-dollar tip for the attractive hippie waitress. Feeling the thrill of an impending automotive purchase, he resolved to visit the closest dealer and order a new Cadillac to his exact specifications. Fiske would be no “easy up” and he looked forward to grinding them on the deal.

Exiting the subway at Yonge and Eglinton, he could see the entrance to Parkwood Motors. The two-story building dated back to the late 1920s; its elegant, whitewashed stucco updated with the latest GM corporate logos. Nearby, a tower crane lifted precast concrete panels to the higher levels of a half-completed brutalist office block. The dealership was dwarfed by the skeleton of the new building.

He continued forward, noticing the shadowed, sleek outlines of the latest models through the showroom’s wide glass windows on the ground floor. The steady metallic whine of circular saws and electric drills drowned out the multi-lane traffic noise as he crossed the street. The humid air was heavy with exhaust fumes. Debris from construction site activity coated the area with a fine film of dust; Young and Eglinton was charging headlong into a radically different future.

A gold Eldorado coupe in the center of the polished showroom floor caught his attention immediately. The impossibly long hood and prominent fenders made him think back to the unattainable V12 and V16 Cadillacs of his youth. Even the name, Fleetwood Eldorado, tasted rich in his mouth, an insolent chariot of the gods.

Oblivious to the hungry gaze of a nearby salesman, he drew closer. Like its namesake, the entire car was gold, right down to the floor mats, and where it wasn’t gold, it was chrome. The sun’s rays had finally penetrated the showroom; light played across the Eldorado’s sweeping lines. Complex curves revealed shimmering liquid silver, bronze and orange gradations within the depth of its metallic paint.

It was as if the other cars on the showroom floor didn’t exist.

He leaned in to inspect the mock air intake located before the right rear wheel. Its inward curve swept back in harmony with the rear fender, a graded and recessed texture provided pleasing contrast. The streamlined quarter panel hinted at high-performance prototypes, supersonic jet travel, and possibly the gills of a shark.

The salesman, with a little difficulty lifting the heavy hood, showed him the 8.2 litre mill. “That’s European for 500 cubic inches,” he explained. “The biggest passenger V8 in the world.” Fiske was already picturing himself in the driver’s seat.

Thoughts of custom ordering a '72 model faded. He began convincing himself that this car would be his: If I place an order, it will be winter before it arrives. I can buy this one NOW and be in the sunshine and warmth of Niagara-on-the-Lake by lunchtime...

He purchased the Eldorado right off the showroom floor. He paid cash and didn’t haggle. It was a beautiful September day. He turned on radio; some helpful car jockey had already tuned it to ALL HIT 1050 CHUM.

“you’re built like a car, you’ve got a hubcap diamond star halo”

Fiske left it on, feeling the beat in sync with the Cadillac’s monstrous engine. Driving downtown to show off, he imagined the office drones of Bay Street’s financial district looking out at the golden Eldorado with envy.

He slid the radio selector to the FM band, the song changed, a faster driving beat: “Been a long time since I rock and rolled.” He pulled onto the Gardner Expressway ramp and hit the gas. For a moment there was nothing, then a combination of solenoids and vacuum switches decided that the driver was serious and allowed the massive secondaries to open.

Fiske felt a punch in the gut as the 400 pound-feet of torque shoved him into the gold knit upholstery. The car leaped ahead, forcing him to merge before he ran out of lane. As the office towers of Toronto the Good receded with haste, he let out an uncustomary whoop of joy. A new car, lots of money in the bank, a sunny early autumn day and an exciting new business venture.

Tomorrow, it would be back to work. Hans had left him a message on his new answering machine: another deal, some piece of kraut scientific hardware. “Die Glocke.” The bell. See he had picked up some of the lingo. Hans said it would be their biggest score yet. “Meet me at the Black Forest Inn and we will go over the details.”

Author’s notes, part 2:

Garland Fiske’s trail goes cold after September of 1971: no arrests, no tax returns, not even a speeding ticket. However, I don’t give up easily; the search continues.

Fiske undoubtedly enjoyed the Eldorado until it turns up with a new owner in Kingston, Ontario, not far from his old hometown. The Chinese laundry is still there too, but I have never seen it open to ask if I can visit the offices on the second floor.

The rumor was that he and Hans were searching for some anti-gravity wunderwaffe or a time portal device in Poland.

But as they say, that is a story for another time.

Cadillac radio playlist, listen here.

“When I sit in the lobby it reminds me of the Ritz of Paris, or Shepheard’s of Cairo. Here I get a glimpse of every famous person in the world. And drink with them, to boot.” — Andre Kostelanetz on the Royal York

Special thanks to my brother Tom for his tireless editing and assistance with diner and dealer scenes.

Goring group photo with trains: