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  “One for each hand.”

  McCloskey took them.

  “When you’re done, I want you both back at the Connaught Hotel.”

  Less than thirty minutes later, McCloskey was taking aim at a fellow trying to negotiate a leap from the window of a burning building. The fool probably figured if he played it right, he could slide down the roof of the veranda and land on a pile of snow. McCloskey put a bullet in his hip and watched him tumble off the roof and land on the frozen pavement, missing the snow by inches.

  A shot rang from the house and a bullet hit the car adjacent to where McCloskey was standing. He remained focused, spotting a figure in another window. He threw some lead in its direction and the figure fell backwards into the flames. More shots followed, but they were coming from the other side of the house. Slip reappeared.

  “I got one,” he said. Glancing over his shoulder to the pavement he remarked, “I see you were busy.” There were sirens in the distance and McCloskey tucked away his revolver. “Let’s get out of here.”

  The next morning there was some unexpected news from Windsor: Billy McCloskey was alive and recovering nicely from his bullet wound. According to the doctor, if he had been standing at a slightly different angle or if the cold had not slowed the bleeding, he’d be dead right now. Of course Jack was relieved, but then came a raft of questions.

  Was Billy under the impression that his brother was the shooter? Did Billy actually see the shooter? Who could it have been? Was it an accident or did someone in that mob actually want Billy dead? And what was Billy telling the investigators right now? McCloskey’s moment of relief suddenly evaporated. He had no choice but to wait and see how things played out.

  McCloskey expected to be called back home, figuring Billy’s survival must have taken some of the heat off. That may have been the case, but there were new developments in Hamilton as well. The mandate now for Brown’s outfit was to extend their influence to the tips of the Golden Horseshoe — the region stretching west from the Niagara River along the peninsula, around Lake Ontario, and then back east to Toronto’s borders. To that end, Brown was told by the boss in Montreal that he could retain McCloskey’s services indefinitely. Apparently Green had no say in the matter.

  Lieutenant Brown was unrelenting in his campaign, and McCloskey became the go-to guy in virtually every operation.

  It looked like it was going to be a long winter, but then spring arrived early in the form of a fresh-faced girl sporting a sleek blonde bob. McCloskey was waiting for Slip in the mezzanine of the hotel when he spotted her sprinting up the stairs from the lobby. Her knees played peek-a-boo with the hem of her dress, and she jiggled in all the right places. When she passed McCloskey, she glanced at him with eyes like blue saucers.

  “Down, boy,” said Slip. “That’s the boss’s girl.”

  “The boss’s girl? How come I never seen her? Does she live here in the hotel?”

  “Yeah, but you didn’t hear it from me. She’s his best-kept secret. Now forget you ever saw her.”

  She looked young, sweet and, according to McCloskey, had no business hanging around guys like Brown.

  Slip just smiled and shook his head. “Just remember what I told you,” he said. “Now c’mon. We gotta be somewhere.”

  A few days later McCloskey saw her having breakfast downstairs. That’s twice in one week, he thought. It must be a sign.

  “Mind if I join you?” he said. “My name’s —”

  She looked up at McCloskey’s devilish grin. “I know who you are.”

  Her tone was playful, like she knew the score.

  “Call me Jack.”

  “Nice to meet you, Jack. I’m Sophie.”

  He gently took her hand.

  “Sophie.” McCloskey said it a few more times in his head. “I like that.”

  “It’s kind of grown on me. Do you like eggs, Jack?”

  Sophie pointed out the waiter hovering impatiently.

  “I’ll have whatever she’s having.”

  They got to talking about this and that, and eventually McCloskey got around to asking her how she got mixed up with a guy like Brown.

  “Just lucky, I guess.”

  “No, really.”

  She told him the story of how Brown pulled her out of a chorus line in Montreal. Rescued her was what he liked to say. Now she was sitting on the shelf in his trophy room.

  “So why stick around?”

  “The money’s good and I like the hours.”

  McCloskey tried to guess her age. Sure, she was young, but she had a worldly air about her, so he guessed older.

  “I turned eighteen the first of April. That makes me an April fool.”

  McCloskey almost choked on his scrambled eggs. It made her laugh and she had a great laugh.

  Slip happened to be walking through the dining room at the time and spotted the two of them playing footsy. He made a beeline for McCloskey and grabbed his arm.

  “What did I tell you?” said Slip.

  Slip gave Sophie a look, as if to say Leave my boy alone.

  “What? We’re just —”

  “I know what you’re doing. C’mon, let’s go.”

  “Don’t tell me — we gotta be somewhere.”

  McCloskey looked back at Sophie and shrugged. Sophie just smiled and waved goodbye.

  Regarding his brother Billy and the incident in the alleyway, McCloskey was still waiting for the other shoe to drop. Was it possible that everyone was still under the impression that he pulled the trigger? Did Billy know the truth? Was he just waiting to play that card?

  And then his mind would invariably turn to their father. What could Billy have told him? McCloskey was tempted on a number of occasions to jump in his car and drive home so that he could settle the matter once and for all.

  It felt like he had already been down this road: trying to get home, wanting to find his place, and hoping to set things right. But something always came along to make it all that much more complicated. He admitted to himself that sometimes it was himself, but most times it just seemed like fate was working against him.

  A couple weeks after Jack’s aborted breakfast with Sophie, Brown called McCloskey to his suite, and McCloskey arrived at the door the same time she did. She appeared quite agitated but he kept his distance. When the maid opened the door, Sophie stormed in. McCloskey cautiously followed.

  She proceeded to make what is commonly known as a scene. Evidently Brown had just sent her a message cancelling their plans for the evening, and this wasn’t the first time. It was all a bit awkward and McCloskey had the distinct feeling that Sophie was taking advantage of his being in the room.

  Desperate for a quick resolution, Brown glanced over at McCloskey. If he could trust this guy to get him out of a tight spot in the streets, he should be able to trust him to get him out of one at home.

  “Listen, if I let Killer here take you dancing tonight, will you shut up?”

  Sophie had Brown right where she wanted him. She managed to conceal her delight and looked McCloskey over like he was applying for a job in the kitchen.

  “Sure, he’ll do.”

  “You bring Alice and Fay with you too.”

  “Sure, sure.”

  Brown took McCloskey aside and laid down some ground rules: no other man was to speak to Sophie, and Sophie was not to speak to any other man. McCloskey was to keep his hands and his ideas to himself, and Sophie was to go nowhere without Alice or Fay.

  “Got it.”

  In the weeks that followed, Jack and Sophie recruited not only Alice and Fay but any bellhop and chambermaid they could trust in order to be able to rendezvous at a safe destination: out of the way diners, neighbourhood dance halls, and movie houses. They also took these opportunities to share stories and discovered how much they really had in common. Sophie called her and Jack orphans in a storm.

  Early in June, McCloskey was sent out on a reconnaissance to a narrow strip of land that stretched from Hamilton’s North End to Burl
ington on the other side of the lake. A channel broke the strip, and on the marsh side, the lakeside as well as on the inside of channel were several dozen boathouses, many nothing more than tarpaper shacks. He had been sent out by Brown to secure the territory, which was ideal for smuggling.

  There were a couple watering holes and clubhouses. People came for the duck hunting and fishing mostly, and to get away from the city and the factories. It reminded McCloskey of Ojibway. It quickly became a sort of retreat for him, and eventually he started bringing Sophie along with him. It became their place.

  But the more time they spent together, the more potential he could see for her to get drawn deeper into the world of guns and bootleg liquor. He knew the best thing would be to get her out of Hamilton and back home to her family. But to steal her away would also mean deserting his post, and after that it was anyone’s guess what his fate might be. For all he knew he could end up with a bounty on his head.

  But the more McCloskey thought about it, the more he thought it might be another turning point for him, a chance to re-invent himself yet again. After he got Sophie out of Hamilton he could go back to Windsor, explain everything to Green, reconcile with his father and brother and maybe even broker a deal between them and Green. Once that was done he could join Sophie in Montreal. But before McCloskey could get the wheels in motion, the wheels started falling off.

  Green was receiving reports that McCloskey wasn’t pulling his weight in Hamilton, was getting careless, and — worst of all — was rumoured to be carousing with Brown’s girl. Then word reached Brown from Windsor that not only was Billy McCloskey recovered from his bullet wound, he was also back to his old tricks with McCloskey Sr.

  Green and Brown knew that if their boss found out about any of this, it wouldn’t just be Jack McCloskey’s head on a pike. Something had to be done.

  Saturday, July 22

  Though Sophie had her own suite just down the hall, every once in a while she spent the night at Brown’s. Last night was one of those nights.

  It was early morning, and Brown was in his office. The door between the office and the bedroom was slightly ajar, and in a waking state Sophie could hear Brown on the phone. That wasn’t unusual, but when she heard McCloskey’s name, her ears pricked up.

  It quickly became obvious that Brown was talking to Green. She sat up quietly and tiptoed over to the door.

  She heard Brown say that McCloskey’s recent carelessness was threatening to undo all the work that had been done, and he didn’t have any choice in the matter. He would let Green “know by Monday.”

  Sophie didn’t know what that meant exactly, but she knew it couldn’t be good.

  Later in the afternoon, she was standing outside the fifth floor beauty salon waiting with Fay for an elevator. When the car finally arrived, it was packed with people. Sophie spotted McCloskey in the back and jumped in before the doors closed, leaving Fay behind.

  When the elevator reached the lobby, Sophie got out and walked straight out the front door and into a waiting taxi.

  McCloskey’s car was parked as usual right outside. He jumped into his vehicle and followed the taxi as it drove out of town.

  He had no idea where she could be instructing the driver to take her, but it was obvious to him that he was meant to follow. It had to be some place where they could be alone.

  The taxi eventually pulled into a motel somewhere along the peninsula east of Hamilton.

  McCloskey watched Sophie step out of the taxi and then waited for it to drive away. McCloskey parked away from the road. He met up with her in the office, where they got themselves a cabin near the lake. The manager took one look at McCloskey and knew better than to ask any questions.

  It was a relief to get out of the heat of the city. The two stripped down and collapsed on the bed, tired but not sleepy, listening to the cicadas in the trees.

  “What are we going to do?” asked Sophie.

  McCloskey’s head was full of dead-end ideas and questions he didn’t have answers to. He had become so tired of his life, and while he could see the possibility of a new one with Sophie, he knew that people like him ultimately ruined people like her. He had never felt this way for any other girl. Was it love? He wasn’t sure. His heart had always been a stranger to him, something he couldn’t quite fathom, though not for lack of trying. All he knew was he had to get Sophie out of harm’s way.

  “Let’s not think about that right now,” he said.

  They grabbed some towels and headed down to the beach for a moonlight dip. McCloskey got a fire going and waded out into the water. Sophie couldn’t swim so McCloskey gave her a piggyback. She panicked when the water came up to his neck and he laughed. When he wouldn’t turn around, she screamed and threw her legs over his shoulders. He relented and waded back to shore.

  When he dropped to his knees Sophie rolled onto the sand, just a few feet from the fire. McCloskey climbed on top of her. She looked golden. He leaned over her and gazed into her eyes, searching for answers, clues even. What he saw was a life just as complicated as his.

  Sophie spent the night at Brown’s again and was awakened this time by shouting in his suite. The door was closed, so she couldn’t make out all the words. She got up, grabbed a glass off the bureau, and put it to the wall. The other voice sounded like it belonged to Slip. Brown was telling him about a telephone conversation he just had with Green. Apparently, there was a confrontation back in Windsor between Billy McCloskey and one of Green’s men, and the gang member got himself shot up. And then Brown said something about her and Jack. It sounded like Slip had shadowed them to the motel. The conversation ended with Brown clearly saying that if they did away with the McCloskeys, it would resolve a number of issues and cut their losses.

  Sophie got a message to Jack via a chambermaid, and within the hour he was running with Sophie down the platform at the train station. This is it, he thought. This was the moment that he had been more or less waiting for, though it wasn’t the way he had imagined it would play out. No matter.

  “Kiss me, Jack!”

  For the first time in his short, violent life, Jack McCloskey had a sense of his own mortality. He watched Sophie take her seat in the car then followed her on foot as it rolled down the track. He was able to keep up until a fence at the end of the platform blocked his path.

  There was a commotion behind him. He turned to see a group of Brown’s men running his way. He threw himself through the nearest doors of the station and once inside zigzagged through benches and luggage carts. Out front there were other vehicles parked around his, so he had a few seconds of cover. When he pulled away, shots were fired and a couple hit his door panel. He raced out of the parking lot and headed west out of the city.

  Was it only a year ago that he had left Monroe? It had been a tough decision. He remembered coming to it after a series of compromises: first a job, then a match or two, and a life on my own terms. Then and only then would he make peace with his father and brother.

  So where did things sit now?

  He had become a mercenary for another gang in the syndicate, fallen in love with the gang leader’s girl, stolen her away, and deserted his post. It seemed like his life was forever spiralling out of control. Had it always been like this? He was heading home yet again. Would it be different this time? Had Sophie awakened something in him? Possibly.

  The sun was setting. He hit the accelerator and passed every vehicle he came upon. It occurred to him that Brown now knew Sophie’s whereabouts and destination and could intercept her at any station between Hamilton and Montreal. Jack had left her completely exposed.

  FIRST GEAR

  (SUNDAY, JULY 23, 1922)

  — Chapter 8 —

  A LITTLE STRAGGLING HAMLET

  … to behold on one side a city, with its towers and spires and animated population, with villas and handsome houses stretching along the shore, and a hundred vessels or more, gigantic steamers, brigs, schooners, crowding the port, loading and unloading; all the
bustle, in short, of prosperity and commerce; — and, on the other side, a little straggling hamlet, one schooner, one little wretched steam-boat, some windmills, a catholic chapel or two, a supine ignorant peasantry, all the symptoms of apathy, indolence, mistrust, hopelessness! — can I, can any one, help wondering at the difference, and asking whence it arises? There must be a cause for it surely — but what is it? Does it lie in past or present — in natural or accidental circumstances? — in the institutions of the government, or the character of the people? Is it remediable? is it a necessity? is it a mystery? what and whence is it? — Can you tell? or can you send some of our colonial officials across the Atlantic to behold and solve the difficulty?

  Anna Brownell Jameson wrote these words the summer prior to the Rebellion in ’37, and in Vera Maude’s opinion things hadn’t changed all that much. Sure, the little straggling hamlet grew up to become the City of Windsor, but there was still a huge difference in size and scope between it and Detroit, its American cousin on the other side of the river.

  What really struck Vera Maude, though, was the last sentence in this particular passage. In it Mrs. Jameson exposes an attitude that Vera Maude felt might be at the heart of the matter: let us commission a gaggle of bureaucrats, a handful of Mother England’s privileged sons, to force an artificial solution on the problem, whatever it is, rather than try to tackle it ourselves.

  Winter Studies and Summer Rambles in Canada. She snapped the book shut and stuffed it into her canvas bag. The next book she pulled down off the shelf was a volume of Shakespeare’s sonnets given to her by an admirer in her senior year of high school.

  Tom would steal glances at Vera Maude when it was his turn to stand up in front of the class and read from it. He was an original and Vera Maude liked him. But something wasn’t right with Tom; a dark cloud hung over him at times. There was talk of an illness, and not of the physical variety. He found joy in Shakespeare, however, and filled the book’s margins with his own verses.