Border City Blues 3-Book Bundle Page 7

  “I’ve seen enough. Stay here and cover the front while I go around back and try and find another way in.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Montroy found a rear entrance in the alleyway, but it was locked. He pulled out his Colt, took a deep breath and kicked the door open.

  “Hands up, boys — where I can see ’em.”

  The milkman dove for cover. One of the Pole’s boys drew his pistol and Montroy fired, hitting him in the shoulder. The other fellow grabbed some air. Montroy cocked his revolver and aimed it at the Pole. The Pole laughed, pulled what appeared to be a butcher knife out of a sheath hanging from his belt, and started inching towards Montroy.

  With his lanky black hair, white flesh, and big round eyes there was something dark and weirdly medieval about this man. Montroy took a step back. That was a mistake. Now the Pole knew he had him.

  There was a noise at the front door. The Pole didn’t turn around at first. He just kept grinning, and as he moved into the light he threw a dense, cold shadow that seemed to bleed into every corner of the room.

  “Sergeant Montroy?”

  It was Corbishdale. He was standing there with his pistol drawn. The Pole turned and was a breath away from throwing the knife at Corbishdale when Montroy put a bullet in his back. The Pole froze for a moment, then his legs twisted under him and he dropped to the floor.

  “Goddamn,” said Montroy and ran over to the Pole. “Call an ambulance.”

  “Sir … I heard a shot … I …”

  “That’s all right, son. Just get us that ambulance.”

  Montroy looked up at the table and saw the milk bottles. He grabbed one. They were empty but painted to look full. When you held one in your hand it was pretty obvious, but on your porch at 5:30 in the morning no one could possibly tell the difference.

  The Pole and his injured partner were loaded into the ambulance. Montroy rode with them and took the opportunity to ask the accomplice a few questions. When Montroy didn’t like the answers, he poked the man in the shoulder with his nightstick. Every so often he would glance over at the Pole lying unconscious on the stretcher. He had this creepy grin on his face, like he was listening to everything they were saying.

  Ugly bohunk.

  — Chapter 10 —

  OJIBWAY

  McCloskey watched the sun drop behind the horizon like a penny in a slot, gently triggering the astromechanics of nightfall. By the time he reached Essex County everything was black around his headlight beams.

  At Maidstone he switched over to Talbot Road. When he reached the Huron Line he hung a left and continued west to Ojibway. Cottages and small farms began to appear, and then finally the river. He turned up Front Road.

  He saw a bonfire in the distance and recognized some landmarks in the firelight: a row of poplars, an old oak tree — his father’s old truck.

  “Shit.”

  Anxiety gripped his body as his mind accelerated with the car. He turned sharply, nearly missing the bridge that spanned the ditch and then skidded to a stop near the house. Just as he was about to step down onto the running board an explosion threw him back into his seat. The windows and part of the roof were blown out of the cabin, showering the yard with burning debris.

  McCloskey pulled himself up. Through the cloud of smoke he could make out his nearest neighbour, Lesperance, running towards him with a bucket. Taking his cue from the old man, McCloskey raced to the well and started pumping water into the bucket that hung from the spout. Lesperance arrived, breathless, just in time to exchange his empty one for McCloskey’s overflowing one.

  The old man shuffled over to the cabin and tossed the water through a broken window. Steam, smoke, and sparks billowed out in a thick, noxious mixture. He shouted over the roar of the flames, “Let it burn, Jack.”

  “No,” he replied, “might be kegs under the floor.”

  Or money, McCloskey was thinking. He ran to the cabin and doused a section of shingles curling in the flames. The walls shuddered and the roof collapsed. He jumped back and turned away as a geyser of sparks shot up into the night sky. It got dark quickly after that, quiet too. McCloskey ran inside the house to fetch a lantern.

  The place was a wreck. Chairs were overturned and cabinet drawers were spilled out onto the floor. He found the lantern and then gave a holler up the stairs.

  “Pa? Billy?”

  Nothing. He switched a light that hung outside the kitchen door and stepped back into the yard. His eyes fell on a set of drag marks in the loose dirt and gravel. They appeared to run in the direction of the cabin. He turned to Lesperance.

  “Did you see anyone here tonight?”

  The old man shook his head. “I just got home.”

  McCloskey started fiddling with the lantern. Lesperance approached him tentatively.

  “You back for good, Jack?”

  McCloskey looked at the old man sideways. He was a cagey fellow and McCloskey was never sure how far he could trust him.

  “You know, Jack … it might be dangerous here for you.”

  McCloskey got the lantern going and went over to the cabin. He could see parts of a whisky still poking through the glowing rubble, as well as various tools, jars, and jugs.

  “Hold this.”

  He handed Lesperance the lantern then ran over to the garden and grabbed a shovel. He pulled down what was left of the cabin walls then stepped carefully into the smouldering ruin. He couldn’t remember exactly where the trap door was. He used the shovel to leverage larger pieces of the cabin off the floor then kicked the rubble aside.

  He saw something. Boots, two pair pointing up at different angles.

  “Shine it over here.”

  McCloskey moved faster, trying to gently lift the brittle framework and then … overalls, burned flesh, a lifeless hand, and a face still expressing what must have been the body’s last agonizing moments. McCloskey went numb and the shovel dropped from his hands.

  He became acutely aware of the darkness surrounding him, penetrating everything. It was in his father’s and brother’s dead eyes, the inky blackness of the river, and the farmland that stretched beyond the fading glow of the lantern. His knees felt weak. He was teetering at the edge of an abyss buried deep inside him, the same one he had fallen into after the war.

  And then something snapped and he was like a machine kicked into overdrive.

  “Did you call anyone before you left the house?”

  “No, Jack, no one.”

  McCloskey couldn’t tell if he was lying. “Make the call after I’ve left,” he said. “Tell the police I hit the road while you were walking back to your house. And you have no idea where I could’ve gone to.”

  “It won’t look good, Jack.”

  “I have to get to Clara before anyone else does.”

  He looked down and noticed his torn pants and burnt shoes.

  “Wait here a minute.”

  He ran into the house. Upstairs he found some of his old clothes in a heap. He picked up a brown suit, a shirt, and a pair of heavy shoes. There was some soap and water on a table in his father’s room. He quickly scrubbed the black off his face and hands, dressed, and ran back downstairs.

  Lesperance had his head cocked towards the road. “A motor,” he said.

  “Cops?”

  “I can’t tell.”

  McCloskey ran to his vehicle. “Don’t mention Clara,” he said and started the engine. “Understand me?”

  “Who did this, Jack?”

  McCloskey ignored the old man. He dropped the clutch, shifted into reverse, and did a half-circle around him. Lesperance ran up to McCloskey and grabbed his arm.

  “They were expecting you, you know.”

  The approaching car could be heard clearly now.

  “Tell Clara what you got to tell her then get out of town.”

  McCloskey yanked his arm away, shifted out of reverse, and headed up the path. When he turned onto Front Road he could see the headlights of the other vehicle in his mirror. He kept glan
cing up until he saw it turn onto the property.

  He couldn’t get away from the image of their faces in the charred rubble. He twisted his hands around the steering wheel until it nearly snapped apart.

  At the highway junction he continued north along the river road. Wanting to avoid the downtown he took the Huron Line to Tecumseh Road, the back door into the Border Cities.

  Several cars were parked outside the Elliott Hotel and a couple of guys were keeping watch by the road. McCloskey turned his face as he drove past.

  Thoughts began to ricochet inside his head. Who was behind this? If he had gotten to Ojibway sooner, could he have saved them? Was Sophie still safely on her way to Montreal? The bell of a locomotive engine got him focused again. He slowed down while crossing the tracks and then kept an eye on the side streets along Tecumseh.

  There was a box of cigars on the seat next to him. He fumbled one out, bit off the end, and spat it onto the road. He found a match in the box as well, struck it on the dashboard, held the flame to the tip of the cigar, and took a few quick drags until it had a nice orange glow. The aroma filled the car. It helped calm his nerves.

  Years ago on summer nights like this, he and his father would sit on the porch after Billy went to bed and just talk. Sometimes all Jack could see was the orange glow of his father’s cigar floating back and forth as he rocked in his chair. The conversation would start with Jack telling his father what trouble he had gotten into that day. Then his father would start with his own stories.

  He wanted to avoid the Avenue so he turned left up McDougall instead, rumbling over the train tracks at Hanna and then gliding passed the rows of idle factories. He slowed at Giles Boulevard, where these factories gave way to little wooden bungalows. He was thinking he shouldn’t leave the car anywhere near Clara’s, so at Erie Street he pulled in behind City Garage. McCloskey hoped Orval wouldn’t sell it or use it for parts before he got back to him.

  Erie was quiet; most of the dwellings above the shops were dark. McCloskey moved swiftly through the shadows. He darted across the Avenue and when he reached Pelissier Street he ducked in the doorway of the building opposite Clara’s apartment.

  On hot, humid nights like this, one could almost hear people sighing in their beds. McCloskey took one last drag on his cigar, walked up to the front door, and found the name on the register. He pushed the buzzer — three times fast then once. The door clicked open.

  He slowly climbed the stairs to the second floor and paused in the dim light of the hall before knocking. He heard the clunk of the deadbolt inside the lock and then the door slowly swung open. When she recognized who it was, she threw her weight behind the door. McCloskey stopped it with his foot.

  “What do you want?” she hissed.

  “It’s about Billy.” He inched closer to the door. “Can I come in?”

  She couldn’t see around him into the hall.

  “You alone?” she asked.

  “Yeah.”

  Clara gave McCloskey another once over, relaxed her grip on the door, then stood back. He moved right past her and straight to the window in the front room, turned off a nearby table lamp, and peeked through the curtain.

  “So, what’s this about Billy?”

  She was standing in the middle of the room, wrapped in a silk robe embroidered with a Chinese design. Her arms were folded across her chest and McCloskey could tell she was trying not to lose her temper. He pulled his eyes away from the street below only long enough to tell her very matter-of-factly that Billy was dead.

  Clara closed her eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. When she opened them again the tension was gone from her body. There were no tears; this was the news she had been anticipating for the last six years. A long, sad chapter in her life had finally come to an end.

  When the reports from the war were particularly bad, she would lie in bed wondering if he was still alive. When he came home a shattered man and drank until he couldn’t drink anymore, she wondered how long it would take for him to kill himself with booze. When he left her and became a notorious bootlegger, she wondered where she’d find out about his death first: in the newspaper, from an overheard conversation in a streetcar, or from a cop. She thought she would have been more upset about it but she wasn’t. She had mourned the loss of her husband too many times now to be shocked by his actual death.

  “What happened?”

  McCloskey told her what he came home to in Ojibway, leaving out the gruesome details. Clara was saddened about her father-in-law. She always had a soft spot for him. He was such a larger-than-life character.

  “Drink?”

  McCloskey was still at the window. “Yeah.”

  Clara came back from the kitchen with a couple of ryes, hers with ginger. She handed McCloskey his then dropped into a big, cushioned chair near the window.

  McCloskey sat across from her on the chesterfield. He liked how her robe parted over one of her thighs and the small electric fan nearby was tousling her hair. He took a sip from his glass.

  “Who were you expecting tonight?”

  Clara pushed her eyebrows together.

  “Not everyone knows the buzz,” he said, “and you wouldn’t open the door for just anybody, not dressed like that.”

  Clara rolled her eyes. “It could only have been you or Billy, and last I heard you were still in Hamilton.”

  McCloskey wasn’t entirely satisfied with that but let it drift. They sat silently in the dark for a while. Clara could tell something else was up and McCloskey’s mind felt like a cloud of exploded shell fragments. He had left Hamilton with such purpose and determination. Now where was he? Maybe his journey wasn’t over yet.

  And then someone started speaking. It took McCloskey a moment to realize it was himself. “I want you to fix it so I can see Henry tonight.”

  Clara sat up. “What for? He’ll arrest you before you say boo, Jack.”

  McCloskey finished his drink. “Smooth him out for me first. Tell him what I told you. Tell him anything. But it has to be tonight.”

  “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  She got up and, doing away with the gingery pretence, refilled McCloskey’s glass as well as her own. McCloskey poured it down his throat. He could still taste the cedar from the burned-out cabin.

  “I want to know who was behind it — before the police have a chance to cover it up or try to hang it on me.”

  “Why don’t you cut your losses and just get out of town, Jack? Don’t you realize you’re probably next on their list, whoever it was?”

  “Don’t you care who did this?”

  “No, Jack, I don’t. As far as I’m concerned it’s over, it’s finally over. Now maybe we can get on with what’s left of our pathetic lives.”

  That was harsh. It came straight from the bottle.

  “Not until I find out who’s responsible.”

  “What’s the mystery, Jack? Wasn’t it the same sons of bitches you work for?”

  “Used to work for. I don’t know. Something tells me it’s more complicated than that.”

  “It’s never more complicated than that.”

  Clara got up, fetched her pack of cigarettes off the windowsill, and got one going with the little Ronson striker she had in her pocket. She took a puff before replying.

  “Okay, I’ll talk to Henry. I’ll do it for your father. I always thought he deserved better than you two.”

  He let that one drift too. He figured he should probably start getting used to it.

  “Tell him to meet me at the British-American in half an hour.”

  “You have to promise me one thing.”

  He stood up and set his glass down on the coffee table. “What’s that?”

  “If you don’t get anywhere with Henry, don’t come running back to me. I never want to see you again.”

  “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

  “Don’t bet on it,” she said and she pulled her robe tight across her chest. “I’ll take care of the funeral arrangements.
”

  Jack reached in his pocket and pulled out a roll of bills. He peeled off a couple layers and tossed them onto the table next to his glass.

  “This place still got a back door?”

  “You know where it is.”

  Clara followed McCloskey down the hall past the bedrooms.

  “Put the latch on and don’t open the door for anybody,” he said. “I wasn’t here.”

  — Chapter 11 —

  THE BOILING POINT OF ALCOHOL

  Young Bertie Monaghan and his father Jacob were sharing a pitcher of lemonade under the silver maple in their backyard. Mrs. Monaghan was visiting her mother.

  ‘In the old days we’d hide it in the bush where it wouldn’t draw attention or cause any damage, but in our case,’ Jacob gestured with his thumb, ‘I think the garden shed will do just fine.’

  Bertie nodded and tipped his glass to his mouth for another sip. The ice sloshed back and some lemonade dribbled down his chin. He wiped it with the back of his hand. While other boys were getting driving lessons from their dads, Bertie was learning how to make moonshine. It was an old family tradition.

  ‘We’ll need an oversized kettle for fermenting. It sits on a rack a couple feet off the ground, and the gas burner goes underneath. Gas is the best. Oh — and we’ll need a good thermometer.’

  Monaghan took another look over his shoulder to make sure none of his neighbours were about.

  ‘Now, from a hole at the side of the kettle, right near the bottom, we run a rigid, narrow tube and close it off with a valve. The still is smaller than the kettle and positioned an arm’s length from the rack. Its neck should taper to an opening just large enough to accommodate an end of narrow, flexible pipe. Running out the side of the neck, just above where it connects to the still, is another rigid tube like the one coming out the side of the kettle. Connect the end of this tube to the valve. Together, these tubes should form a straight line parallel to the ground. The pressure of the gases in the kettle will push the liquid along this connection, letting it drip smooth and regular into the still.’