It was difficult to tell who was more excited, Monaghan, who was describing it like it was a magical invention he saw in a dream, or his son, who was taking it all in, agog.
‘Back to the flexible pipe: first, keep in mind that its length will affect the distillation process — the longer the pipe, the weaker the product. Bend the pipe so it points down at a 45-degree angle. Connect a short length of much wider, rigid pipe to the end. This is your condenser. Connect a much smaller tube to the open end of it and run it to whatever vessel you’re using to collect the alcohol, say a good size jug. And we can’t make this tube too short: if the jug is too close to the burner the alcohol will evaporate or explode.’
‘But what do we make the spirits with, dad?’
‘Basically, corn. We pour it into the kettle and then top it with just enough lukewarm water to cover it. Let it breathe for two weeks. After a few days the ferment will start to bubble and stink like shit in a frying pan, so we’ll have to keep the shed well-ventilated.
‘The thermometer is so we can keep the heat at a steady 180 degrees — just above the boiling point of alcohol and below the boiling point of water. When the pressure starts building in the kettle, open the valve until you have a slow drip into the still. Make sure the amount of ferment getting forced into the still is equal to the amount of steam going up the pipe — you don’t want the still to either fill up or boil dry. The steam will condense and then run down the tube into the jug. What we’ve got now is 198-proof ethyl alcohol. It’s filtered through charcoal, and then diluted three parts alcohol to five parts distilled water. If we mess it up, we just keep trying. Every still has its own personality, and you just have to take the time to get to know her.’
That was about ten days ago. Right now Bertie was lying awake in bed like he was waiting for Christmas. He could smell the ferment from his window. He wondered if any of his neighbours on this hot summer night could as well. His dad said that anyone who did could get bought off with a jar.
Mrs. Ferguson had noticed the odour a few days ago when she sat down to her tea. It came wafting in through the dining room window and seemed to be coming from across the alley. She asked her son to confirm her suspicions for her and he did just that.
‘I guess you just never noticed it before, ma.’
‘I know what that smell is. Why hasn’t anyone done anything about it?’
‘Because this family makes good whisky. Now mind your own business, okay?’
Mrs. Ferguson was beside herself. It was a nightmare come true. Could a person really distill whisky in their own backyard without fear of consequence?
‘What is the world coming to, Stannie?’
‘About a buck a quart,’ he cracked.
He was twice her size but that never stopped her from slapping him around a bit for his ‘insolence and sinful behaviour.’ She fetched her rolling pin and started chasing Stannie around the dining room table with it.
‘All right, all right, ma. I won’t be buying any of his stuff. Just please do us both a favour and don’t go to the police.’
That wouldn’t be a problem. Mrs. Ferguson had made her rather poor opinion of the chief constable and his force known to several officers, and they were no longer returning any of her calls. No, Mrs. Ferguson was going to take a different route. She had recently heard of a young officer who was not afraid to do right and uphold the law. And it just so happened she knew a woman, a certain Mrs. Scofield, who was friendly with this boy’s mother. Mrs. Ferguson had made sure she crossed paths with Mrs. Scofield at the Avenue Market earlier this morning.
‘Have I got something to tell you!’
‘You have something to tell me?’
‘Isn’t that what I just said?’
‘Don’t ask me what you said. I’m the one that’s hard of hearing, Mrs. Ferguson. Besides, if you’re not going to pay attention to what you’re saying yourself,’ said Mrs. Scofield, waving an impatient hand, ‘then I’m off.’
‘Oh, Thelma, don’t be like that.’ Mrs. Ferguson touched Mrs. Scofield’s shoulder. ‘I’ve got a neighbour making spirits on his property.’
‘Whisky?’
Mrs. Scofield’s hearing was improving.
‘I’m not sure. It was Stannie told me.’
‘Oh, Stan.’
Mrs. Scofield didn’t care for Stan. She still blamed him for the death of Goldie, her golden retriever. Stan used to take Goldie to the river to swim. She was a good swimmer but one time Goldie dove in and never came back up. Mrs. Scofield said she knew the law. She said Stan should have been charged with negligent canicide.
‘Corn?’
‘How would I know?’ said Mrs. Ferguson as she adjusted the bag hanging from her shoulder. ‘All I do know is we have to put a stop to it.’
‘Yes, we do,’ agreed Mrs. Scofield. “‘How do we do that?’
‘Why, your friend Mrs. Locke, of course.’
‘I don’t follow.’
‘Walk with me, dear.’
Mrs. Ferguson hooked Mrs. Scofield’s arm in hers and dragged her towards the streetcar stop.
‘Are you not an intimate of Mrs. Locke’s?’
‘Yes.’
‘And is not Mrs. Locke the proud mother of Officer Tom Locke of the Windsor Police Department?’
Mrs. Ferguson gave Mrs. Scofield a minute to catch up.
‘You want me to tell Mrs. Locke about Stan?’
Mrs. Scofield’s streetcar pulled up. ‘No, Thelma, I want you to tell her about Mr. Monaghan. He’s the villain making moonshine in his backyard and he’s going to get the whole block inebriated.’
‘Well, then,’ said Mrs. Scofield, ‘you should report it to the police.’
Mrs. Ferguson gave a sigh. ‘You know what a rotten bunch they are. It would be useless. That’s why I want you to talk to Mrs. Locke. I’ve heard good things about her boy. He’s an honest one. And he respects his mother.’
The two ladies eyed the passengers stepping off the streetcar. Mrs. Scofield climbed aboard then turned and said she’d mention it to Mrs. Locke at church.
‘Bless you, Thelma! Our cause is a noble one, dear.’
Walking alongside the streetcar, Mrs. Ferguson followed Mrs. Scofield to her seat.
‘For Goldie!’ cried Mrs. Scofield.
The streetcar was pulling away.
‘What, dear?’
At church this morning Mrs. Scofield elbowed her way through the crowd and got a seat next to Mrs. Locke. When they sat down Mrs. Scofield gave her pitch. Mrs. Locke kept her eye on the minister but listened to Mrs. Scofield. Every once in a while she nodded her long, sour face. The Reverend’s sermon, coincidentally, was on the evils of strong drink. He had the congregation all fired up. Mrs. Locke raised the issue with her son over dinner.
Tom Locke knew the neighbourhood. He parked around the corner from Mrs. Ferguson’s place and made his way silently up the alleyway armed with his trademark baseball bat. No uniform, no badge, and no gun. He recognized the smell right away and honed in on the Monaghan property. In the moonlight he could see that the one window in the shed was recently boarded up and part of the roof was cut away, no doubt for ventilation purposes. He found a shovel in the garden and pried open the flimsy door.
Jacob Monaghan arrived just in time to see a shadowy figure smashing the components to his whisky still, which the assassin had dragged out into the alleyway. The reek of the ferment filled the air and made Monaghan gag.
Locke turned upon hearing his protests. Monaghan was prepared to confront him until he saw the baseball bat and the mad gleam in the swinger’s eye. Monaghan had heard about this fellow, and the word on the street was that he was actually a cop. Locke stopped swinging and pointed his weapon directly at Monaghan. His eyes were blazing and sweat was streaming down his face. To Monaghan, he looked like a man possessed.
“You want some, mister? I’ve got plenty left.”
Monaghan backed off. “No, sir.”
Locke looked around. Lights wer
e coming on in some of the windows facing the alley. There were silhouettes in a few of them. He hoped they all got a good look. Bertie Monaghan sure did. He had his face pressed against his bedroom window, watching. So much for family tradition.
— Chapter 12 —
THE BRITISH-AMERICAN
The British-American Hotel stood at Windsor’s main intersection — the Avenue and Riverside Drive, just a stone’s throw from the ferry dock. It was built on the site originally occupied by Pierre St. Amour’s tavern and ferry. St. Amour was among the first to operate a regular service between the south shore and Detroit. That was in 1820 and the ferry was a dugout canoe.
Hirons House came to occupy the site towards the middle of the century and saw the arrival of the Great Western Railway, completing the link between the Atlantic and the Mississippi. Hirons survived the Great Fire of 1871, was expanded and renamed American House.
A decade later, the mayor of the town persuaded Mrs. Lucetta Medbury of Detroit, owner of the property the hotel was situated on, to allow the block to be opened up to the water’s edge and make possible the construction of a new ferry landing and customs house. The dock quickly became the main junction for people travelling not just between Windsor and Detroit but Canada and the United States. The owners of the hotel, overtaken by a fit of patriotism, soon after renamed it the British-American.
Today, the British-American represented a sort of neutral territory. There was no bootleg liquor behind the bar, no gambling, no needles in the washrooms, and no guns or badges. When parties from opposite sides of the law met here, it was usually for diplomatic reasons.
Fields entered and looked around uncomfortably. He stood out like a sore thumb and he knew it. His blue suit and brown shoes said honest and sensible. His handlebar moustaches said cop. He walked over to the bar where McCloskey was drinking what these days passed for beer. He took up a defensive position, leaving a stool between him and his brother-in-law.
“Thanks for coming, Henry.”
“I’m only here because Clara asked me.”
“Can I get you anything?”
“Let’s get to the point.”
McCloskey swallowed a big piece of his pride and got right to it. “I need your help.”
That seemed to tickle Fields. He let out a snort, the Henry Fields equivalent of a belly laugh. “McCloskey, I only tolerated you and your family because of Clara. Now that Billy is dead, that connection is gone and as far as I’m concerned you’re fair game.”
McCloskey looked at himself in the mirror behind the bar. Part of him was already regretting this. “My pa and Billy were murdered.”
“That’s rich. I made a few telephone calls. There was a fire in the cabin that housed your father’s still. The still exploded, the cabin caught fire, and they were killed trying to save their liquor. End of story.”
“That’s not true, at least not entirely. There were obvious signs of a struggle in the house. They were dragged into the cabin. For all we know they may even have been burned alive.”
“Maybe they had it coming.”
Under normal circumstances McCloskey would have beaten Fields within an inch of his life for a remark like that. He swallowed a bit more of his pride and continued. “If the people who did it think I’m going to take this lying down, they’re wrong.”
McCloskey could sense patrons turning an ear towards the bar. And then the murmuring started. For anyone interested in the social climate in the Border Cities, the British-American was the barometer and right now the barometer was suggesting a storm was on the way.
“Clara said I should cut my losses, but seeing as I’ve got nothing left, I think that puts me at a distinct advantage.”
“I can’t be a party to your vigilantism, McCloskey. Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t just lock you up and throw away the key.”
McCloskey was getting tired of this dance, but he wasn’t going to let go of Fields until he had what he wanted.
“Listen, Henry, this is bigger than a family of bootleggers operating out of a farmhouse at the edge of town and you know it. If you really want to fight the good fight you’ll forget about chumps like me and start going after the crooked cops, gang leaders, and political bagmen because they’re the ones running this burg, not the mayor, not the chief of police, and not the president of Ford or Walker’s. You talk a good talk, Henry, but they’ve got you right where they want you. Can’t you see that? You’re window dressing, a straight and narrow poster boy for a police force that’s as dirty as any whore on Pitt Street. You’ll live and die in the dead end that they’ve steered you into unless you make your move right now.”
It was Fields’ turn to study his reflection in the mirror. McCloskey finished with a twist.
“The Lieutenant was probably told to make an example of my father and Billy. Wouldn’t you like to take the opportunity of making an example out of him?”
There was a barely perceptible slackening in Henry Fields’ shoulders.
“It’s not like it was before you left, Jack.” And the tone of his voice changed. “The Lieutenant’s boss is working out of the Border Cities now.”
“Then all the more reason to strike.” McCloskey lowered his own voice. “Where are you going to be a month from now, Henry? Walking a beat? And who’s going to watch your back when you’re sent alone into those dark alleys?”
Their eyes met in the mirror behind the bar. McCloskey could tell he had him.
“You’ll leave town when it’s all over?” asked Fields.
McCloskey was prepared to say anything at this point. “You won’t have to tell me twice.”
“I’m not just clearing a path for you to take over the Border Cities?”
“I don’t want the job. I want out and I want my freedom.”
It was Fields’ turn to swallow his pride. “All right,” he said, “what are you looking for from me?”
McCloskey shifted over to the stool next to Fields. “I want to know who was involved. Go nosing around Ojibway; talk to the old man next door — Lesperance. I want to know what the cops know and I want to know where the Lieutenant figures in all of this.”
Fields had conditions.
“Okay, but we don’t meet in person again until this thing gets sorted out. We communicate by telephone — and you don’t call me, I call you.”
Everything was coming together again. There was a purpose to his being here. “Deal.”
Fields stood up and replaced his hat. “This isn’t a deal, McCloskey. I don’t bargain with thugs and bootleggers. If there’s been some wrongdoing here, I intend to get to the bottom of it.”
McCloskey figured that was for the benefit of their audience. He watched Fields pass through the doors of the hotel and then turned around to face the crowd.
“I’ll be in my room if anyone needs me.”
SECOND GEAR
(MONDAY, JULY 24)
— Chapter 13 —
BOXCAR BLUES
Despite the heavy shelling, the line was preparing to advance. The bridge had been blown, barbed wire cut, and an artillery barrage was creeping ahead of them. The plan was to take back the trenches they were forced out of a week ago and hold that position until reinforcements arrived.
The whistle blew.
Jack McCloskey was the first one over the top. He didn’t get far, though: less than five yards out he was knocked down by a series of explosions that seemed more timed and deliberate than the shelling.
Intelligence had failed. The enemy was well equipped and on the move, cutting in from the left and right underneath the barrage and preparing to steamroll across the Allied defences. Thick, acrid smoke blanketed the field. Jack lost sight of Billy.
As the mortar eased up the artillery grew heavier, pulverizing the battlefield, churning up a gruesome sea of rubble, mud, and broken bodies. It became impossible to make heads or tails of anything. When the artillery became sporadic again, Jack could hear the injured soldiers’ shouts for help. He locate
d the trench he had leapt out of, or what was left of it. The walls had collapsed and there was water streaming into it. He saw limbs. Some were still attached. He moved a piece of wood frame and saw an arm. When he pulled it the body followed. It was Billy, semi-conscious and badly bruised.
Jack pulled his brother’s arm across his shoulders and dragged him back through the gunfire to a foxhole behind the line. He made Billy as comfortable as possible and then looked around for help. He saw a paramedic wasting time trying to revive something that looked like it should have been hanging from a meat hook in a butcher shop. Jack gave a shout and waved him over. While the medic tended to Billy, Jack tried to catch his breath.
His moment’s peace was shattered by an unearthly cry. He peaked over the edge of the foxhole and saw a shadow zigzag across the field. It vanished in a cloud of smoke and then reappeared just a few yards away. It was Jigsaw. His uniform was scorched and tattered. He jumped into a foxhole. There was a terrible noise and a German soldier crawled out holding his belly. Another one of the Kaiser’s boys feebly threw himself over the edge. Jigsaw dragged him back down, finished him off, and then climbed out to survey the chaos. He was like an angel of death, terrifying to behold. Jack instinctively ducked back into his foxhole, even though he knew he had nothing to fear. After all, Jigsaw was on his side.
‘He’s gonna make it.’
The medic stabilized Billy and was bringing him to.
Billy blinked. ‘Am I dead?’
‘You should be so lucky.’
‘Now what?’ asked the medic. They were pinned.
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