The waitress reappeared with a little stainless steel teapot and big white mug. She then advanced to where a cluster of domed cake pedestals looked to Vera Maude like a crop of giant mushrooms sprouting from the countertop. She leaned into the apple pie with her long knife and brought the slice over to Vera Maude on a heavy plate.
“Cheese?” she asked.
“No, thanks.”
“Give a shout if you need anything else.”
Vera Maude tasted the pie and almost made a mmm sound but stopped herself. It was that good. And still warm. She continued to reflect on how things in New York seemed to be working for her, except for her relationship with Toby, the boy she had met while working at the bookstore. He told her she made his head spin. At first she took it as a compliment. Then he said it again but in a different tone. Now she thought she knew what he was talking about.
Am I really such a bitch? she wondered. She poured herself some tea and gave it a spot of milk.
Distance is a funny thing. She couldn’t really see her life in the Border Cities until she was in New York, and she couldn’t really see her life in New York until she was back here in the Border Cities. Now she was making her own head spin. One thing was certain: it just wasn’t going to work with Toby.
She topped herself up and then ruminated further over her mug of Red Rose. When she was done ruminating, she opened up her copy of the Star to the movie listings. John Barrymore’s Sherlock Holmes was playing at the Walkerville cinema, and she had plenty of time to make the evening show. She counted out some silver and left it on the counter. She jumped into one of the phone booths inside the door to call her uncle Fred and make sure he was all right and let him know she was going to be a little late. She dropped a nickel into she slot, got on her tiptoes, and asked the operator to put her through.
“Sounds good, dear. You enjoy yourself now.”
“Thanks, Uncle Fred.”
She smiled as she held the earpiece for a moment midway before hanging it on the side of telephone. Sometimes he reminded her of her father.
Now it was back out into the cold and the dark. She pulled her gloves on first, purchased from a used clothing store in the Village. They went up to her elbows. Then she wrapped herself in her coat and fitted her tam back on her head.
“Hey, this isn’t a changing room at Smith’s.”
“Gimme a minute, buster!” she yelled through the window of the phone both. She’d bet he wasn’t expecting that. He wanted her out and out of the way but wouldn’t stand aside to let her open the door. It was like the people desperate to get on the subway car who won’t let you get out of the car first.
Bundled and ready, she made it to the revolving doors and leaned into them. They suddenly took off and she looked over to see a man smiling down at her, doing all the work. He gave her a wink and she stuck out her tongue.
He probably liked that.
She considered taking an Avenue streetcar up to Wyandotte Street, where she would then transfer to an eastbound car, but changed her mind and decided to hoof it to Wyandotte instead. Walking would keep her warm, warmer than if she had to stand around waiting for the next Avenue car.
It was more than just cold now; it was bitter. And the walk was longer than she remembered it would be. She tugged her muffler up over her nose and mouth.
Vera Maude glanced down Maiden Lane, looking for any signs of the incident that was reported in the Star but didn’t see anything obvious. A streetcar was slowing to a stop up ahead at the corner, but she knew she would never make it in time, not on this ice. There would be another one by the time she got there. And there was. It was crowded with people heading home from work. At least it was warm.
She had to stand and wasn’t able to see the street very easily. On top of that, the windows were either frosted or fogging over. It was a good thing the driver was shouting out the names of the cross streets, otherwise she wouldn’t have a clue where she was.
No one got off until they were well out of the downtown. She hoped they weren’t all going to the same movie, otherwise she’d never see the screen either.
“Gla-a-a-dstone.”
“Oo — that’s me.”
Vera Maude squeezed her way out the side door and stepped down carefully onto the icy sidewalk. It took her a moment to get her bearings in the snowfall. Then she saw the marquee and the people standing outside the cinema. She scurried over to the booth, bought her ticket, and headed inside.
It was wonderfully warm but not stuffy. She congratulated herself on another brilliant idea.
When are the movies ever a bad idea?
Not interested in anything from the concession stand, she settled into her seat and peeled off her layer of outer clothing. She then wound it all up and wedged it into the seat next to her.
A buffer in case it gets crowded.
They started appropriately with a recent “Our Gang” short, Young Sherlocks, before moving on to the more serious stuff.
When the feature was done, Vera Maude and a few others lingered in the cinema. The projectionist loaded a Pathé newsreel about bootleggers operating along the Canadian border between Chicago and Buffalo. Vera Maude was reminded once again of Jack McCloskey and her last few hours in Windsor spent eating and drinking in a downtown speakeasy in the heat of summer, back along Wyandotte Street. McCloskey had listened patiently while Vera Maude opened up to him. No, she had never heard from him after that, even after sending him a postcard, mailed to the British-American where he had said she could reach him. That was all she really knew about him, that and what she had read in the papers. She had done all of the talking that day. They had seemed to be two lonely people looking for answers. She wondered what kind of trouble he was up to these days.
Once outside, she walked for a while before another streetcar came along — probably the last of the evening. She had her choice of seats this time and picked one on the north side so that she could look in the shop windows — the ones that were still lit. She got out a few blocks before the Avenue. She was feeling adventurous.
She walked back and forth across the front of the speakeasy a couple of times. When she got up her nerve she stepped lightly down the stairs to the heavy wooden door. Three knocks got a tiny window to slide open. She had to stand on her tiptoes. Smoky heat oozed out.
“Trombone,” she said.
“Dat once espired.”
Vera Maude didn’t recognize the voice or the accent, but she caught its meaning.
“Sorry … uh, Jack McCloskey sent me.”
The doorman’s eyes widened then looked her over. He must have liked what he saw because he unlocked the door and eased it open.
She stopped inside the door and searched for the table where she and McCloskey had sat. It was strange seeing another couple there. They were smiling. Had she and Jack smiled like that? A waiter walked by with a tray holding a teapot and four cups.
“Excuse me, I’m looking for Jack McCloskey. Would he happen to be here this evening?”
“You got business wid him?”
Vera Maude stiffened. Confidence, confidence.
“Sort of. We go back. I’m passing through on my way to Chicago and I thought I’d check in with him.”
“He’s not here.”
“Would he be at the British-American?”
“No. Are you alone? I mean, you’re not with anyone?”
Vera Maude eased back. “Hey, mister, I’m not looking —” It was the New Yorker coming through.
The waiter eased back too. “Of course not. Look, honey, Jack’s not here and I don’t know where you’d find him. Okay? Now if you want some tea, take a seat over there and I’ll get you some.”
He turned and disappeared behind a swinging door near the back of the room. Vera Maude left the speak and decided to walk all the way to the Avenue. It was snowing again, big flakes. Under the streetlights, it was like walking through the Milky Way. When she reached the Avenue, she spotted a cab heading north and hailed it. The ca
bbie must have seen her at the last moment because he hit the brakes, slid, and almost spun the vehicle. He straightened out and backed up to where Vera Maude was standing.
“Where to, honey?”
“McEwan, just off London — and don’t get us killed in the bargain.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
From honey to ma’am.
She noticed the cabbie always glancing up at his mirror. Headlights from behind them shone into the mirror and lit the cabbie’s face.
“Something the matter?”
“Nothing.”
The car behind them was following awful close to be just a coincidence. Vera Maude realized it was the vehicle behind and not her that the cabbie was most interested in. She turned around and made a mental note of the make and model. The cabbie slowed to make the left onto London Street. When he completed his turn he checked his mirror and Vera Maude turned around again. The other vehicle was still following but not so close now. They didn’t need to; traffic was much lighter along London Street at this time of night.
“Right or left?”
“Right,” said Vera Maude. She started poking at the inside of her purse with a gloved finger.
He pulled over and Vera Maude handed him some coin.
“Is this enough?”
“Sure, thanks, honey.”
Honey status restored. She climbed out and noticed the other vehicle stopped a few doors back. She turned and started making her way up the walk to the front door. When she reached the steps, the other vehicle continued in pursuit of the cabbie.
Strange.
The snow continued to fall, but prettily now, not like the blast of icy precipitation that worked one’s face like sandpaper or reduced roads or masonry to rubble. She’d have time in the morning before her shift to help her uncle and Miss Cattanach clear the snow away. Once inside, Vera Maude locked the front door and turned off the porch light. Her uncle sat up in the chesterfield, blinking.
“Maudie, I was just about to put the kettle on. Would you like some tea?”
“Thank you, Uncle Fred.”
“You can tell me all about the picture you saw. What was it again?”
“Barrymore’s Sherlock Holmes.”
“Ah. And did the butler do it?”
She smiled. “No, it was Moriarty. You know — bad blood.”
Vera Maude kept her uncle entertained for a little while longer, until he started dozing again. He enjoyed hearing her stories much the same way her father did. Maybe someday she would get to tell him about Jack McCloskey. She had no idea how tired she was until she stood up. She followed her uncle up the stairs, kissed him good night in the hallway, shuffled into her room, and collapsed on the bed, fully clothed. It took that last bit of energy she had to strip down and slide under the covers.
She lay there, thinking about that afternoon with Jack McCloskey, trying to remember details about him and what they had said, but most of what she was left with was a feeling.
The weight of sleep settled upon her and she finally drifted off, the sound of the motor running outside only half registering. It was the car that had been following the cabbie, parked in front of the house.
Dead, past, gone.
Vera Maude was thinking about her father again now. She thought these were the most honest descriptions of death. She hated resting or, worse, asleep. Her father was dead, past, gone. Are there any signs of a life lived after death, or do all traces of it eventually vanish? Depends on who you are. A rich man might leave a skyscraper in Detroit with a portrait of himself in the lobby. A great artist might have his works collected in a museum; a writer might leave a life’s work to be read by countless generations. A doctor gets a disease or body part named after him, an astronomer might name a star. But what about the rest of us?
There’s all the stuff one leaves behind: a raincoat, a gramophone player, a geranium. Another category of leave-behinds is quantifiable yet somehow immaterial: debt, a magazine subscription, an unanswered letter. And lastly, there is the utterly immaterial and unquantifiable leave-behinds: hurt, regret, shock, and disappointment, or depending on your standing in society or failing health, joy or relief. Behold the laundry list of life.
What did Robert Maguire leave behind? What did his life ultimately add up to? Had he vanished all together or were there remnants of his life still out there? Would they remain vivid, or were they already fading?
All of this got Vera Maude thinking. It was the search for the meaning of a life. Where does one start? She would start with his obituary.
— Chapter 14 —
CASTING SHADOWS
McCloskey was already warming a stool in the British-American when Shorty and Gorski arrived. He noticed them in the mirror behind the bar.
Picking up his mug of fake beer, he greeted them in the middle of the floor after they finished brushing the snow off their arms and shoulders. “Let’s sit down somewhere,” he said and led them to a round table, not too big, in the corner furthest away from the door. It was a bit dark, but that was all right. At least it was warm.
“I’m sure the rest are on their way,” said Shorty as he unbundled himself. He knew how impatient McCloskey could be these days. This was the new Jack McCloskey, and Shorty was getting the feeling that one of his new roles was going to be shop foreman.
“Okay,” said McCloskey, “let’s not start until everyone gets here.”
“How you doing, Jack?” asked Gorski.
Making friendly with the boss.
“I’m good. Thanks.”
McCloskey still didn’t quite know what to make of Gorski. All McCloskey kept hearing from Shorty was that Gorski was a hard worker and never hesitated to jump into the fray. He supposed that was good enough. In this business you couldn’t let personalities get in the way.
Mud and Lapointe were next to arrive. Having the best view of the door, Shorty spotted them first and flagged them over. Mud looked surprised seeing McCloskey at the table. Lapointe had never met him, but it wasn’t hard to guess who it was.
“Mr. McCloskey,” said Lapointe as he offered his hand.
McCloskey accepted. “Lapointe, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Call me Jack.”
There was a little awkwardness and then McCloskey said, “Boys, grab some chairs and sit down,” and then he held up a hand, caught the waitress’s eye, said “Gracie,” and made a circle with it, “a round here.”
Gracie got the signal and disappeared with her tray of dirty glasses to behind the bar, where she left them for the dishwasher and started pulling pints.
“Sorry for the quality of the beverage here, boys, but I’m sure you understand, rules is rules.” McCloskey checked his watch. There was a long silence and the others started looking nervous. Just in time to perhaps save the day, or the night as it were, Thom appeared. He spotted them before they spotted him. He was covered in snow.
“You’re late,” said Shorty. “What, did you stop to pick up some milk?”
“No, I —”
“Forget it,” said Shorty. “Jack, this is another one of our newest recruits, he goes by Irish Thom, but we just call him Thom. Thom, this is Jack McCloskey.
Thom extended a cold hand. “Nice to meet you, sir.”
When McCloskey finished warming Thom’s hand, he turned to Shorty and said, “They’re getting awful formal out in the county these days, aren’t they? Sit down, Thom.”
“Where’s Three Fingers?” asked Shorty.
“I dunno,” replied Thom. “I told him I’d meet him back at his place in time to give him a lift here, but when I got there, the place was dark and all locked up.”
“Maybe he’s following a lead?” said Shorty.
“Or maybe he’s passed out somewhere,” said Gorski.
“None of that shit,” said McCloskey.
Gorski slumped back.
“Okay,” said McCloskey, “let’s get started anyways. I want to hear everything you’ve got so far. Shorty, you can
chair this meeting.”
Shorty looked around the table. “Thom, we might as well start with you. What’s the news from your quarter?”
Thom shook his head.
“And what’s that supposed to mean?” asked Shorty.
“We hit Ojibway first, planning to work our way back into town, and got nowhere,” said Thom. “Davies either never got that far, or maybe he didn’t see anything in it for him.”
“Not even with all the land speculating? The waterfront properties? The steelworks?” said Shorty.
“We hit the post office and then we asked around,” said Thom. “We got nothing but blank faces.”
“You dropped his name?”
“Yep,” said Thom.
“Maybe they just didn’t recognize it,” said Shorty.
“The land speculating was what we asked about first, and all we heard was there’s been no activity on that front for months.”
“Huh. All right,” said Shorty. “And in Sandwich?”
“Well, that’s where we separated. Three Fingers said he knew people who used to talk about these hiding places in that town, you know, old hiding places in houses and churches used since the slavery days but now get used for liquor and other contraband. We agreed that was a good place to start.”
“But you have no idea how far he got.”
“None.”
“Meanwhile, what were you up to?”
“I paid a visit to the salt mines,” said Thom. “There was a sign at the gate, said they were looking for help. I went in, found the office, and made like I was looking for work. Anyways, while we were talking, I was also sort of trying to measure the guy out.”
“What do you mean?” demanded Shorty.
“I started suggesting that I was actually looking to do some business of my own here, that I might know somebody who was dealing in something called ‘libations.’ He caught on, gave me a wink and a nod, and sent me to the shipping and receiving office, but before he did that I dropped Davies’s name, gave this guy the time frame, and asked him about any unusual activity.”
Border City Blues 3-Book Bundle Page 32