Border City Blues 3-Book Bundle

by Michael Januska

  “And what did he say?”

  “He hadn’t heard or seen anything that might have looked suspicious or rang any bells,” said Thom. “Again, he said his pal in shipping and receiving might know something.”

  “Do you think he was looking to get greased?”

  “No, I don’t think it was anything like that,” said Thom.

  “Okay, so what did shipping have to say?”

  “Same story, he hadn’t heard of anything unusual in the last several months, at least nothing that raised any flags or eyebrows. I didn’t cover all the ground there, though — it’s a big place … I could go back.”

  “No, save it for later,” said McCloskey.

  “What about the roadhouses and hotels out that way?” asked Shorty.

  “That was going to be our next stop,” said Thom.

  “Okay,” said Shorty, “hit those spots tomorrow. We still have good contacts in all of them, right? People we can trust?”

  “The ones worth doing business with, yeah,” said Thom.

  “All right,” said Shorty. “And I’m assuming you still got the key?”

  “Oh, yeah,” said Thom. He reached deep down inside his breast pocket for it and handed it to Shorty.

  “Thanks,” Shorty said and then pocketed it and shifted his attention over to Mud. “Mud?”

  “Well — Jack, I covered Ford. You know I’m familiar with many if not most of the factories out there, but it’s still a lot of doors to knock on. With all the knocking I did, I didn’t get anywhere. The people I talked to of course knew the name, but the impression I had was that it was all after-the-fact kind of stuff. You know, what they might have read in the papers, rumours, talk. I got the feeling that if Davies had any business in Ford City, it was on a higher level, with people the fellows I was talking to never came into any kind of contact with. If we go back to Ford, or any of the factories in that town, it should be closer to the level that Davies would have been operating at. I don’t think he had too many soldiers, Jack, I think it was all Davies.”

  “Thanks, Mud. We’ll come up with a new approach to Ford,” said Shorty. “Lapointe?”

  McCloskey interrupted. “I’m guessing nothing, right?”

  Lapointe nodded.

  McCloskey had been chomping at the bit the whole time, not really surprised at what the others had come up with so far. “If I can just jump in here — excuse me, Shorty — this afternoon I caught up with a few of Charlie Baxter’s old poker buddies.”

  The boys’ jaws collectively hit the table.

  “Yeah, I know, it’s a strained relationship. They were a little surprised to see me too. I found them above a Chinese restaurant just over here on the Drive, across from the train station. I knew that was their latest hangout. They have several in rotation.”

  McCloskey glanced around the table. He knew that some people had written him off. He was enjoying this. It had been a long time.

  “Yeah, I let them run their little rackets because I knew they never were, or ever would be, a threat to our business. But every time they scored, I figure they owed me something. I’ve been keeping tabs, and I went to collect.”

  The boys were wondering who or what else McCloskey had been keeping tabs on these last several months.

  “I told them they can settle up now by paying me in information. How good the information is will determine whether or not I let them continue.”

  “Can we trust them not to talk, Jack?”

  “Yeah,” said Gorski, “what if it just makes things more complicated for us?”

  McCloskey cut right to it. “Are you talking about the Guard? Stop with the folk tales for once.”

  “But, Jack —” started Lapointe. He had his brother-in-law’s story. Shorty glared at him. He knew Lapointe was just itching to tell it.

  “What?” said McCloskey.

  “It’s nothing, Jack. Now, what did Baxter’s buddies have to say?”

  “No,” said McCloskey, “I don’t think you know these guys. Anyway, they old me that Baxter, when he had had a few too many, would start talking about Davies’s ‘reserves,’ though they were never quite sure what that meant. Also, before he caught up with me at the train station, he tracked them each down to ask about Jigsaw’s whereabouts. I guess all the details hadn’t come out yet at that point. Then Baxter stopped talking to them, but they kept hearing on the street about him being seen here and there around the Border Cities, and not like he was on the run but more like he was doing something. I think Charlie Baxter is our best lead here. Find Baxter, and you might be on to something.”

  The boys each took a swallow of their Cincinnati Cream in an effort to wash all of this down. None of them, including Shorty, were quite sure what to make of it. They’d have to have a conversation with Shorty about it. As far as Shorty was concerned, he wasn’t just a little surprised at Jack’s sudden interest in their enterprise. He wondered if it didn’t have more to do with tracking down Baxter and less with a lost fortune. He felt like he needed to have another private conversation with the boss before they continued, to try to get a better sense of where exactly his mind was. But first he had to ask a more practical question. “But what about those other leads, Jack?” he asked. “The ones we were just talking about? And what about —”

  There was a racket outside and the clatter of horseshoes on icy cobblestone. People sitting or standing near the windows of the bar rushed outside to find a commotion in the lobby of the hotel. The bootleggers got up and ran out onto the street, into the intersection of Riverside Drive and the Avenue.

  It was a horse and a passenger — not exactly a rider. They could tell by the way the passenger’s head was bobbing that he or she was likely dead. The horse was bareback and the shirtless body was draped along it like it was the horse’s saddle. The arms were tied around the horse’s neck, and the legs, straddling it, were tied around its belly. A constable working the intersection and who must have known a thing or two about horses managed to calm the beast and grab hold of its bridle. The passenger’s right cheek came to rest against the horse’s mane. The constable steered it toward the curb, right to where the boys were standing.

  They all recognized the passenger. It was Three Fingers. Even in the dim light that came from the windows of the hotel they could see how battered and bruised he was. McCloskey walked up to Three Fingers and checked for a pulse. He turned to the gang and shook his head.

  “The Guard,” Shorty whispered to himself.

  The cop asked McCloskey to hold the bridle while he phoned from the police box across the street outside the bank.

  Shorty approached in a daze and, still staring at Three Fingers, said “They’re real, Jack.”

  “Yeah, Shorty, killers are real. Killers do things like this, not ghosts or whatever it is you think they are.” He looked again at the Huron. “What do these guys want, Shorty?”

  “You know what they want, Jack.”

  Gorski overheard them. “I don’t want it any more,” he said.

  “It’s too late. We’re in it.”

  Others from the gang chimed in, but they ended their discussion when the police constable returned.

  “A detective is on his way,” he said.

  About thirty minutes later the gang and the gawkers heard first and then could see a figure coming toward them, on a diagonal from the other side of the Drive, taking big steps up and down through the fresh snow. The figure went straight to the constable and they exchanged a few words, though he still seemed to be trying to catch his breath, and then the figure turned to the small crowd. He looked slightly dishevelled; his overcoat wasn’t done all the way up and it looked like he had been sleeping in his clothes.

  “I’m Detective Campbell.”

  It could be freezing cold and late at night but people will still gather around in their pyjamas to see a dead body.

  “Who was first on the scene?” Campbell asked, making eye contact with as many of them as he could.

  Everyo
ne in the gang looked at each other but no one spoke. McCloskey had heard about this man but had never actually met him, socially or otherwise. Apparently bootlegging wasn’t in this lawman’s purview.

  Two young men who happened to be in the lobby at the time the horse arrived at the intersection stepped forward. Campbell called them aside and they had quiet words, and there was some pointing in a few directions. They must not have had anything interesting to say to Campbell, because they were quickly dismissed.

  Campbell returned to the rest of the crowd and pulled the remains of an unlit cigar out of his mouth. He had paused at a couple of places en route from his apartment to try and get it going but was unsuccessful.

  “Does anyone here know this man?” he said.

  McCloskey had a feeling the question was being aimed at him and the boys. Sure, they were almost the only ones left standing at the curb — the cold and the late hour were draining the morbid fascination out of the gawkers, sending them back into the hotel — but the constable probably also told Campbell that he and Shorty hadn’t hesitated to approach the body and that Shorty might have seemed a bit distraught.

  Campbell walked right up to McCloskey and Shorty and then sent anyone else left on the curb, including the rest of the gang, packing. He then got down to business. It was too damn cold to stand out here and mince words.

  “You’re Jack McCloskey.”

  McCloskey didn’t say anything.

  “And who’s your friend here?”

  “Morand, Shorty Morand.”

  McCloskey looked down at his junior partner.

  “I’d like to know what happened to your friend here,” said Campbell, “and I’m sure you would too. Unless you already know who did this.”

  McCloskey wondered what the hell he could possibly tell Campbell.

  “Mr. Morand, why don’t you go home and get some rest.”

  Shorty looked up and McCloskey nodded. Shorty took off south up the Avenue, disappearing quickly into night. Campbell then took the bridle from the constable and told him he could return to his duties. The constable thanked him and then trudged off, probably to look for a warm doorway in which to spend the rest of his shift.

  “Mr. McCloskey, I’d like you to walk with me.”

  McCloskey still wasn’t speaking.

  “Mr. McCloskey, you’re not under arrest.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “We’re going to take this horse and its unfortunate passenger up to the creamery stables.”

  “Where?”

  Campbell pointed in the general direction. “Pitt and McDougall. They’re the nearest stables.”

  They started making their way east along the Drive. When they got past the hotel and last couple of buildings on this block, they could feel the wind from the north, coming from Lake St. Clair and along the Detroit River. They gripped the collars of their coats. Campbell had no free hand, so he aimed the top of his head directly into the wind. The only way he could tell if he was walking straight was by keeping an eye on McCloskey’s feet.

  “What was your friend’s name?” said Campbell, almost shouting over the wind.

  “He went by Three Fingers.”

  “Did you know him well?”

  “Well enough.”

  “Did he have any family?”

  “No.”

  “Where did he live?”

  “With friends.”

  “It sounds like there wasn’t much to know,” said Campbell.

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “McCloskey,” Campbell was dropping the formalities, “while I may not know the finer points of it, or all of its players, I do know what line of work you are — or were — in, and while I at least know that occasionally men die in your profession, they do not generally die like this. And the victim is usually is not such a minor player, like Three Fingers. This is different, strange, and violent, and it looks symbolic to me, almost as if someone were trying to send you a message. That’s what I mean by that.”

  Campbell watched McCloskey’s feet turn right up McDougall.

  McCloskey knew Campbell was right.

  “I really don’t know what to tell you, Detective.”

  Now that they were on McDougall and sheltered in a corridor of buildings, there was less wind. Campbell stopped and looked at McCloskey.

  “Usually when people say that to me it isn’t because they feel ignorant of the facts but rather because they can’t decide which fact it is they feel comfortable sharing with me.”

  They stared at each other for a moment and Campbell looked ahead.

  “Come on,” he said, “I have people waiting for us.”

  McCloskey stopped in his tracks.

  Campbell turned and said, “Don’t worry, I won’t give them your name.”

  Windsor Creamery was on the southeast corner, and the stables were directly behind, facing McDougall. They could see a light coming through the small windows in one of the sets of doors.

  “Go knock,” said Campbell.

  A stable boy pushed one of the half doors open. McCloskey held it for Campbell, the horse, and Three Fingers, and pulled it closed behind them.

  It was warm inside. To Campbell and McCloskey it felt like an oven. Laforet was already waiting, as was the creamery’s proprietor, Gordon W. Ballantyne, who looked upon the horse and its passenger in horror.

  The stable boy disappeared and those remaining introduced themselves. Campbell introduced McCloskey as “John,” a witness from the scene.

  “I’ve already phoned Janisse for an ambulance,” Laforet told Campbell as he circled the horse. He had his camera with him, but before he got to that he was going to brush the snow off the animal and the victim.

  In the light of the stable they could now see how badly beaten Three Fingers really was. There were parts of his upper torso that anatomically no longer made any sort of sense.

  Laforet insisted on taking a few photos before they untied him. He and Campbell took notes. To McCloskey, this looked like the war; to Ballantyne, still standing there, slack-jawed in pyjamas and overcoat, this looked like nothing he had ever seen before.

  There was banging at the door and it could only have been the ambulance. The stable boy reappeared, and this time McCloskey helped him with the other half of the door. They repositioned the horse so that the ambulance could back into the stable. The driver got out for his instructions but froze when he saw his parcel.

  “Don’t worry,” said McCloskey dryly, “the horse stays.”

  The stable boy fetched a knife and McCloskey and the driver cut the ropes and he and Campbell gently lowered Three Fingers onto a stretcher and into the vehicle. Laforet left with the ambulance.

  Ballantyne approached Campbell. “I don’t want to be reading about this in the Star tomorrow,” he pleaded.

  “We’ll do the best we can, sir. I appreciate your cooperation in this very serious police matter.”

  And then, with his hand cupped at the side of his mouth, Ballantyne pointed his thumb at McCloskey and said, “Can we trust this man?”

  McCloskey looked away and pretended to be studying the straw on the floor. Campbell was layering it on thick; he didn’t want to ruin his play. The detective then broke away from Ballantyne and turned to the stable boy.

  “Is this one of your horses?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Do you know who it might belong to?”

  “No idea.”

  Campbell thanked Ballantyne and the stable boy for their services and walked with McCloskey back out into the bitter cold. McCloskey stopped Campbell at the street corner.

  “Where are they taking him?”

  “They’re taking him to Grace, where Laforet will continue his examination. He’ll get to work immediately. I’ll touch base with him in the morning. Should I let you know if he finds anything of interest or significance?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’ll contact me if you have any valuable information on the case?�
�

  This was a bargain, and McCloskey hated bargains.

  “Yeah,” he said.

  “Where can I reach you?”

  “You can leave me a message at the British-American.”

  There were polite nods. Campbell was first to break away and head back to his apartment, only a couple of blocks away, leaving McCloskey standing on the sidewalk, or wherever the sidewalk happened to be under this ice and snow.

  When he could no longer make out Campbell through the blowing snow, he stopped to look around. It was a different city, again. Buildings went up, buildings came down. People moved in and out — but mostly out these days. He reflected on how when he came back from the war, after being away for years, what he came back to was a different city in every way imaginable. There are events that change cities, like when Prohibition started or the auto industry exploded. And then there is when something happens inside of you, and suddenly you see the same city, but differently.

  He started walking through the wind and blowing snow toward his apartment. It was in a three-storey terrace of townhouses just up on the corner of Chatham and Dougall. Not quite the farmhouse out in Ojibway. He crossed the Avenue and continued west on Pitt Street. The streets were empty.

  Why did it have to be Three Fingers?

  McCloskey had first encountered the Huron in the street in Sandwich. He had been bouncing between that town and various other places between there and Amherstburg. He picked up farm work in the county during the growing seasons but always found himself out of work in the season in between: winter. McCloskey knew what that felt like. He remembered bringing Three Fingers to the British-American and getting him a room. It was the next day that he introduced him to Shorty.

  McCloskey turned left up Dougall. At least he was out of the wind now. He looked up and could see his apartment — top floor, right at the corner. He had left a light on, and it was like a beacon. Every other window in the terrace was dark. Crossing diagonally, he climbed over the pile of snow at the corner and made his way carefully up the wooden steps, now caked in ice, to the door that opened to the foyer. The door to the second-floor apartment was immediately to the right, and the stairs leading up to his apartment were right ahead.