Border City Blues 3-Book Bundle

by Michael Januska

  “You know what they say, Lavish, you can’t have anything.”

  “I thought it was you can’t have everything.”

  “What’s the difference?” said Morrison.

  “You wanted to know about Shorty Morand and his boys,” said Lavish.

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, that’s a dead end.”

  “I don’t believe it,” said Morrison. “They’re hiding something. McCloskey’s back in fighting form.”

  “I’ve been thinking maybe some things are better left not found. You been reading about King Tut’s tomb?”

  “What the hell are you talking about, Lavish?”

  The coffins and urns in the room were smartly arranged. It was like the showroom at an auto dealership, just not quite as sexy, and there weren’t any girls in flapper outfits draped across the hood.

  “Extreme indigestion,” said Lavish.

  “All right,” said Morrison. “Morand and McCloskey are a dead end. Then what is it?”

  “H.”

  “What?”

  “Heroin. You know it, Morrison. Cocaine, morphine, opium, the whole game. I want none of it.”

  “What are you talking about?” Morrison was leaning over an oak casket, one of the nicer ones, not one of the cheap ones destined for smoke.

  “If you throw up in that, I’m done here.”

  “You got a lot of brass on you today, Lavish.”

  “The Border Cities are changing again.”

  “Yeah? Should I pick up my dry cleaning and get ready for the party?”

  “Why is it everyone who has something important to say in this town gets laughed off; and when the shit finally hits, they say, Gee, I never saw it coming?” Lavish was studying the scissor legs of a coffin trolley. “I’m tired of this, Morrison, and I’m tired of you. I don’t care what you might do to me. Maybe I’m not that smart, but it doesn’t take some genius or street-wise cop like you to know which way the wind is blowing. It’s getting hard and dirty. You have to know that. You also have to know that you’re not that smart. I wasn’t born a bootlegger or a snitch, so try and make me into one and I swear I’ll kill you. Remember: I know people too.”

  Lavish wouldn’t have said any of that unless he was sure that Morrison was passed out cold, which he was in a winged-back chair surrounded by ferns. He spilled Morrison out of the chair, dragged him out the rear door, and left him in a pile of snow between two parked cars. More snow was falling. Lavish did his best to cover his tracks on his way back into the funeral home.

  He checked the arrangements already on display for the first service tomorrow morning. He watered them, straightened the tallest stalks, and braced the limp ones. The vase to the left of the casket was marked, destined for the address of a loved one on the other side of the river. Everything else appeared to be in place. He would check in with the organist in the morning.

  And then the lights went out and everything was black.

  “What the hell?”

  — Chapter 38 —

  THE HIGHLAND PARK PAINT AND GLASS SEXTET

  Saturday

  Locals referred to it as the McDougall Street Pen; it was an open-air rink on the southeast corner at Erie, and tonight the benches were stiff and cold. Vera Maude was sitting next to her uncle and watching a guy in cleats all by his lonesome push a glorified watering can on wheels in a tightening oval pattern around the ice surface, restoring its smooth as glass finish and counting on the frigid cold to then leave it diamond-hard.

  The Windsor Monarchs were playing the Highland Park Paint and Glass team in a hockey tournament for the Detroit Times Trophy. Despite the weather, it was a sellout crowd. Border Citizens were obviously becoming a bit stir-crazy and were willing to brave just about anything outside the cozy confines of their woolly domiciles.

  “And which one’s us?” asked Vera Maude.

  “The black and gold,” said Uncle Fred.

  “I saw Gorski this morning, at the pool hall.”

  “Is that where you left him?” asked Shorty.

  “Yeah,” said Mud. “That’s where I left him. Jack wanted me to meet some guys at Ford about car parts. How many places am I supposed to be at one time?”

  “You should have brought Gorski with you.”

  In Shorty’s mind there was safety in numbers, which was why he and Mud were freezing their cheeks off in the stands at a crowded rink. Their only comfort was coming from the Thermos they were passing back and forth.

  “He’s fine,” said Mud. “Now, can you at least let me watch them drop the puck?”

  The whistle blew.

  “Is it over already?” asked Vera Maude. “Who won?”

  “That was only the first period. And in case you were wondering, there’s no score,” said Uncle Fred.

  “How is that possible? They were skating so hard.”

  “None of them put the puck in the net.”

  “That must be difficult,” said Vera Maude.

  She went back to watching a man who she figured was a sports writer for the Star feverishly jotting things in a notepad, pausing every so often to blow on his finger tips.

  The first period was a smart exhibition of hockey with neither team being able to bulge the twine. Schreiber and Ulrich tore off some beautiful rushes but their efforts went for naught when Hammerleff turned aside their shots with monotonous regularity. Monarchs had a wide margin of the play in this period and should have been rewarded with one or two goals, but it was not to be.

  “You didn’t go looking for him after you were done at Ford’s?” demanded Shorty.

  “Sure I did,” said Mud. “The boys said he left an hour or so after me.”

  “Left for where?”

  “He told them he was going to grab a sandwich and then probably spend the rest of the afternoon at the movies.”

  “Did you check his apartment?”

  “Why should I check his apartment if he’s at the movies?”

  “What about after the movies?

  “After the movies I’m sitting here next to you.” Shorty was getting on Mud’s nerves again. “You know, I’m all for getting rid of that damn key.”

  “We don’t have it, remember?” said Shorty.

  “I thought Jack had it.”

  “No, the cops have it now.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “Late Thursday.”

  “Well then,” said Mud, “it’s out of our hands and no longer our problem, right? See, we got nothing to worry about.” He sat back and took another sip from the Thermos. “Now let’s enjoy the game.”

  “What’s the score?” asked Shorty.

  “How should I know?”

  Monarchs continued to attack when the second period opened, the Paints using a five-man defence in order to keep the Monarchs off the score sheet. Always there were five men for the puck carrier to pass to and it was not until Carl Schreiber tore off the prettiest piece of work of the game did the locals count. The fast Monarch defenceman grabbed the rubber behind his own goal, skated the entire Paint team dizzy, stickhandling his way through the whole works to drive the puck past Hammerlef for the first counter of the game, a minute before the period ended.

  “So you were out with Mrs. Cattanach today?” said Vera Maude.

  “She had some shopping to do. I helped her carry her things,” said Uncle Fred.

  “It sounds serious.”

  “There’s nothing serious about Sunday dinner and a bit of baking.”

  “Sure there is. What’s for dinner?”

  “Roast.”

  “And what’s she baking?”

  “A raisin pie.”

  “You hate raisins.”

  “No, I never,” said Uncle Fred.

  “You do and you always have — see, it is serious.”

  Uncle Fred was starting to fidget. “Enough about me, Vera Maude.”

  Uh-oh, she thought, here it comes. He’s using my full name.

  “It’s been a week now. You
can see I’m fine. Aren’t you missing New York?”

  “Are you trying to get rid of me?”

  “Of course not.”

  They were quiet for a moment.

  “Well?” said Uncle Fred. “Are you?”

  “Yes and no.”

  “Aw, you must be.”

  “And maybe when I was in New York I missed Windsor.”

  “Did you?”

  “Yes and no.”

  “You’re an equivocator, Maudie.”

  She went back to watching the sportswriter.

  The Monarchs were feeling the results of the hard going when the third period started. Leaver and Schreiber were badly used up, while Ulrich was practically useless, the result of a nasty cross-check over the shoulder and throat. It was here that the Detroiters stepped out and ran in all of their goals. Shelby tied the point and Roberts put them in the lead a few minutes later and it was Shaw who put the game on ice with the third one. All two goals were the results of three-man combinations with only one man on the Monarch defence.

  Louis Martell worked like a Trojan in the third period while Wilson and Graham back-checked like fiends. However the two-goal handicap with the three stars just hanging on was just too much.

  After outplaying the Highland Park Paint and Glass team for two periods, the Windsor Monarchs allowed the Detroiters to overcome a one-goal lead and defeat the local sextet 3-1.

  “Uncle Fred?”

  “Yes, Maudie?”

  “I’m going to stay.”

  “You’re young. You know you can always go back.”

  “I know.”

  “Shorty?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Let’s go see if Gorski’s at his apartment.”

  — Chapter 39 —

  MADE OF SHADOWS

  Vera Maude had been looking forward to sleeping in, but it was apparently never meant to be. Her uncle Fred had conveniently forgot to mention that Mrs. Cattanach had plans for them today and they first involved arriving in time for morning service at St. Andrew's. Mrs. Cattanach liked to get there early so she could get a seat nearest the front. She felt she wasn’t receiving the true and sacred word unless she could look Reverend Paulin straight in the eye. Therein lies the truth.

  Vera Maude managed to stay awake through the service by occasionally giving herself a pinch on the arm. It was already mostly purple.

  There was a tea served afterward in the church hall. Vera Maude managed to talk her way out of that, and in return received a stern look from her uncle over Mrs. Cattanach’s shoulder.

  Now we’re even, she thought.

  She walked down Victoria to catch the London streetcar. The snow was back, again. It was almost a whiteout and the streets were empty.

  McCloskey was winding his way back to his apartment after spending the night on Clara’s chesterfield. He was still lending her a hand with Pearl. A quiet, snowy Sunday morning and he thought he had the streets all to himself until he saw a figure walking alone ahead of him. It appeared to be a woman.

  When he crossed Park Street he could see four other figures; they seemed to appear out of nowhere and were about to converge on the woman. It looked a little suspicious so McCloskey picked up his pace.

  He got closer. There was something strange about them; they were identically clothed, same height and build, and with no details he could make out, even though he could make out some of the lines and patterns in the woman’s coat and hat.

  It’s them. It’s the Guard.

  McCloskey reached inside his coat for his revolver and started sprinting toward her. As close as he was now — about thirty feet or so — visibility was still poor, and if they reached her first, enveloping her like he’d heard they did, he would never be able to get in a good shot. They were almost on her now. He fired one and then another shot high into the air. Still not noticing her attackers, she froze at the sound of the gunfire that was echoing between the buildings. They looked as if they might now turn on him so he fired yet another shot in the air, and then, for some reason, they separated and disappeared, lost in the whiteout.

  The woman stood still, and McCloskey walked around in front of her. She had her eyes shut tightly and her gloved hands covering her ears.

  “Vera Maude? Is that you? It’s me — Jack.”

  She opened her eyes. “What the hell was all that for?”

  “Didn’t you see those guys?”

  “What guys?”

  “There were four of them, moving toward you. I think I know who it was, I just don’t know why they would have been after you.”

  “After me? What do you mean after me?”

  He didn’t want to take any chances. “Let’s get out of here. My place is just around the corner.”

  “Your place?”

  “I’ll explain when we get there.”

  McCloskey realized he was still gripping his revolver. He looked around one more time, and without letting go of it he thrust his hand in his coat pocket.

  “C’mon.”

  The door was shut, bolted, chained, and with a chair wedged between the floor and its glass knob. McCloskey had tested the length of the telephone cord and found it long enough to reach his feet. He thought he might hear from Shorty sometime soon and he didn’t want to miss his call.

  McCloskey was keeping a drowsy eye on Vera Maude and occasionally roused himself with a jab to his thigh with the butt of his revolver.

  Vera Maude was curled up like a treble clef on his loveseat that was parked below the street-side window. She had said she only wanted to put her head down for a minute. When he knew she was in a deep sleep, he went over and draped his heavy coat on top of her and then positioned himself in his thinking chair just a few feet across from her. Sometimes he did his best thinking while eating; other times he did it while watching a woman sleep.

  Vera Maude.

  The gap, those blank hours, were slowly filling up and pouring into him. He dropped his arms, dropped his fists. He relaxed.

  It started choppily, like pieces from a film reel randomly spliced together or a deck of cards shuffled after a poker hand. McCloskey was trying to put it back into order. It was difficult, though; he didn’t recognize some of the people he was seeing in his mind. There were no reference points; there was nothing to ground him. Maybe that was the problem.

  Vera Maude stirred and McCloskey resisted the temptation to disconnect the phone. He wanted to hear from Shorty, make sure he was okay.

  So this is the Guard, he thought to himself. What now?

  The snow had stopped and he could hear people on the street.

  “Wow, how long was I out?”

  McCloskey checked her watch. “A few hours. I guess you needed it. Late night?”

  “Long week. Heck, a long winter.”

  “And it isn’t nearly over.”

  Vera Maude pulled his coat off her and sat up on the edge of the loveseat. “I should phone my uncle. He’s probably wondering where I am.”

  “Just let him know you’re okay,” said McCloskey. “Don’t go into any details.”

  Vera Maude noticed first the revolver on McCloskey’s lap, and then the chair wedged under the doorknob.

  “What’s going on?”

  “You were about to be attacked on the street.”

  She was remembering now. “Yeah,” she said. “Attacked by whom?”

  “It’s kind of hard to explain,” said McCloskey.

  “Friends of yours?”

  “Not exactly. You could say we —”

  “We?”

  “Me and some colleagues of mine had a few run-ins with these guys this week.”

  Nodding at the gun, she said, “I’m guessing it was serious.”

  “A couple of my boys didn’t make it. You may have seen it in the paper.”

  “Again, what could this possibly have to do with me?”

  “I don’t know. I mean, I don’t get it either. At first we thought they were after something. It started sort of like th
at, but we don’t — that is, me and my colleagues don’t — have the thing they wanted in our possession any more.”

  “Who has it?”

  “The police. That reminds me.” McCloskey picked the phone up off the floor and got an operator. “Windsor police.”

  Vera Maude rubbed her arms and looked around. Nice place, but it could use a few more sticks of furniture and maybe a pillow or two.

  “Hello? Yes, I need to talk to Detective Campbell. Is he around?”

  Vera Maude’s ears perked up. That’s right, she thought, they were both in the store the other day.

  “Right…. No, this is Vanderbeke. He knows the name. Tell him he can find me at 305 Chatham Street West, and it’s urgent…. Thanks.”

  “Detective Campbell?” said Vera Maude.

  “Yeah.”

  “You were with him in Copeland’s the other day.”

  “So I was. Look, I’m sorry if —”

  “He’s on his way over?” said Vera Maude.

  “Hopefully. You said you needed to make a phone call.”

  “I’m thinking maybe I should just go.”

  “I think you should wait until Campbell gets here. Why don’t you go ahead and make that phone call.”

  Vera Maude looked at the revolver, now on the floor where the phone was, and the chair wedged under the doorknob. He was handing her the phone.

  “What should I tell my uncle?”

  “Tell him you decided to visit a girlfriend, whatever, but you’re not here — in my apartment — and everything’s fine.”

  “Is it?”

  “Yeah,” he said and handed her the phone.

  Vera Maude made the call. Not surprisingly, Uncle Fred was wondering about her whereabouts and if she would be home in time for the roast.

  “I think so.… I’ll call you back as soon as I know … we’re just having lunch and catching up.”