“I thought we should meet,” said McCloskey. “Is everything in order?”
The cases had been left hidden under some canvas and mouldy old fishing nets during the day, waiting for the rendezvous that was to take place under the cloak of night. Like any successful campaign, it would come down to timing and execution. You can’t force these things to happen; these deals sometimes come with a motion all their own, and all one can do is try and steer them in the right direction.
“Looks good.”
“Sounds like there’s some traffic out there,” said McCloskey.
“Nothing we can’t handle.” McCloskey noticed someone standing behind Groesbeck.
“Good luck then. You know where to reach us.”
“Thanks, Drury. Oh — and the balance is in an envelope behind the front desk, under my name.”
“Gotcha.”
Once the boat had successfully pushed off, Mud dimmed the flashlight and the three stood and watched the vessel disappear across the black water. As the sound of that motor faded, the sounds of others took over. One that came in howling from downriver got their attention.
“He’s going pretty fast,” said Mud.
“Police?” said McCloskey.
Mud paused. “No … smaller, faster.”
“Travelling light?”
Mud paused again, listening to the impact of the bow on the water, the rhythm of the engine. He looked out over the river to examine its surface in the moonlight.
“She’s carrying,” said Mud.
The motor was revving even louder now, and sounding as if it might be just a hundred or so yards off shore. There was a loud splash, and then another, and then the boat, clearly sounding as if it had spun around, headed back downriver even faster, having just jettisoned its load.
“What the hell was that?” said Shorty.
It got quiet really quickly, as if the sound of this motor scared off all the others. McCloskey thought it might actually have been a police boat, one of the newer models. But then there could be heard a frantic splashing, like arms and legs flailing in the water, followed by a shouting of unintelligible, maybe drowning words.
The boys looked at each other and then McCloskey moved to the very edge of the shore, almost stumbling into the river.
“Mud — the light!”
Mud came over, flashlight shining. He swept the surface of the water with it, careful not to aim it too high.
“Gau mehng a! Gau mehng a!”
McCloskey waded in up to his knees. “Mud — over here!” He was pointing to his left, where he could just barely make out someone struggling to shore. By the time Mud’s flashlight had zeroed in on them, the person was standing, or limping rather, through the shallow waters. McCloskey got hold of him before he collapsed.
“America?”
“No,” said McCloskey. “Canada.”
“Aah … gweilo.”
Acknowledgements
I’d like to acknowledge those who when I was a single digit understood me when I was trying to talk with pictures or imagine them something with words.
Also by Michael Januska
Riverside Drive
Border City Blues (Book One)
Jack McCloskey returned to Windsor, Ontario, from the Great War shell-shocked and battling inner demons. Channeling his energy into amateur fights, he’s noticed by a gangster sidelining as a boxing promoter. After a brief professional stint, Jack is invited to join the crew. It’s the early days of Prohibition along the Detroit River. Feeling trapped, Jack often tries to escape by throwing himself into relationships that are doomed from the start. Complicating matters further, a crime lord descends on the Border Cities, taking over all smuggling activity to finance his covert political agenda. In sharp contrast is the story of Vera Maude, a young librarian also yearning to escape, but to the cafes of Greenwich Village or the Left Bank. All she lacks is will. The climax occurs in a gripping battle at the crime lord’s house on Riverside Drive and its surprising aftermath the following morning.
Copyright © Michael Januska, 2015
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise (except for brief passages for purposes of review) without the prior permission of Dundurn Press. Permission to photocopy should be requested from Access Copyright.
All characters in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Project Editor: Shannon Whibbs
Editor: Allister Thompson
Interior design: Courtney Horner
Cover design: Courtney Horner
Epub Design: Carmen Giraudy
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Januska, Michael, author
Maiden Lane / Michael Januska.
(Border city blues)
Issued in print and electronic formats.
ISBN 978-1-4597-2335-1 (pbk.).--ISBN 978-1-4597-2336-8 (pdf).--ISBN 978-1-4597-2337-5 (epub)
I. Title
PS8619.A6784M35 2014 C813'.6 C2014-901034-6 C2014-901035-4
We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council for our publishing program. We also acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and Livres Canada Books, and the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Book Publishing Tax Credit and the Ontario Media Development Corporation.
Care has been taken to trace the ownership of copyright material used in this book. The author and the publisher welcome any information enabling them to rectify any references or credits in subsequent editions.
J. Kirk Howard, President
The publisher is not responsible for websites or their content unless they are owned by the publisher.
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Other Border City Blues books
Riverside Drive
Maiden Lane
Copyright © Michael Januska, 2018
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise (except for brief passages for purposes of review) without the prior permission of Dundurn Press. Permission to photocopy should be requested from Access Copyright.
All characters in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cover image: Het Leven, Spaarnestad Photo
Printer: Webcom
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Januska, Michael, author
Prospect Avenue / Michael Januska.
(Border City blues)
Issued in print and electronic formats.
ISBN 978-1-4597-3594-1 (softcover).--ISBN 978-1-4597-3595-8 (PDF).--ISBN 978-1-4597-3596-5 (EPUB)
I. Title.
PS8619.A6784P76 2018 C813’.6 C2018-900978-0
C2018-900979-9
1 2 3 4 5 22 21 20 19 18
We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts, which last year invested $153 million to bring the arts to Canadians throughout the country, and the Ontario Arts Council for our publishing program. We also acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Ontario, through the Ontario Book Publishing Tax Credit and the Ontario Media Development Corporation, and the Government of Canada.
Nous remercions le Conseil des arts du Canada de son soutien. L’an dernier, le Conseil a investi 153 millions de dollars pour mettre de l’art dans la vie des Canadiennes et des Canadiens de tout le pays.
Care has been taken to trace the ownership of copyright material used in this book. The author and the publisher welcome any information enabling them to rectify any references or credits in subsequent editions
.
— J. Kirk Howard, President
The publisher is not responsible for websites or their content unless they are owned by the publisher.
Printed and bound in Canada.
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For Charlotte
Contents
ACT ONE
CHAPTER 1: IN THE SOUP
CHAPTER 2: DESCENT
ACT TWO
CHAPTER 3: ALLEY CATS
CHAPTER 4: THE PURGE
CHAPTER 5: ENGLISH LESSONS
CHAPTER 6: ON BENDED KNEE, NO LESS
CHAPTER 7: GRACE HOSPITAL WRECKING AND SALVAGE
CHAPTER 8: LEW TO THE RESCUE
CHAPTER 9: CANARDS SAUVAGES
CHAPTER 10: I HAD AN OCCASION TO VISIT
CHAPTER 11: HOUSE CALLS
CHAPTER 12: THICK WITH PEOPLE
CHAPTER 13: IT’S A DATE
ACT THREE
CHAPTER 14: KICKING THE GONG AROUND
CHAPTER 15: THE BLACK CANDLE
CHAPTER 16: THE SNAKE ISLAND GANG
CHAPTER 17: THE WEDDING PLANNER(S)
CHAPTER 18: YOUR RIDE JUST LEFT
CHAPTER 19: ACCIDENTALLY ON PURPOSE
CHAPTER 20: SUNKEN TREASURE
CHAPTER 21: NO SUBSTITUTIONS PLEASE
CHAPTER 22: CROSSWORDS
CHAPTER 23: DRIVING LESSONS
CHAPTER 24: OCCIDENTAL
ACT FOUR
CHAPTER 25: NEAR-DRESSED REHEARSAL
CHAPTER 26: THE INFORMER
CHAPTER 27: IN CASE OF EMERGENCY
CHAPTER 28: BE OUT OF TOWN BEFORE SUNDOWN
CHAPTER 29: THE SPIDER AND THE FLY
CHAPTER 30: FINAL AUDITIONS
CHAPTER 31: SALT MAN
CHAPTER 32: SPATS AND QUARRELS
CHAPTER 33: REFORMATORY BLUES
CHAPTER 34: UNDERCOVER
CHAPTER 35: HEAVEN HELP ME
CHAPTER 36: AMONG THE BULRUSHES
ACT FIVE
CHAPTER 37: AUTOPSY
CHAPTER 38: HOW LONG YOU BEEN REHEARSING THAT LINE?
CHAPTER 39: TELL ME IT’S ALL JUST TALK
CHAPTER 40: DID HE HAVE ENEMIES?
CHAPTER 41: THROUGH THE MOTIONS
CHAPTER 42: THE WRONG MAN
CHAPTER 43: RETREAT
CHAPTER 44: PROSPECT AVENUE
CHAPTER 45: TONG
CHAPTER 46: WILT THOU TAKE THIS WOMAN?
He can get anything from a thousand dollars up for each one he lands. That’s about the how of it. He runs the guns over for Chang, and brings his own stuff — coolies and no doubt some opium — back, getting his big profit on the return trip.
— Dashiell Hammett, Corkscrew
If what you say is positive truth,
O Death, where is thy sting?
I don’t care now ’bout the pearly gates,
Or to hear those angels sing;
With booze and women down below,
Mister Devil and I will just put on a show.
— Montrose J. Moses, O Death, Where Is Thy Sting?
I do not like vaudeville, but what can I do? It likes me.
— Anna Held
ACT ONE
— Chapter 1 —
IN THE SOUP
Thursday, August 2, 1923
The roadster was bouncing like a mattress at the Honeymoon Motel. McCloskey stole a quick glance at the passenger wedged between him and Shorty and saw an expressionless face lit by the dim glow of the dashboard light. While it may have been a hot, humid night, his rescue was shivering like they had just pulled him out of purgatory, and smelled of standing water and mouldering grass.
McCloskey had to shout over the roar of six gung-ho cylinders. “Hey, kid … you all right?”
Nothing but dead eyes staring straight ahead at the open road. McCloskey was starting to think this one spoke neither the King’s nor anyone else’s English; either that or he was being shy with it. He was also thinking he had seen eyes like this somewhere before: sinking in muddy trenches. With one hand on the wheel, McCloskey fixed his own eyes back on the tarmac. He had to be careful; there were no streetlights in these parts and at this hour it was mostly drunks ricocheting their cars off roadhouses and the few cops still silly enough to be tailing them. McCloskey just kept dodging. His mind went back to a conversation he had overheard in a barbershop the other day, a discussion about the current pace and trend of things. He was also reflecting on how it seemed to keep falling upon him to pull the bodies out of the mire. Like when he pulled his near-dead brother out of a foxhole in France.
Another member of the crew, Mud Thomson, had been with them on this particular rendezvous, a trip meant to forge a new business relationship. McCloskey saw it as another opportunity for Shorty to shine, but Mud had a certain edge to him, and McCloskey wanted to make sure it stayed sharp. Between the roadhouse and the shore he had told Mud in a few select words to be inconspicuous tonight. Mud had simply nodded and took to the road.
McCloskey and Shorty were heading to Oriental House, the place before Chappell’s. It wasn’t far, just a skip down the road. McCloskey was counting on someone there knowing the lingo. The joint snuck up fast, so he started with the clutch and the gears until he smelled the metal burn.
He hung a sharp right into the parking lot. Shorty and what’s-his-name reached for anything that might keep them from spilling out the door and onto the narrow boulevard. The roadster held together and stirred up some dust before grinding to a halt near the entrance. There were only two other vehicles making shadows under the floodlights, their drivers probably settling their tabs right about now.
Shorty climbed out first. “Jack, he got my shirt wet … my trousers, too.”
“Send me the bill.”
Apart from the shivering, the celestial still wasn’t moving. With a combination of gestures and loud talk — “C’mon … let’s inside … there” — McCloskey got him walking.
Like Chappell’s, it was a big old house built with good intentions, but now found itself standing on the wrong side of town, refashioned into an eatery and illicit drinking establishment. They made their entrance, trying to keep it low-key, but their looks and demeanor probably screamed a little too loudly.
In the foyer was a lectern that must have graced a church in its previous life. An eagle was emblazoned on the front, holding a sign in its beak that said NO RESERVATIONS. McCloskey made his inquiries with the man standing behind it, a certain Frank Rymes he read to be the proprietor. Rymes looked them up and down.
“No,” he said, answering McCloskey’s opening question. “We ain’t got no Chinamen here.”
“What do you mean you don’t got any Chinese? Isn’t this place called Oriental House?”
“We’re working an Oriental theme here, mister. Check the decor; we got bamboo.” Rymes gestured towards the curtain that led to the dining room, a doorway to the Mysterious East.
McCloskey walked over to the bamboo curtain and parted it with two hands. There was a waiter addressing the floor with a broom and turning chairs over onto tables. McCloskey dropped the curtain and returned to the lectern.
“Let’s see the menu.”
Rymes gave him a card.
“You got noodles?”
“Of course we got noodles. It was our dinner special.”
“Okay then,” said McCloskey, scanning the card, “we’ll take some chicken lo mein to go. I think my friend here could use a hot meal.”
“I think he could use a towel. What, you drag him out of the river?”
Shorty said, “As a matter of fact —”
“Just make the noodles. Hey wait — you serving?”
Rymes stopped and turned. “Nah, us and Chappell are in agreement.”
McCloskey grabbed bot
h sides of the lectern. He was thinking there might be an opportunity here. “This agreement sounds to me like it might be a bit one-sided.”
Rymes shuffled and blushed. “They pay me a small stipend to stay dry,” he said, “and in exchange I keep out of trouble.”
“Ah,” said McCloskey. He’d get a couple of the boys to come back later and lean on Chappell, maybe swing some lumber … but a soft pine. They’d save the oak for the next visit, the next conversation.
“Be right back,” said Rymes.
While Rymes and an unseen Reggie put together a takeout package, the trio wore the glaze off the tile in the foyer and tried to relax. McCloskey pulled out his pocket watch, examined its dead hands, shook it, and then held it to his ear.
Gotta get this thing fixed.
Shorty was tapping the side of the fish tank and managed to scare a goldfish that looked big enough to be an appetizer. The stranger stood there, silent, dripping and shivering, his arms wrapped around his shoulders in a feeble effort to warm up.
Rymes came out with the goods: three little white cartons. McCloskey popped one open and his partners gathered around him.
“This?” he said. “What’s this?”
“It’s what you asked for.”
“These noodles … it looks like spaghetti.”
“Trust me, the locals don’t know the difference.”
McCloskey handed the carton back. “No, no they wouldn’t, especially not after you’ve dazzled them with the decor. C’mon, boys.”
Shorty hesitated, did a double take between McCloskey and Rymes, then grabbed the celestial’s elbow and led him back out to the roadster. “Where to?” he asked.
“Downtown,” said McCloskey.
“Now?”
“Yeah,” said McCloskey. “Now.”
“You know,” said Shorty, stopping suddenly, “you got that thing again.”
McCloskey stopped. “What thing?”
Shorty let go of the Chinese so that his hands could do some of the talking. “That thing you get when you get going on something and I’m not sure exactly where you’re going with it.”
Border City Blues 3-Book Bundle Page 48