“When I get going on something?”
“Yeah,” said Shorty.
“Shorty.”
“What?”
“Maybe not in front of company.”
“Jesus, Jack.”
The soggy stranger stood still, observing, listening.
“Get in, everybody,” said McCloskey. “Let’s go.”
They got situated and he pushed the engine into gear, letting the roadster’s rear wheels kick gravel at the cars parked behind him, speckling their varnish. He turned onto the Drive.
McCloskey was going to take this up with Chung Hong. Hong was high up in the Chinese community. He owned Oriental Dry Goods, a barbershop, a piece of a diner on Wyandotte, and was partners with one of his brothers in a laundry. Thursdays were his weekly poker game, so he’d be sitting in the back of his dry goods place with a few of his fellow countrymen, stone-faced, holding a fan of dog-eared playing cards. No food and no booze; just cards, cigarettes, and a few dirty looks.
McCloskey cruised slowly across the Avenue so as not to draw any attention and then took a right onto Goyeau. He pulled into the first alley on the left. Stray bits of light fell on ashcans, crates, and greasy cobblestone. He navigated a parking spot without disturbing too much of the refuse. Even garbage had a reputation to uphold.
The three disembarked, again, and McCloskey found Hong’s door. It’s never difficult to find, what with the green-and-yellow dragon crawling up the brick and across the lintel, looking down upon all who came to call. McCloskey gave the door a few quick raps. A tiny slot opened, exhaling hot, sticky tobacco smoke, and a voice wrapped around a foreign tongue.
McCloskey leaned his elbow against the jamb. “English.”
“To know the road ahead …”
“Ask those coming back.”
The slot closed and the door creaked opened. McCloskey stepped forward, but the scene made Shorty and the stranger pause.
A red paper lantern hung over a round table where four men were seated, looking like they had just finished a hand. One of the men was Detective Morrison. Morrison could tilt the Earth’s axis with his girth and swagger. McCloskey managed not to look surprised at seeing him there. He then noticed a figure standing in the shadows, stripped down to his shirtsleeves, holding a cigarette, and with one arm folded across his chest. He stepped forward into the light and, leaning over the table, butted the heel of his cigarette into an ashtray with a bronze snake coiled around it.
“To what do we owe the pleasure, Mr. McCloskey?”
McCloskey gave a short bow. “Chung Hong.”
Morrison stood up and reached for his hat.
“I hope you’re not leaving on my account,” said McCloskey.
“See you next week?” asked Hong.
Morrison nodded and the burly gatekeeper grunted something mild and unlatched the door.
“Did you see the look on his face?” asked Hong.
“Like he’s never been caught with his pants down.”
“Pants down?”
“Something we used to say in the trenches.”
“Ah. You know him?”
“Our paths cross occasionally,” said McCloskey. “We try to keep out of each other’s way.”
Hong sat down and exchanged words with two of the other card players, younger men, perhaps his sons or nephews, who then got up and moved through the dark and into the store. McCloskey heard them ascending the stairs. An older gentleman — a brother or a business partner — remained seated. McCloskey was still trying to figure out the cast on Hong’s playbill. It seemed the players kept changing.
“Sit down,” said Hong, “and introduce me to your friend.”
Shorty and the stranger each pulled up a chair.
“I don’t know his name,” said McCloskey.
“He doesn’t speak English?”
McCloskey glanced over at the stranger. “I’m not sure. He said a few words when we pulled him out of the river.”
“Where?” asked Hong.
“Prospect Avenue,” said Shorty, “right behind the Westwood.”
Hong nodded, eyes closed, and then looked over at the elder seated next to him. The old man had a few words to add. There was some more discussion and nodding before McCloskey could jump back in.
“I thought he might relax a bit if he got to talk to one of his own people,” he said. “Can we start with his name?”
Hong asked the young man.
“Lee Quan, or Quan Lee,” said Hong, “depending on your affiliation. He knows some English, but he doesn’t like his accent.”
“Okay,” said McCloskey, “so what’s his story? Is he in some kind of trouble?”
Hong strung some queries together, at the same time condensing and translating the answers. “Canton … a long boat ride, and then … odd jobs … labour … kitchens.”
McCloskey identified a few cities through Quan’s accent: Vancouver, Calgary … “Moosejaw?” he asked.
“Yeah, Moosejaw … and then Montreal … Toronto. After that, he didn’t know where he was.”
“But he kept moving. Why?”
Quan and Hong were having their own conversation now, and then Hong picked up the translation once more.
“No, he’s not in trouble … nothing serious … the other fellow, the one who must have drowned … he did not know him … he was paired with him in Toronto … by the people handling their passage here.” Hong paused and turned to face McCloskey. “Jack, there might be two others on the farm.”
“The farm?”
“Where the boat came from.”
McCloskey glanced over at Shorty and then turned back to Hong. “Ask if he knows whereabouts. Ojibway? LaSalle? Amherstburg?”
Hong didn’t even bother asking. “Jack,” he said, “the kid has no idea where he is. All he knows is he’s at the border.” Hong said a few more words to Quan and then brought the other gentlemen into their conversation. Hong then turned to McCloskey and, lowering his voice, said, “Jack, these smugglers, they take their money and, rather than get caught on the river with foreigners like Quan, just spill them over the first chance they get. Those guys could have been in a drawstring sack, maybe a canvas mail bag.”
“Jesus,” said Shorty.
“Are we fools to ask if he’s even got papers?” said McCloskey.
Hong knew what the answer would be, but he asked Quan anyway. “No,” came the reply, “they were stolen in Toronto.” The two exchanged a few more words and then Hong turned back to McCloskey. “His father came here first, and earned the money to cover the tax on Quan. His father is still in Vancouver, but too ill to travel. Quan was legal, now he is like a ghost.”
Quan spoke.
“What did he say?”
“He says he heard he could make himself lost in America.”
McCloskey leaned forward and folded his hands on the table. “Or make himself the Border Cities’ newest resident. Chung, do you think you could —”
“Jack, I can’t. Now’s not a good time. You know I’ve taken people in before, but —”
“You’ve got no work for the kid? C’mon, Chung.”
Hong had more words with Quan, and then said, “He wasn’t just washing dishes. He says he can cook; that’s what he was doing in Montreal and Toronto.”
“Okay, so what about your kitchen on Wyandotte?”
“And who in my family should I let go to make room for him?” Hong had a notion. “Jack, what about your club?”
Back in April, when McCloskey was looking for ways of diversifying his interests, he took out a lease on a space in the Auditorium Building. It had been doubling as a rehearsal studio by day and a dance hall by night. He thought he could turn it into a dinner club. He expanded the kitchen and handed the entertainment reins over to Pearl Shipley, a local girl who had made it to vaudeville and eventually Hollywood before one scandal too many sent her running back home. There was a rotation of guest acts, but the regular entertainment was provided by a troupe dubbed th
e Windsor Follies, a chorus line of six girls who could also carry a tune, all schooled by Pearl. The place was doing all right, but something was missing, and that something was a proper menu. A mix of East and West to set it apart from all the other joints, thought McCloskey.
“You’re not worried about the competition?”
“Different clientele.” Hong smiled.
While Quan was trying to catch a word or two, Shorty was trying to catch McCloskey’s drift. “Jack —”
“I wouldn’t entirely do away with the roadhouse food,” added Hong.
“No, a new Chinese-Canadian menu,” said McCloskey, his wheels turning, thinking out loud, “and hey, you can help with the kitchen and tableware.”
Hong leaned back and folded his hands behind his head. “I don’t come cheap.”
“Nothing but the best.” McCloskey paused, and then, leaning closer to Hong said, “Pardon my forwardness — and this stays within these walls — but I gotta ask. Are you getting cozy with Morrison?”
Hong smiled. “I’m letting him think he’s getting cozy with me.”
“I thought it might be something like that. And your friend here?”
“Let’s call him my counsel.”
“All right, let’s call him that,” said McCloskey, scratching his chin again. “Know any English tutors?”
“Jack, you are asking and asking.”
“Hey, I pay my debts.”
“That’s my problem with you.” Hong paused for a moment, thinking. Or maybe it was just hesitation. “My niece, at the laundry, she’s good. Both of you meet me there tomorrow morning at ten. Quan can have his first lesson. That much I can do. You putting him up for the night?” Hong was obviously heading off what he thought would be the next request.
McCloskey looked over at Quan. “Until we find something.”
“We? Anything else?” asked Hong.
“Yeah, you got anything to eat?”
Hong chuckled. “Go see Ping at the Cadillac. You know how he likes to cater to you night owls.”
“Jack,” said Shorty, “can’t we hit a grill somewhere instead?”
“I’m hungry,” said McCloskey. “Let’s grab a quick bite downtown and then you can hit the sack.”
Quan said something to Hong; Hong nodded and the young man rose from the table. It was his turn to speak.
“What is it?” said McCloskey.
“He wants to know your name.”
“Oh … tell him he can call me Jack, and this piece of work here is Shorty. There, we’re all friends now.”
Quan pointed at McCloskey and said, “Jie-ke.” And then he tried “Shorty.” It wasn’t pretty.
“We’ll work on that,” said McCloskey.
The three headed for the door. Hong stopped them, and with his hand on McCloskey’s shoulder said, “Jack, let’s try to keep the kid out of trouble.”
McCloskey knew what Hong was talking about.
“Yeah,” he said, “let’s.”
— Chapter 2 —
DESCENT
They called it an elevator, but it was really nothing more than an oversized birdcage dangling from rickety chains, moving up and down through a corroding framework, servicing one of the near-forgotten mines as old and deep as the river. Occasionally there was a little too much metal on metal, and that’s when the sparks would fly. Detective Campbell lifted a hand, fingers splayed against the tiny flashes so as not to miss too much of the show and noting how the colour of the sparks could change.
The mechanics of it all clink clink clinked along like weights in a great clock, then stopped and started again, stopped and started again.
“Sorry, sirs” said the operator, gripping the controls, “it isn’t exactly a straight drop.” He was looking up through the top of the cage, rubbing his chin with the back of his other hand. “Not like it used to be, no it isn’t.”
“What do you mean, not like it used to be?”
“The ground can shift,” he said, turning for a moment to meet Campbell’s gaze.
“Of its own accord?” asked Dr. Laforet.
“Oh, we help it along sometimes,” said the operator, turning back to the controls. “We give it the business, gentlemen, that we do.” His playful tone implied he was only teasing.
And one day, thought Campbell, there will be a sinkhole the size of this town to prove it.
They passed through more layers and rock strata, falling noisily, disconcertingly. They stretched their jaws as their ears popped.
Clink, clink, clink.
The doctor hooked a finger underneath his collar and gave it a gentle tug. “Are we almost there?”
“Wait for it,” said the operator, grinning wide.
The detective looked at the doctor before turning to the operator. “Wait for what?”
“It’s coming up … look this way.” He was pointing to Campbell’s left.
They dropped past a black X painted on the wall. If they had blinked they would have missed it.
“There,” said the operator, “we’re halfway.”
Laforet gripped his doctor’s bag a little tighter and shifted his attention to his brogues, watching their shine grow duller and the tiny holes fill with grit.
Campbell studied first the operator’s gnarled hands and then the creases in his face. The creases were slowly being filled with fine dust, either putting years on or taking them off.
Pancake makeup.
The detective returned his gaze to the walls of the shaft, observing the scrapes, gouges, and what appeared to be fingernail or claw marks. He tried not to let his imagination run away with him.
“Eyes left, and when you see two Xs, bend your knees.”
“Sorry,” said Campbell, “what was that?”
“That’s when you bend your knees,” repeated the operator. “We’re about to hit bottom.” He then shook his head and mumbled something at the floor, possibly a prayer, with a faint smile on his lips.
“What was that?” said Campbell.
“Ye shall go no further.”
The detective felt he was at the mercy of something slightly less than divine. He watched Laforet set down his bag, bend his knees, and brace himself.
It was sage advice from the operator; the cage hit the floor with some purpose and Campbell, bending only slightly so he could measure the impact, had to steady himself against the cage to keep from falling over. Thick dust rose, not in a cloud, but rather like a froth around their ankles.
“In those last few feet, she kind of lets go. Did you notice?”
Campbell and Laforet looked at each other.
“We get some sags and buckles in the framework down here and things can get a bit loosey-goosey.” The operator wrestled the door open — wrestled because he was correct, there were no more right angles to be had.
"He’s mad,” Laforet whispered, picking up his bag and waiting for Campbell to straighten his hat. The pair followed the operator through a scissor gate.
“I’ll be waiting right here,” said the operator.
Campbell turned and nodded, wondering if he should have tipped the man.
Someone was waiting to greet them. He was trim, upright, clean-shaven, and outfitted in what Campbell couldn’t decide was a suit or some sort of protective gear. A lantern hung from a hook at the end of his left arm. The man extended the right, still punctuated with a hand.
“The name’s Bridgewater, security detail. Would you be Detective Campbell?”
Campbell gently took the hand. “I would, and this would be Dr. Laforet.”
“Follow me, gentlemen.”
Bridgewater swung his lantern here and there, pointing at empty spaces he called galleries, explaining their history as if he was leading a group through the ancient catacombs. It didn’t exactly sound scripted, more like his own running commentary as he roamed the place.
The detective pointed his flashlight in every other corner, trying to get the full picture. Used to the hot and humid aboveground, his sense
s were now trying to come to grips with the cold and dry. He could see colour returning to Laforet’s cheeks and thought that maybe a little small talk might help get his blood flowing better.
“So how long have you worked here, Bridgewater?”
“Since Van Horne,” he replied over his shoulder, not breaking his stride.
“Cornelius Van Horne?”
“This was all his idea … and word is we’re taking the operation full scale downriver. But you didn’t hear that from me.”
“Did you ever meet him?” asked Laforet, drawn in now.
“No,” said Bridgewater.
“Oh.”
So much for the small talk.
They passed large vehicles and heavy machinery that could have only been assembled in these depths, rather than transported whole. They looked like nothing that Campbell had ever seen before: mechanized subterranean creatures designed for pulling apart the insides of the Earth. And then there was the space: pillars, aisles, a transept …
“How do they ever know what time of day it is down here?” asked Laforet.
“There’s no watching the clock,” replied Campbell.
“Or staring out the window.”
“Over here,” said Bridgewater, waving his lantern, his incandescent appendage.
Campbell looked over at Laforet, who was back to looking like he was just waiting for the river to come crashing through the walls at any moment. Some people didn’t like heights, while others weren’t particularly fond of depths.
“Are you all right?” asked the detective.
“There’s something wrong about this,” said Laforet.
“I’m sure we don’t even know the half of it.”
“This section hasn’t been worked for quite some time,” said Bridgewater, continuing his lonely tour guide blather.
“A sprawling space,” remarked Campbell, “or so it seems. Am I right? And all opened? No partitions, no —”
“They don’t hang doors down here,” said Bridgewater. “There haven’t been any doors invented that can keep out what the river has to offer up.”
Campbell noticed Laforet suddenly looking a little pale again.
“Oh — this is it,” said Bridgewater, “this is the place.” He stepped back. “You first, detective; you be the fresh eyes.”
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