Border City Blues 3-Book Bundle

by Michael Januska

They’d have to make two trips to the salvage yard with the remains of the dismembered Studebaker. If they could have found a way to tow the thing wholesale to the yard, they would have done just that.

  “How much you figure we’ll get for this?” said Linc.

  “Her guts were well preserved. I don’t know; let’s let Mud figure that out.”

  Tuppy appeared, now dressed in a suit and with his comb-over back in place. The boys barely recognized him.

  “I’m going to be stepping out for a short while. By the looks of things you won’t finish before I get back. We can settle up then.”

  A couple hours passed and then Tuppy came around through the backyard, looking slightly disheveled but with a smile on his face. “You guys almost done? I thought you’d be done by now.”

  “We’re just finishing up,” said Jefferson, throwing a side-glance at Linc.

  “Do you want us to tidy the rest of the garden mess? We didn’t get to —”

  “No, no it’s fine,” said Tuppy. “Thank you, boys, you did a great job. Such a relief.”

  “A relief?” asked Linc.

  “AAAAHHH!”

  “What the hell?” said Jefferson, turning toward the voice that came from around the side of the house.

  “Tell me that isn’t …” said Linc.

  “It is,” said Tuppy.

  “Mrs. Tuppy,” said Jefferson.

  “She’s not dead?” asked Linc.

  “Very much not so,” said Tuppy. “Boys, you’ve done me a great favour.”

  “What have you done?” Mrs. Tuppy picked up a garden hoe and started waving it around, enraged. Not quite an axe or a pitchfork, but intimidating nonetheless, and able to do some damage.

  “Jefferson,” said Linc, “we got everything?”

  “Everything we came for.”

  “Then let’s skedaddle.”

  “Hop that fence and let’s run through the yard next door.”

  Mrs. Tuppy was taking swings, wielding the hoe over her head like it was some sort of medieval battle weapon. Tuppy grabbed an ashcan lid and raised it in defense. Linc and Jefferson paused for a moment on the other side of the fence, taking in the spectacle, and then made for Betsy.

  — Chapter 12 —

  THICK WITH PEOPLE

  Detective Campbell knew he wouldn’t have as difficult a time tracking down Hong as he did McCloskey. It was Saturday, his dry goods place would be bustling, and he was known for being very hands-on with his business. Campbell walked east along the Drive after leaving McCloskey’s office, keeping his head down and comparing the cracks in the sidewalk with the cracks in his thinking. He knew that the coffee and cigarettes, along with other things like lack of sleep, were eating through him.

  Is this the way it’s going to be?

  He knew there were other things he could probably be doing besides telling himself to get used to it, but he just couldn’t think of them.

  People were hustling in and out of the shops. Campbell had to pause at the Avenue as the constable on point duty directed the pedestrian and vehicular traffic. Campbell gave him a nod and the constable returned it. It was a manageable chaos. The ferry whistle tooted, car horns blared, and babies wailed from the comfort of their bouncing buggies. Campbell somehow managed to cross the street without incident.

  He paused in front of the Canadian Bank of Commerce building to look over at the British-American Hotel and down Ferry Hill towards the dock. It was thick with people, all seemingly with two arms. McCloskey’s point about the veterans was a good one. There were still so many scars, prosthetics, wheels, and canes. Once again distracted in thought, Campbell continued along Riverside Drive.

  After he passed the Davis Building, people and machines became a bit more scarce. Travellers toting luggage made their way up from the train station towards the King George. If they continued further east on foot, their destination was likely the Empire Hotel at Windsor Avenue, which sort of marked the end of the downtown. He observed the travellers begin to separate, heading to their respective lodgings, and wondered how much they really knew about the Border Cities, about what went on in the streets and roadhouses at night.

  Maybe they heard rumours and are here to learn more, he guessed.

  There were several Chinese establishments before that block: Hong Wick Company, grocers; Low’s barbershop; Chung Hong’s dry goods place; and of course the Chinese Nationalist League. Though there were other Chinese businesses in the Border Cities, this hub was the best qualified to be called “Chinatown.”

  Campbell entered Hong’s place and found it bustling indeed. Hardwood floors, walls lined with shelves overflowing with products, counters on both sides and along the back. The ceiling was strung with banners sporting Chinese sayings, punctuated by paper lanterns, mostly red. A green-and-yellow paper dragon, almost the length of the space, hung from the ceiling.

  Inside the door, to Campbell’s right, were sacks of rice piled in a pyramid about four feet high. To his left was an arrangement of open wooden crates displaying imported tableware packed in straw.

  Campbell went deeper into the store, taking it all in. It wasn’t his first time visiting the establishment, but those previous visits were for personal reasons. This was different. He walked in with new eyes.

  “May I help you?” asked a young man from behind the counter. He wore a black mandarin shirt with frog buttons.

  “I’m here to speak with Chung Hong.”

  The young man looked around and said, “He is not in.”

  Campbell showed the young man his badge. “I just want to ask Mr. Hong a few questions.”

  The young man studied the badge. “One moment,” he said, then disappeared through a wide door leading into a room at the rear.

  Where the poker games must take place, thought Campbell.

  Hong came out first, straightening his vest. “Detective Campbell.”

  Campbell was slightly taken aback. “Have we met, Mr. Hong?”

  Hong’s young protege reappeared.

  “No,” said Hong.

  Campbell would rifle through his mental file cards later. “I’d like to ask you a few questions, Mr. Hong … privately.”

  “Certainly.” The young man lifted a hinged section of the countertop and held it in place. Campbell followed Hong into a back room.

  “I’ll be brief,” said Campbell.

  “Please sit,” said Hong.

  Campbell glanced around the room before pulling out one of the chairs around the table. “One of our constables made a discovery last night, and it has raised not just a few questions, some of which regard this establishment.”

  Hong furrowed his brow. “Yes?”

  “It was a crate, almost identical to the ones you are currently using in a display at the front of your store. It was found in the alley between Pitt and the Drive just this side of Ferry.”

  “Go on.”

  “It contained three severed arms.”

  Hong’s expression upon hearing this was a little different than McCloskey’s — his jaw slackened and his face changed colour. Campbell pulled the photographs out of his coat pocket and spread them on the table like he was laying out a royal flush. Hong studied each of them closely.

  “This is terrible,” said Hong, pulling a small packet of cigarettes out of his vest. “Do you mind?”

  “No,” said Campbell.

  Hong pulled a matchbox out of his other vest pocket. He dragged the little stick across the side of the box and held the flame to the end of his cigarette. Blue smoke swirled up toward the lantern that hung over the table. Without taking his eyes off the photos, he reached for the overflowing serpentine ashtray and slowly dragged it toward him.

  “Mr. Hong, have you ever seen anything like this before?”

  “No,” he said.

  “Do you have any idea what it might mean?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Seen any young men missing an arm recently?”

  Hong nodded. “I have
a stock boy.”

  Campbell’s eyebrows climbed halfway up his forehead. “You have a one-armed stock boy?”

  “Yes,” said Hong. “He’s very good.”

  “How did he loose the arm?”

  “A mining accident in British Columbia.”

  “Very unfortunate. No, these are recent.”

  “How recent?”

  “Just a few days. Oh.” Campbell quickly checked his wristwatch — beginning to think that he should start wearing more than one — and said, “The coroner is still conducting his examination. I’m due to meet with him shortly.” He stood up and extended his hand. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Hong.”

  “Always happy to co-operate, detective. Help yourself to an almond cookie on your way out. Homemade.”

  “Thank you.” Campbell walked through to the front of the store, turning heads. He could feel everyone’s eyes on him. He smiled and nodded at the young man behind the counter and the young man nodded back without a smile.

  Campbell walked up to his apartment on Arthur to get his car. He didn’t want to be late for Laforet.

  — Chapter 13 —

  IT’S A DATE

  It was only the middle of the afternoon and McCloskey was already looking for a break in the action, if paperwork and telephone conversations could be called action. He rang up Vera Maude at the bookstore and asked if she felt like doing something that evening.

  “Yes,” she said. “Yes, we do gift-wrapping.”

  “What?” said McCloskey.

  “We also make local deliveries.”

  He finally remembered that she wasn’t allowed personal phone calls.

  “Maudie, deliver yourself over here after your shift.”

  “You’re welcome … good day, Mr. McGillicutty.”

  Wanting to avoid running into any co-workers, Vera Maude decided to take a roundabout way to McCloskey’s place. She took Park Street to Church, dropped down to Chatham, and then across to Dougall. She figured she shook anyone that might be on her trail. She was back to reading detective magazines in her free time, and less than halfway to McCloskey’s, she started to feel nervous. It wasn’t like she hadn’t been out with him before. But this felt different for some reason. When she arrived, he was sitting on the steps, finishing a cigar. The thick air held down the smoke.

  “What took you so long?”

  “I took a wrong turn,” she said.

  “I’ll say — you’re arriving from the opposite direction.”

  They stood on the first landing of the stairs that climbed the outside of McCloskey’s apartment block, LaBelle Terrace. Being a sort of alcove, it sheltered them from the hot, humid breeze blowing off the river. A light summer rain was on the way but was taking its own sweet time.

  “Well, I know how much you like the movies,” McCloskey said. “Do you feel like catching one?

  “Yeah, sure,” she said. “I just happen to have on my person …” She pulled out the entertainment section of the Star from her purse, unfolded it, and turned to the movie listings. McCloskey tried to read it over her shoulder. She could feel his breath on her neck and tried to concentrate.

  “Hey, look — ‘Relax in the Cool Comfort of the Allen.’”

  “What’s the picture?”

  “The Enemies of Women,” she said. “Doesn’t look too promising.”

  “Okay, what else?”

  “Let’s see what’s at the Walkerville … Woman With Four Faces, and there’s a vaudeville: The Juvenile Follies. It says, ‘Comedy — Packed With Laughs.’”

  No comment from McCloskey. “And the Capitol?”

  “Without Compromise … also with a vaudeville revue … the Drake Sisters headlining, and some jazz jugglers.”

  “Don’t think so; that stuff’s not really for me.” McCloskey straightened up and turned his gaze towards the intersection, thinking. He watched three cars try and negotiate the crossing and then he turned his attention back to Vera Maude.

  “Why don’t we just go for dinner?”

  Vera Maude, relieved because she really couldn’t see McCloskey sitting patiently through a movie, refolded the section and tucked it back into her purse.

  “Sure … where?”

  “I know a place.”

  I bet you know lots of places.

  “Not far, and nothing fancy. It’s actually a house. They converted their front room into a sort of café. It’s small, and usually quiet. They serve proper meals, and they’re good people.”

  “Good people? And here I thought you didn’t know any.”

  “Ha. So that suits you?” said McCloskey.

  “Suits me fine.”

  “It’s just up Pelissier. We can walk it.”

  “Together?”

  “Mostly, I guess. Yeah, of course together.”

  They had both been trying to avoid being seen too often together in public, each for their own reasons. McCloskey still didn’t want Vera Maude getting tangled up in his complicated life, and Vera Maude didn’t want to be seen by her friends, colleagues, or family hanging out with a man who was rumored to be a gang leader and a threat to the peace.

  “Oh, wait.”

  “What?” said McCloskey.

  “I should call Uncle Fred.”

  “Right … upstairs. You make your call and I’ll fetch my umbrella.”

  When they reached his door, McCloskey pulled his keys out of his pocket and jangled them around until the right one fell between his thumb and forefinger, the one with the most scratches on the cuts and the greasiest bow. He jabbed the lock and tickled the tumblers. Vera Maude went straight to the phone, woke a sleepy operator, and finally got through.

  “Uncle Fred? … Yes, it’s me … No, but I’m going to be late … No, you go ahead and … Yes … Is Mrs. Cattanach there? … Oh good … Okay … Bye.”

  She hung up the earpiece and set the phone back on the little table.

  “Everything okay?”

  “Everything’s okay,” said Vera Maude. “Lead the way.”

  They headed back down the stairs. The rain was closing in.

  “We’ll start up this way.” McCloskey broke into his stride.

  “Hey, don’t walk so fast.”

  “I’m not walking fast,” he said, “this is normal walking.”

  “Try walking like that in a tube skirt that’s almost to your ankles.”

  “So wear a shorter skirt.”

  Vera Maude looked up to see if he was serious. She was thinking he was.

  “I should have asked you this first. Maudie, you like borch?”

  “I may have voted for him in the last election. Do you mean borscht?”

  “The soup.”

  “Yeah, I know, but around our house we just call it cold beet soup.”

  “It’s nice in the summer,” said McCloskey. “Very refreshing. I’m liking it.”

  Another side to this man. “Are you turning into some sort of gastronome?”

  “A what?”

  “It means you’ve got a keen interest in food and good cooking.”

  “Well, we’ve been working on the menu at the club. They keep throwing new things at me.”

  “Sounds like a food fight.”

  Their arms dangled for a bit; their fingers brushed and then McCloskey took her little hand in his rough boxer’s mitt and said, “Are you okay with this?”

  “Yes,” she said. She was loosening up a little.

  They walked in silence for a while, admiring the homes and the front gardens, each wondering what the other was thinking.

  “They serve it with this amazing bread.”

  “What?”

  “The soup.”

  “Ah.”

  The house was south of Wyandotte, on the west side, a two-and-a-half-storey green clapboard affair that, when walking right past, one would never suspect that it served the best meals in this quarter of town. They didn’t have a sign or a sandwich board, but McCloskey knew it. It was almost like a speakeasy.

&nb
sp; The woman who greeted them inside the door recognized McCloskey right away. She was as wide as she was tall and wearing the same floral pattern apron she tied around her waist every morning as soon as she got out of bed. Strictly old country.

  “Chack, come here and sit down.” She found them a table. “So, Chack, who is your friend tonight?”

  Tonight? thought Vera Maude. What am I, the Saturday night special?

  “Babushka, this is Maudie; Maudie, Babushka.”

  “Such a pretty one. Also, she looks very serious. Nice to meet you Muddy. Chack, what do you want for you and this pretty girl?”

  “We’ll start with the” — he glanced at Maudie — “borscht. And then, well, what’s the kitchen been working on today?”

  “For you, I still have left something special … a kulebiaka.”

  Vera Maude looked at McCloskey for some help on that one, but McCloskey was back in unfamiliar culinary territory.

  “What’s that?” he said. He didn’t mince words.

  “Salmon and cod, rice and mushroom, dill, all wrapped in delicious pastry. You will like.”

  It almost sounded like a command.

  “Sounds wonderful,” said Vera Maude.

  “We’ll have that,” said McCloskey.

  “And to drink, to drink,” said Babushka with, her palms pressed against her cheeks and her eyes rolling, “I have chilled kompot I make just this afternoon.” She saw their blank stares. “Fruits — ripe, ripe, ripe — strawberries, blueberries, raspberries, plums, and I don’t know what else, simmered, made even more beautiful and sweet. I will bring you some.” And off she went, a babushka on a mission.

  “She’s something else,” said Vera Maude. “Is that her real name?”

  “It’s what she tells everyone to call her.” McCloskey looked carefully around the room, checking out the diners. There was no one he recognized and no one seemed to be eyeing him. That was good. He was beginning to like places like this more and more. At the same time, he was beginning to realize that his face and his reputation could quickly spoil things for the proprietors and their guests, and he might have to move on to another establishment soon. He was only just beginning to realize how he could unwittingly ruin things for other people — besides the maître d’. But he had to be careful; he needed Vera Maude. Sitting here with her, he saw things being pushed to a sort of tipping point. He told himself he could maintain the balance.