“So Uncle Fred won’t be dining alone this evening?”
“No,” she said, “he has Mrs. Cattanach’s company. Oh, that reminds me, I’m getting some help with the wedding plans. My friend Lew has some experience with this sort of thing.”
“Lew … bookstore Lew?”
“Yep, the Lew and only.”
“What’s he know?”
“Well, for starters he knows flowers. And he knows people who know more than he does about everything else. I’m a little out of my league here. I’ll just try to pull it all together, make sure the bride and bridegroom get what they want, and that it’s something special, you know, a day to remember.”
Babushka returned with a couple of small mason jars brimming with the kompot, a few shards of ice floating on top. “I’ll be right back with the soup,” she said.
McCloskey and Vera Maude tasted their drinks.
“Delicious,” she said. “It tastes like summer.”
“So you’re feeling a little more confident about pulling this off?”
“Pulling it off? Hey, I’m not the one standing at the altar. The pressure is on them.”
“That wasn’t your tone yesterday morning.”
“I know. I flew off a bit. You know me. But I’ve had a day to calm down and think about it.” She plucked a raspberry out of her drink and popped it in her mouth. The juice dribbled down her chin but she caught it before it stopped traffic. “I’m happy for them. They should be together.”
Babushka returned and set down two floral-patterned, wide-lipped bowls on the table. The vines in the pattern reached out of the soup and held onto the edge of the dish.
“What a beautiful colour,” said Vera Maude.
The soup was pale-purple velvet. Babushka smiled and then resumed her rounds. There wasn’t an empty seat in the place and she was starting to turn people away. It was the dinner rush. Her grandson, Yevgeny, was busing tables as fast he could.
“Anything else new?” asked Vera Maude. She was enjoying herself.
He looked around and, in a low voice, said, “A certain detective we both know came across three severed arms in an alley off Ferry Street.”
“Jack, I’m eating!”
“You asked.”
Still, she was intrigued. “How did you find out about this?”
“The detective had a few questions for me.” McCloskey rested his spoon and said, “The limbs were in a crate with our markings on it.”
“Your markings?”
“The salvage yard’s.”
She looked up from her soup. “Oh.… Oh?”
“I don’t know what to make of it. That’s what’s-his-name’s beat.”
Vera Maude’s spoon hovered mid-flight. “So you know nothing about it?”
“Nothing,” said McCloskey, looking her in the eye.
She couldn’t read him. He seemed to be made of a combination of things, things one had to ignore and things one never wanted to forget. She’d leave him tangled for now.
Babushka came back for the soup bowls, saw the two were deep in conversation, leaning across the table towards each other, and smiled. She probably thought it was something deep and romantic when actually it was something violent and sinister.
After the kulebiaka, some homemade peach brandy served with a wink, and the bill, McCloskey persuaded Vera Maude into dropping by a speakeasy that was also in a house in the neighbourhood, but not before slipping a few folded bills into Babushka’s palm.
“Thank you, Chack. I like her. You be a nice boy.”
“You know me.”
“Yes, I do.”
The partially overcast sky made for a dusky, late summer evening. They walked hand in hand.
“Good thing I don’t have to work tomorrow,” said Vera Maude.
ACT THREE
— Chapter 14 —
KICKING THE GONG AROUND
Monday, August 6
PLOT TOLD OF CHINAMAN IN DOPE CASE
Claims That He Was “Framed” By Orientals Here
Claiming that he was the victim of a deep Oriental plot, Sun Yen Chen, or Chen Su Yen, a Toronto Chinese, pleaded not guilty yesterday afternoon before Judge W.E. Gundy of having morphine in his possession. Despite all protestations, however, Chen was found guilty and remanded for sentence.
In giving evidence in his own behalf, Chen told a highly sensational story. He informed the court that when he came to Windsor, it was to say goodbye to his many friends here as he intended to return to the land of his fathers.
RECEIVED WARNING
Previous to coming here from Toronto, he said, he received a letter of warning from a friend in Chicago who warned him that the Windsor Chinese were a bad and desperate lot, who would not hesitate to “frame” him. And in this respect his worst fears were realized. Someone, he declared, filled his pockets with cans containing morphine, and it was this that got him into trouble when the police searched him at 117 Sandwich Street East, where he was staying.
On each can, marked in Chinese characters, was the name Li Yun. According to Tom Wu, Chinese interpreter, Li Yun is the name of a firm of opium exporters in China; one of the largest in the business.
ESCAPED TO TORONTO
The accused was arrested by members of the RCMP detachment, who produced evidence to show that premises held by Chen in Toronto had been raided by the police and a quantity of opium secured, although Chen had never been caught in the police dragnet at the time of these raids. Chen was represented by Roscoe Rodd, while W.H. Furlong acted as prosecutor for the Federal government in the absence of William M. Egan. Chen will be sentenced Saturday.
Ung Lee Pong, on whose premises RCMP officers found a quantity of opium prepared for retailing, was found guilty of unlawfully possessing narcotics. He will receive sentence Saturday.
“That’s the detective I was telling you about.” He spoke in a loud whisper.
“Where?”
“There,” he said, pointing with a gnarled, curled index finger, the full finger being rude, or so he had learned from his mother, who had always told him that it was not polite to point. “Him, the fellow with the chair groaning under him … yet still holding some regard.”
They were two elderly men, one a retired clerk from the jail and the other his new friend from the lodge — Prince of Wales No. 52. When they first met at a recent smoker held to welcome new members, they discovered their mutual interest in the courts. The retired clerk said he attended whenever he could, and invited the initiate to join him sometime — when the case looked particularly interesting — and they’d make a day of it. They compared calendars and found some openings, a few of which happened to overlap. The retired clerk said he would keep his ear to the ground and his eye on the newspaper. He was flexible. They exchanged calling cards, one printed on vellum and the other hand-written on a gift tag. The ex-clerk touched the brim of his panama, and the initiate nodded. After checking with their social directors — their wives, that is — the ex-clerk telephoned the initiate and a date was set.
The two had met at the courthouse early that day, only to find the room almost full. The folding chairs would get a good polish today. Drug smuggling cases were the latest addiction amongst the general populace, providing some fresh entertainment, a departure from the now-routine Prohibition violations currently ranking in the crime index alongside milk bottle theft. The lodge men found a couple of chairs towards the back, not side-by-side but one behind the other, the ex-clerk in front.
“Are you sure?” said his friend, his hand on the other’s shoulder.
“I’ve been coming here often enough to know.” This was his territory.
The initiate furrowed his brow while lifting himself ever so slightly from his chair in order to gain a better view. He made like he was straightening the seat of his trousers, as if that would be any less conspicuous. He sat down and reported. “It looks as if he’s doing a crossword.”
The ex-clerk rose, conspicuously this time, found the same an
gle, lifted his spectacles, and with one eye closed, squinted the other as if he were peeping through a keyhole. He then sat back and turned to his friend. “Yes … yes it does, doesn’t it?”
“He might not seem as if he were all that interested in the proceedings, and yet …”
“And yet what?”
“And yet it’s as if he were taking notes.”
“A keen observation.” The ex-clerk was suddenly disappointed in himself, realizing that as much as he liked to think so, he was perhaps not one for details, and it was all in the details. His shoulders sagged a bit under the weight of self-doubt, and he wondered many things.
The ex-clerk kept seeing Morrison here because the detective was maintaining a close eye on his investment, an investment that was beginning to go south, and when an investment such as the accused started to unexpectedly tank, one sometimes had to help it along to its estimated demise. The exit strategy was all timing and execution.
Morrison was indeed gently stabbing and scratching at the crossword with his pencil, not filling in answers but composing a message buried in numbers and letters and little black squares.
Six Down — Li Yun.
When court adjourned, Morrison waited for everyone to clear out before taking his leave. To him, it was like waiting for a backed-up sink to drain. He feigned preoccupation with his crossword while walking to the nearest streetcar stop.
Standing there, looking west down the Drive, he waved his folded newspaper as if hailing a cab. There was a man standing one corner up who removed his hat and started fanning himself with it. When the distant car approached, the man boarded. When the same car stopped in front of Morrison, he also boarded. The detective found the man near the back and sat himself two seats over on the same bench. Morrison set the folded paper down between them, lit a cigarette, and then got up and staggered towards the front of the wobbling car, gripping the hand straps like they were vines dangling from the ceiling of a jungle.
“Detroit Street,” he said.
“Short trip.”
Morrison smiled but it wasn’t all sunshine. The driver caught Morrison’s drift: Mind your own goddamn business.
“Yes, sir.”
When Morrison disembarked, the man he had been sitting near picked up the newspaper and unfolded it to reveal the crossword. He started working the letters and numbers, occasionally looking up from the paper to stare out the window to let his own wheels spin. When he knew he had it, he refolded the newspaper and tucked it into the back of his belt, under his jacket. He’d ride the car all the way downtown, or as long as the driver would have him, avoiding eye contact or doing anything that might leave an impression.
He always had to know how to play it, figure out just what the situation called for. He knew that’s why the detective chose him. He could either be that whom the gwai lo would pretend did not exist, even after they had passed him on the sidewalk, or he could be the stranger he allowed them to abuse, even vilify. He could be either a standout or he could make himself invisible.
It was a pleasant day, a rarity during this particular season, and he considered getting out of the car and walking the rest of the way, but by riding a car with so few passengers, less people would see him. And these ladies were too polite to stare.
Today, I am not here.
Meanwhile, Morrison doubled back, walking west along Riverside Drive, passing several homes until reaching a vacant building comprised of a storefront and a single residence up top. The previous owner had lost the business and it was now in the hands of a realtor who just happened to be located a few doors down. This realtor and his brother-partner had been in Morrison’s scopes for some time. The detective was tipped that their house movers were moving more than furniture. They were also moving cases of illegal beer and liquor, using vacant properties as showrooms and depots. It was convenient for them and difficult for the cops to follow. But Morrison was patient, and he knew how minds like this worked. He had watched, saw the pattern, tracked their routine, and let them dig themselves in deeper before swooping in. He’d informed the brothers that he had enough evidence to send them to court on numerous charges, and that this little bit of embarrassment would likely cost them the business they inherited from Daddy, who would probably also cut them loose. What did Morrison want? For the price of leaving them alone he wanted access to the same vacant properties for brief periods, and the occasional case of rye.
“What are you going to use the properties for?” one of the brothers had asked.
“Yeah, we’re still responsible.”
“Official police business,” had been Morrison’s reply. He thought that should be more than enough for them.
In actual fact the properties were being used for anything other than official police business. Morrison had his own apartment downtown, but he liked to keep it clean, meaning there was never any booze there; he did not arm-in-arm any women by; he never invited any other police over; and he did not bring any of the petty thieves, drug addicts, and smugglers he kept company with over for sodas. He needed another location or, even better, a succession of temporary ones. That’s where the realtors came in.
The dwelling upstairs could be accessed either by the stairs at the side of the building or through the store, and there were two ways to enter the store: through the front door or the receiving door out back. Morrison always used the latter.
He resisted the temptation to look over his shoulder while he rummaged through his pockets for the keys. He visited the place during the day infrequently, doing so only to keep up the appearance of a legit operation. The store was empty save for the fixtures. The entire inventory had been sold off. The only things on the shelves were dust halos where the cans used to be.
Creaking stairs carried Morrison up to the apartment. It was furnished with the basics, ready to show. He checked his watch. His friend should be downtown by now, delivering the coded message in the crossword. He should be getting a phone call shortly. He removed his hat and peeled off his overcoat, tossing them on the chesterfield. There was a bottle in the cupboard above the stove and a dirty tumbler in the sink. He poured himself three fingers and, with the bottle still in hand, went to the window overlooking the street. It was a nice neighbourhood. He let himself become distracted by passersby and wondered what might be occupying their minds. He used to feel like he was getting closer to people, getting to know their hearts and minds, but lately he was feeling like he was drifting even further away. He wondered if he might be losing sight of things. The small part of him that was still a detective, enforcing the law and cracking cases, suddenly felt a little disappointed in himself. He shook it off.
Times change, people change.
He tossed back what was left in the tumbler, poured another, and sat himself down next to the phone, setting the bottle on the floor. There would be no conversation. There didn’t need to be. He could tell when a caller was either nodding or shaking their head.
— Chapter 15 —
THE BLACK CANDLE
Campbell’s latest printed and bound acquisition was a copy of Emily Murphy’s The Black Candle. He had left a special order for it at the store and as it turned out, a fellow bookmonger of Copeland’s in Detroit had a slightly used edition taking up space on one of his shelves. Booksellers in the Border Cities and on the other side of the river often helped each other out when it came to their customers’ wants and needs. Agreements were made over long lunches and sometimes short reaches under the table — meaning open agreements were occasionally superseded by offerings mentioned on notes tucked between the pages of books: A customer recently brought a certain title to my attention. I thought it might be a welcome addition.… Booklegging could sometimes be a more profitable sideline.
The detective had been up all night reading The Black Candle and now flipped back and forth, rereading passages he had flagged with little yellow slips he always had at the ready. Slips for the most important passages got a dot of LePage’s on them to hold them in plac
e. Having just run out of the yellow pads he’d been lifting from the department, he now resorted to strips cut from faded envelopes from the bottom of his desk drawer.
Letters unwritten, letters never sent.
After rereading the first section of the book, he turned back to the preface. He tended to read in loops, and was even known to occasionally read a book from back to front.
Six years ago, when appointed a Police Magistrate and Judge of the Juvenile Court of Edmonton, the capital city of the province of Alberta, I was astonished to learn that there was an illicit traffic in the narcotic drugs of which I had been almost unaware, and of which the public was unaware.
Campbell jumped ahead.
Although there are over two million drug addicts on the North American Continent, and a vast outnumbered army who live by exploiting them, I cannot find that any volume dealing with the subject generally has ever been published.
He set the book down, lit another cigarette, and watched the dawn light creep over the still river, smooth as glass and unsuspecting. Purples and oranges were in a fierce competition on the horizon. It was Campbell’s favourite kind of morning. The switch in his table lamp was broken, so in order to turn it off he had to unscrew the bulb. The only thing that kept him from a good first-degree burn was spit and a greasy handkerchief. He pivoted his chair away from the window, propped the book up on his chest, and continued reading.
All honest men and orderly persons should rightly know that there are men and women who batten and fatten on the agony of the unfortunate drug-addicted-palmerworms …
He lifted his gaze from the page for a moment, letting it float in the middle of the room. Locusts?
… and human caterpillars who should be trodden underfoot like the despicable grubs that they are.
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