Border City Blues 3-Book Bundle

by Michael Januska

  “What makes you think we got beer?” said the first one.

  “Seems natural, I guess,” said McCloskey, looking around. They were getting suspicious, and rightly so, he thought.

  “Tommy, why don’t you fix our man here up with an ale?”

  Tommy left the scene and entered the cellar below the house by way of two big wooden doors.

  “You’re from the city,” said Perc.

  “Actually, born and raised just up in Ojibway.”

  “Huh,” said Perc, “practically neighbours.”

  Perc was eyeing McCloskey but good now. Tommy resurfaced.

  “Here you go … uh …”

  “Jake.”

  “Right, Jake.”

  McCloskey took a swig from the bottle. “I suspect you boys see a lot of action around here.”

  “More questions,” said Perc.

  “Only making conversation,” said McCloskey. “If there were any, well, that’s something I might like to get in on. I know the shore … and I got connections in town.”

  “What kind of action you looking for?” said Tommy.

  “The same kind of action my pa was into. You know, moving things.”

  “Moving things,” said Perc, rubbing the bristle on his chin with the back of his hand.

  Perc and Tommy sat themselves down on two of several milk crates set in a circle around a small firepit dug in the sandy earth and started a quiet discussion between them. McCloskey wondered how Quan and Li-Ling were holding up. He’d have to move this along. He finished his beer, tossed it into the ashes of the firepit and reached in his overalls for his weapon. He pulled it out and started waving it around like it was nothing. The boys’ jaws suddenly hung loose.

  “Now, before we enter into any kind of an agreement, I’d like to have a tour of the facilities.”

  The men froze.

  “Stand up, boys, I got people waiting for me. Oh, by the way, this is a Webley .455. It makes a big noise and even bigger holes. Make one wrong move and it’ll all be behind you.” Alternating the barrel between the two men, McCloskey turned his head toward the front of the house. “Quan!” He waited and then shouted again, “Quan Lee!”

  Quan tentatively came around the side of the house. He saw McCloskey holding the gun, and the two men who had taken him for his boat cruise.

  “These men?”

  Quan nodded. Judging by the expression on Quan’s face, there was no doubt in McCloskey’s mind.

  “Okay, boys, take me on a tour of your cellar. C’mon now,” said McCloskey, waving his artillery, “don’t be testing my patience. You, the uglier one, you lead the way.” There was a split-second beauty contest and then Perc — inarguably the ugliest of the two owing mostly to a shortage of teeth and a lack of hygiene — lost out. He rose first and led the way. Tommy, standing tall now in his long johns and rubber boots, McCloskey, and Quan followed close behind.

  Sturdy wooden stairs led down to a dirt floor partially covered with pallets. A few bare bulbs hung from the ceiling. There were several cases of beer, more mailbags, and more opened cans with spoons standing in them.

  “How’s business?”

  “We do all right,” said Perc.

  “Shut up, frog lips,” said Tommy.

  “And when you don’t have any beer to move, then what?” said McCloskey.

  The two men looked at each other for an answer.

  “Recognize my friend here?” McCloskey continued, pointing at Quan.

  “I dunno … they all look the same to me,” snorted Tommy.

  “This is funny?” said McCloskey. “As funny as how he recognized the house and you two? You greasy sons of bitches who robbed him and his travelling companion of their money, took them for a ride in your outboard, and dumped them in the river somewhere near the Westwood. Quan here made it to shore. His buddy didn’t. How much was that worth to you?”

  Silence. The two smugglers just glanced back and forth at each other. McCloskey fired a round into the pallet they were standing on and sent some wood chips flying. Quan jumped. It was so loud it caused dust to fall from the ceiling.

  “Fifty bucks,” said Tommy.

  “Each?”

  “Each,” said Perc.

  “Okay, let’s start there. I’ll take a hundred bucks — and I don’t accept cheques or promissory notes.”

  “We don’t have it,” said Tommy.

  Another round, this time between their heads and into the exposed brick behind them. There were flying chips of masonry. The two slack-jaws blinked this time.

  “I figure you’re at least smart enough not to keep your profits and working capital up in the house, so it must be down here somewhere, maybe in one of these cans. Get it, or I blow a hole through those cases of beer — your only real assets.”

  Perc fetched a coffee can down from one of the many shelves. The bills were loose, just jammed inside. Perc peeled out what amounted to a hundred dollars and handed it to McCloskey.

  “Good. Half for Quan, and half for the Chinese Nationalist League. Now, I’ll take the beer.”

  “What?” said Tommy.

  “Each of you grab a case. I’ve got my truck parked out front.”

  “That’s not fair play,” said Perc.

  “Yeah,” said Tommy, “you got your refund on the yellow coons, so how do you figure on the beer?”

  “Compensation.”

  “What?” said Perc.

  “This has been a distraction, boys, keeping me a little too far from my day-to-day, if you know what I mean. I’m feeling the loss in my pockets. This is compensation for my time and trouble.” He stooped to pick up two of the mail bags. “Now get moving.”

  McCloskey waved the Webley around a bit more and got the brothers moving. When they reached the truck with the first load McCloskey pulled back the canvas.

  “C’mon down, Li-Ling. Everything’s fine.”

  “Another one?” said Perc. “They’re overrunning the county.”

  “Go get the rest of the beer, you two. Li-Ling, come out back with us. I want to make sure Quan knows what’s happening.”

  Li-Ling looked unsure about what to make of any of this.

  When they finished loading the beer onto the truck, McCloskey asked Li-Ling and Quan to cover it with the canvas and secure it with ropes and chains.

  “Now let’s have a look at your watercraft.” McCloskey marched the two men back out to the slips and Quan and Li-Ling followed. “Ask Quan which boat it was.”

  Quan pointed to the outboard, confirming McCloskey’s hunch.

  McCloskey blasted a hole through the hull of the other, the skiff, and it immediately began to take water.

  “Shit,” said Tommy.

  McCloskey tossed the mail bags into the outboard. “Get into the boat and climb in the bags.”

  “What?” asked Perc.

  McCloskey raised the Webley. “You heard me.”

  The two men climbed into the boat. McCloskey handed the weapon to Quan and Quan’s hands trembled. When the boys were in the bags, McCloskey climbed in and pulled the drawstrings tightly over their heads.

  “What’re you doing?” asked Tommy.

  “Yeah,” said Perc.

  McCloskey started the outboard and climbed back out. He took the Webley back from Quan, who looked grateful to get it out of his hands. Li-Ling and Quan watched McCloskey take aim at the two men. Quan reached out to hold Li-Ling, shaking his head. Li-Ling looked away.

  McCloskey fired, and put a hole in the boat.

  “What the hell was that?” shouted one of the men.

  “The hole is about one inch above water level. It’s going to take a little work to get out of those mail bags, so don’t rock the boat too much and you might make it.” McCloskey aimed the boat downriver and gave it a push. He then tucked the Webley back in his overalls and turned back to Li-Ling and Quan.

  “You two hungry? Because I could eat.”

  Quan Lee and Li-Ling just looked at each other.


  “I bet you never had grilled corn on the cob. C’mon, I know a place.”

  They boarded the truck and took the same positions on the bench. McCloskey was twisting the steering wheel in his grip, and he could feel Quan’s and Li-Ling’s eyes on him. They were asking the same question he was asking himself.

  Why? Why did we go this far?

  He was seeing it more and more, the angel on his right shoulder and the devil on his left.

  Defend them, said one.

  Take the city, said the other.

  — Chapter 17 —

  THE WEDDING PLANNER(S)

  Uncle Fred, Mrs. Cattanach, Vera Maude, and Lew were seating themselves around the dining room table at Uncle Fred’s, to the sounds of shoes shuffling and then chairs settling into position.

  “So, like I told you,” started Vera Maude, “I’ve enlisted the aid of Lew here to help us out with a few details; the flowers, for instance. He’s also got some experience with certain aspects of the wedding ceremony.”

  Not with anyone older than Confederation, thought Lew. “You both must be very excited. I’m glad to assist in any way that I can.” He smiled, trying to calm those who appeared uneasy. That included just about everyone.

  “I’ll be overseeing everything,” added Vera Maude. “You will both have final approval, of course.”

  The groom looked like he already had pre-wedding jitters, even though he was the one who had proposed. Mrs. Cattanach appeared calm on the surface but her gentle hand-wringing was giving her away.

  Lew was searching for ways to bring it back to the couple and their bond. “May I see the ring?” he asked.

  Mrs. Cattanach looked at Uncle Fred, who nodded, and then held her hand out toward Lew. He didn’t touch it; he just held his gaze on the band.

  Simple, but tasteful, thought Lew. “Lovely, quite lovely. May I ask where you got it?”

  “Sansburn-Pashley. I bring them my pocket watch occasionally for cleaning, and I had been admiring this bit for some time.”

  This bit.

  Mrs. Cattanach cleared her throat. “Maybe I should make us some tea before we get started.”

  “That would be nice,” said her fiancé.

  Vera Maude and Lew each chimed with a “Yes.”

  Off went Mrs. Cattanach into the kitchen. They listened to the clatter of chinaware and spoons for a moment before Uncle Fred broke in with “So, Lew, I understand you work at the bookstore with Vera Maude.”

  “Yes,” said Lew, smiling, “partners in crime, I guess one could say.”

  “Crime?”

  “Just an expression, Uncle Fred.”

  “Right.” Uncle Fred paused. “You say you have some experience with this sort of thing? Married, are you? Or maybe you have a special someone in your life?”

  Vera Maude and Lew caught each other mid-glance.

  “Married? No,” said Lew. “And as far as that special someone, well there’s always someone special just around the corner, isn’t there?”

  Lew felt a gentle tap on his shin. Before he could return the favour to Vera Maude, Mrs. Cattanach arrived just in time with her tray of tea paraphernalia.

  “Ah,” said Uncle Fred, rubbing his hands together. “Let me pour.”

  Lew let his eyes wander. It was a modest apartment, but it had certain effects that seemed to catch his attention, though he didn’t, and wouldn’t, say as much — the lace over the linen tablecloth, the curio cabinet wedged in the corner, the plate rail that ran just below the ceiling, to name a few.

  “Very nice, very homey, Mr. Maguire,” said Lew.

  “Oh, why thank you, Lew. Though I can’t take all the credit, you know,” he said, glancing at Mrs. Cattanach. “And please, call me Fred.”

  “Vera Maude,” said Mrs. Cattanach, “I know you only take sugar. Lew? Cream?”

  “No, thank you, nothing in mine,” said Lew. “Now,” he began, “I understand that both the ceremony and the reception are to take place at St. Andrew’s. Is that correct?”

  “That it is,” said Uncle Fred.

  “We had originally wanted something simpler,” said the bride-to-be, “maybe at a friend’s house, maybe at one of Fred’s niece’s or nephew’s in the county, but when Reverend Paulin heard about our plans, well, he insisted. You see, I do a lot of work for the church.”

  “Ah,” said Lew. “And the date?” He pulled his notebook out of his jacket pocket.

  “That would be Saturday, September first,” said Uncle Fred.

  Lew jotted that down. “And there’s going to be a luncheon?”

  “Something relaxed and informal,” said Uncle Fred, “like a church picnic.”

  Lew stopped his pencil. “Outdoors? You’re not concerned about the weather?”

  “Well, I suppose we could take it inside if we had to.” Uncle Fred looked at Mrs. Cattanach. “Right?”

  “Yes,” she nodded, “certainly.”

  “It’s always good to have a plan B,” said Lew. “And how many are you expecting? Have invitations gone out? People do make plans quickly for the last weekend of the summer, you know.”

  Vera Maude stepped in. “Um, no, invitations have not gone out just yet. And Lew, remember you and I talked numbers and I said about forty.”

  “Forty?” repeated Uncle Fred, setting down his teacup. “Who are they?”

  “Well,” said Vera Maude, “I was thinking about family, and friends of Mrs. Cattanach’s from the church … too many?”

  Uncle Fred looked at Mrs. Cattanach. “I guess we should give that some more thought.”

  “The sooner the better,” said Lew. He made a few more notes before continuing. “I’ve brought some things for you to look at.” He unzipped the satchel resting on his lap and pulled out what looked to be a portfolio, setting it on the table. “Let’s talk bridal bouquet first.” He looked at Mrs. Cattanach. “Would that be all right?”

  “Yes, of course,” she said and took a sip of her sugary cream with a hint of orange pekoe.

  Uncle Fred slid the tea tray further down the table, leaving Lew enough room to open the portfolio and lay it flat in front of Mrs. Cattanach. Inside were loose sheets of hand-coloured florist sample images.

  “Now, roses, of course, standard issue. But what I’ve been hearing and seeing a lot of lately is Ophelia roses mixed with lily of the valley.”

  “I like those,” said Vera Maude.

  “Yes, those are nice,” agreed Mrs. Cattanach.

  “Of course we wouldn’t want anything to clash with your gown. Did you have anything in mind?” asked Lew.

  “Well, I was thinking of just wearing my —”

  “May I suggest a crepe de Chine? That’s also something we’re seeing a lot of this season. For a colour, how do you feel about salmon pink?” Lew also had some images of dresses in the portfolio. He pulled them out. “Oh, that reminds me — we should also open a discussion about the menu and the cake.”

  “We should?” said Vera Maude in a whisper and barely moving her lips.

  It was beginning to sound to Uncle Fred like they were planning a grand ball. “Um, Lew, how much is this going to cost?” Someone had to ask.

  “Not to worry, Fred. I can get you some deals.”

  “Lew,” Vera Maude said, “why don’t we save the menu and the cake for our next meeting? I think we’ve left the bride- and groom-to-be with enough to look over and think about.”

  “Yes,” agreed Mrs. Cattanach, “certainly a lot to think about.”

  Lew managed to hide most of his disappointment. “Of course,” he said, closing the portfolio. “I’ll leave this with you.”

  “That’s no trouble?” asked Uncle Fred.

  “Not at all.”

  “More tea?” asked Mrs. Cattanach.

  “Not for me,” said Vera Maude.

  “Me neither,” said Lew, “but thank you.”

  “It was a long day at the store,” said Vera Maude, “and I’m fading here.”

  “Yes,” said Lew, “the
place was a madhouse. Mondays can be like that. Thanks for the tea, Mrs. Cattanach and enjoy your evening, you two.”

  Vera Maude got up first and walked Lew down the stairs to the front door.

  “Lew, you need to try to slow things down a little here before Uncle Fred and Mrs. Cattanach call the whole thing off or elope to Niagara Falls.”

  “Too much too fast?”

  She nodded slowly. He looked slightly crestfallen.

  “I’m sorry. I just get so excited.”

  “You’re very sweet.”

  He smiled and said, “It’s going to be wonderful.”

  “I know it will,” she said. “And I’ll have you to thank.”

  “Talk to you tomorrow?”

  “Talk to you tomorrow.”

  — Chapter 18 —

  YOUR RIDE JUST LEFT

  Business was booming at Border Cities Wrecking and Salvage and that could make for some interesting challenges, as in the boys were having difficulty balancing supplies of liquor and auto parts. In any given week it could flow either way. The preference was to have more parts than booze, otherwise their front organization would start looking like just that.

  “We’ve got a cellar full of rye we have to move,” said Shorty. “We can’t just have it lying around like this, not when we’ve got customers waiting and cops sniffing around like they have been lately. I don’t know what’s brought them around all of a sudden.”

  “We’ve probably just been added to their rotation,” said Gorski.

  “We need more parts — and quality stuff this time.”

  “Quality stuff?” asked Mud. “Why quality stuff       ?”

  Mud and Shorty were facing off, as they often did, from opposite ends of the long workbench.

  “Because our contacts are telling us that when we’re shipping crap parts it looks a bit too much like packing material, which we all know it pretty much is, but that’s not the point.”

  “So what do they want?” said Mud.

  “No Fords,” said Shorty, “at least not for a little while. They want to see some high-end stuff in the mix, and newish.”

  “And where are we supposed to get that?” said Gorski.

  “Yeah,” said Mud. “Buy the cars off the dealer’s lot? There go the profits, so you know we won’t be going down that road. Then … what?”