Border City Blues 3-Book Bundle

by Michael Januska

  Shorty was thinking, pacing around the greasy workshop. And then his dashboard lit up. “No, we go to the roadhouses, the racetracks, and look for Michigan plates … no, forget the racetracks … we have to do it at night.”

  “And when a car gets reported stolen, where’s one of the first places the cops look?” said Gorski.

  “We bring our catch straight back here — no joyrides — and we chop it up, pronto. Maybe we can count on them not reporting it if they’ve just come staggering out of a roadhouse smelling like a distillery. Mud, you know how to boost a high-end Studebaker?”

  “With my eyes tied behind my back.”

  It was no secret that the majority of auto thefts were perpetrated by Detroit-area autoworkers. Boys easily distracted by shiny objects. All they needed was one minute and a few inches of wire. Almost none were stolen for keeps — many were resold — the rest, well, joyrides and chop shops.

  “All right,” said Shorty, “we’ll leave here at ten. Gorski, you stay here and have the fence out back ready for when you hear us come knocking.”

  Shorty and Mud decided to try their luck first at the Island View Hotel. They would take Riverside Drive east to the edge of the city, make their score, and then wind their way back, first through side roads and then the back streets into the city’s heart. There would be no speeding.

  The parking lot was jammed with vehicles large and small, old and new. Mud felt like a kid in a candy store. They didn’t see any Studebakers, but they did spot a sweet-looking Packard with Michigan plates parked near the Drive.

  “Yeah,” said Shorty, “that one. You think you can do it?”

  Mud was rubbing his chin. “This year’s model … lemme see.”

  Shorty watched his back. All of the action seemed to be inside: no one out for some fresh air, no petting parties, and no security detail. That might change after tonight, thought Shorty.

  It took a minute but as soon as Mud got the engine going he didn’t hesitate, settling in and motoring it as smoothly and quietly as he could out of its space. Shorty approached, Mud gave him the thumbs-up and the former jumped back in his own vehicle and followed Mud out of the lot and onto the Drive. Mud then geared up and lit a cigarette.

  “Sorry, I have to do this.”

  It was dawn; McCloskey had been out all night but wanted to check on things before cruising back to his apartment and sleeping the morning away.

  “What the …?”

  “We scored some parts,“ said Shorty, smiling, “the kind of stuff the clients have been asking for.” He and Gorski were standing there in their dirty shirtsleeves, each with a wrench in hand, sweat streaming down their grease-smudged faces. Mud Thomson was the only one of them who had his own pair of overalls — having actually worked in a factory — and looked, as always, like he was trying to keep his cool.

  The parts were strewn about the floor and hanging from the rafters on hooks. Auto carnage. A butcher’s shop cutting up rubber, glass, lead, and steel.

  “What was it?” said McCloskey.

  “A Packard.” Shorty smiled.

  McCloskey hesitated. “Where’d you get it?”

  “The parking lot at the Island View.”

  “You stole a brand new car?” McCloskey was examining the parts like a meat inspector, wondering why he had a bad feeling about this. “This can’t be all of it. Where’s the rest?”

  “The less easily identifiable parts are hidden in the yard,” said Shorty, “and the panels, bumpers — the exterior parts — are in the cellar.”

  “Are the crates ready?”

  “Ready,” said Shorty.

  “How many?”

  “Six, maybe seven, depending.”

  “All right,” said McCloskey, “let’s get that rye out the door, and all the parts you can fit in the crates.”

  A few hours later McCloskey came storming back into the shop. He unfolded the newspaper he had in his hand and, flipping to The Third Page, said, “Did you guys say you got that car at the Island View?”

  “Yeah,” said Mud.

  “Do you know who it belonged to?” asked McCloskey, looking up from the paper.

  “No … who?” said Shorty.

  “A Packard executive’s son.” McCloskey was searching the column. “Here … it’s right here.”

  The boys tried to digest this. It was already causing Shorty some pain.

  Gorski was the first to speak. “Does he want his car back?”

  McCloskey almost hit him on the nose with the rolled-up newspaper. “No, he wants you to send him the odometer reading. Of course he wants his fucking car back.”

  “He admitted to coming out of a Windsor roadhouse? A well-known joint?” asked Shorty.

  “He admitted to meeting with his real estate brokers about buying some property on Riverside Drive,” said McCloskey.

  “Shit,” said Gorski. “What’re we gonna do?”

  “Did you ship those crates off?”

  “Yeah,” said Shorty, starting to look a little queasy. “There turned out to be seven.”

  “A lot left, I bet,” said McCloskey.

  “A fair bit.”

  “Well that’s a fair bit of trouble then, isn’t it, boys? Hey — what’d you do with the seats?”

  “They’re in my living room,” said Gorski.

  This time McCloskey did hit him with the rolled-up newspaper.

  “At least we moved out all the rye, Jack. And the Packard came free of charge.”

  McCloskey glanced sideways at Shorty, resisting the temptation to slap him with the newspaper as well, but that wouldn’t look good in front of Gorski and Mud, who he outranked. “Let’s hope it stays that way,” said McCloskey. “Mud, did you claim your trophy?”

  Mud hesitated. “Yeah.”

  “Find out where this guy lives,” said McCloskey, “and mail it to him.”

  Mud collected licence plates.

  “We’re not pulling anything like that again, right?”

  “We were just improvising, Jack.”

  “I want you to make all of those exterior parts downstairs — everything you couldn’t fit in one of our regular shipments — disappear. Here’s an idea: tonight, dump those parts off at Windsor Auto Wreck. Make it fast but don’t be sloppy. Bring a pair of bolt cutters … and a steak in case they have a dog in their yard. When you’re done, phone in an anonymous tip to Windsor Police.”

  “Will do,” said Shorty.

  McCloskey stepped out. Shorty was left wondering where Jack’s head was right now. Was it that big of a deal? Then he thought maybe it wasn’t Jack; maybe it was him. Maybe he was misreading things.

  “No more of this just in time delivery crap,” Shorty said to the room. “Let’s start stockpiling parts right now. Get Linc and Jefferson out scavenging some more — but let them know they have to keep it clean or they’re out of work. Pay them by the pound of scrap. By the end of next week I want to be tripping over auto parts just to get to the front door.”

  The place emptied and the crew went to work. Shorty rested his hands on the edge of the workbench and leaned against it, tired, his nose burning from the fumes of the place, his mind just as cluttered. He bunched up the newspaper in his hands and threw it against the wall.

  What do you want, Jack?

  — Chapter 19 —

  ACCIDENTALLY ON PURPOSE

  Wednesday, August 8

  Campbell was sitting at his desk, going over some notes and examining a new batch of photos from Laforet. He was putting the salt mine case on the backburner and concentrating on what he and the doctor were referring to as “The Case of the Three Arms.” He swore to himself he would think of another tag for it by the end of the week.

  At least he gave a semblance of concentrating on the papers before him; thoughts of Morrison continued to intrude. Even McCloskey was asking what Morrison was up to. What made it that much more irksome for Campbell was that, like the branch of a tree, this big question kept leading to a lot of little ones
, some of them regarding members of the department.

  Something told him that perhaps he should have been paying closer attention to the inner workings and social dynamics of police headquarters. It was true he didn’t give his colleagues much consideration and had never gotten chummy with any of them. For one thing, he thought it unprofessional. For another, he had no idea how to go about it. Always the shy and awkward one, he was aware he didn’t mix well. He found his own way and just kept to his work, which his superiors must have been satisfied with because he never received any complaints and had never been called on the carpet. He was respectful towards the constables and always seemed to have their full co-operation whenever he needed them. Though there were a few that worked close to the street, like Bickerstaff, with whom he felt a certain affinity. He always made a little more time for those men.

  This moment of self-reflection was interrupted by Morrison walking past Campbell’s door in the flesh. It was unusual to see him darkening the halls this early in the day. He was becoming the card in a gin game that one kept discarding and somehow kept picking up, over and over again. Maybe, Campbell thought, I should hold on to it this time. What is he up to?

  Campbell had always known that Morrison had a different relationship with the streets than he did. He supposed this in turn meant that Morrison had his own methods and approach. The two of them, thought Campbell, ought to complement each other.

  But what if Morrison had other reasons for taking his particular tack? Have I been turning a blind eye towards him? And who else might I have been turning a blind eye to?

  He closed his folders, got up from his desk, stretched his back, and headed for the break room. On his way there, Campbell started thinking maybe he could make a ritual of doing a walkabout through the office every day, combined with a few trips to the break room; approach headquarters the same way he approached the streets of Windsor. It occurred to him how much latitude he was given in regards to his whereabouts. He was never given a hard time about working from home or elsewhere. He wasn’t avoiding police headquarters; it was just that so many of his resources were in his apartment, at the library, or on the street.

  Maybe they’re trying to keep me out of headquarters, on a long leash. Am I right where someone wants me?

  More self-doubt. He shook it off.

  In the break room there were a few staff and constables chatting together, catching up and sharing stories. He recognized their faces but remembered none of their names. He nodded to the ones that looked his way and said, “Good morning.” He made his way over to the coffee station and poured himself a cup. Some of them stopped talking, others continued in a low murmur. What Campbell didn’t realize was that he himself was a bit of a mystery to the force, just not one that any of them was interested in solving.

  He turned to leave and nodded at those who happened to look his way. He thought he’d take a circuitous route back to his desk and see who else he might run into.

  “Morrison.”

  “Campbell.”

  They almost walked into each other as they rounded the corner in the hallway. Campbell barely managed to keep from spilling his coffee on Morrison’s shirt. Now that he had his attention, Campbell had to think of something to say.

  “Sorry about that.”

  “In some kind of hurry?”

  “No, just anxious to get back to my desk. I’ve got a couple of cases making me itch.”

  “Oh.”

  “How about you? Working on anything interesting?”

  “Not really,” said Morrison.

  “Say, I’ve been reading a lot about the drug smuggling situation. Are you in on any of that?”

  “What d’you mean?”

  “Well, you’ve been involved in some of those cases before, I was just wondering if this new wave of activity was something you might be tangled in.”

  “Tangled?”

  “Yes, you know … keeping you busy.”

  This is isn’t going very well, thought Campbell. How am I going to extricate myself from this before I start sounding like an even bigger fool?

  “The normal busy,” said Morrison, “and untangled. I have to make some calls.”

  “Of course. Don’t let me keep you.”

  The detectives parted. When Campbell got to his office he closed the door, set his coffee mug down, and stood at the window with his hands on his hips. Staring blankly at the intersection below, he reflected on how his first attempt at a hallway conversation might also be his last. He sat behind his desk and re-opened the file folders.

  Not interested in my cases, short answers … and did he bristle slightly when I brought up the drug trafficking activity?

  Campbell had to try to block Morrison from his mind and focus on the severed arms. He got his magnifying glass out of his top drawer and began to study the new images more closely.

  Morrison didn’t return to his desk to make any phone calls. Instead he turned around and headed right back out into the street. He needed to think; he also needed to meet with a couple of people. He reached in his coat pocket for his Camels and his matches, and once he got one going he cut over to McDougall, heading straight down toward the river.

  What’s Campbell up to?

  — Chapter 20 —

  SUNKEN TREASURE

  Shorty was already onto his next scheme: retrieve the cases of rye lost in February when the Model T had fallen through the ice near Fighting Island. All they needed was a boat. Luckily he had a contact out in Kingsville who did some smuggling, island hopping back and forth across Lake Erie to Sandusky. He had a thirty-foot fishing trawler that could probably loosen the T and hoist the cases up. All that Jones — the smuggler — would ask for was a small cut. Shorty would negotiate “small” after they assessed the rescued goods.

  They — Shorty, Mud with his tool bag, Gorski, and Linc, their swimmer — drove out to Jones’s dock early Wednesday morning. They found him out there doing whatever it was fishermen do with their nets when their nets haven’t got fish in them. The vessel had been christened Last Call with a bottle of sacramental wine, part of a case that had never made it to church.

  “Shorty Morand.” Jones extended his hand and Shorty took it, despite the wet and the smell. “How’s your boss doing? I haven’t seen him in a dog’s age.”

  “You know Jack. He likes to keep busy.” Shorty introduced Jones to the rest of the fellows.

  “Now, about that 10 percent,” said Jones. “I hope I made it clear that that was 10 percent of the street value, not 10 percent of the bottles.” Jones knew he couldn’t get as much for the bottles as these guys could, what with their living in the city and having the right connections.

  No, thought Shorty, you didn’t make that clear, and thanks for bringing it up in front of my boys.

  “Right, 10 percent of street value. Am I supposed to bring you a receipt after we move it all?”

  “No need to do that; I’ll just check in with Jack.”

  Shorty could feel the boys’ eyes on the back of his head. “Sure,” he said, “now let’s get moving.”

  They piled aboard Last Call and Jones got the old coal engine going.

  Chug chug chug …

  “How long do you figure it’ll take to get there?” Mud asked Jones.

  “About forty minutes. I could do it faster but we don’t want to be attracting any attention. It’s bad enough that we’re sailing in the opposite direction as everyone else.”

  “I noticed,” said Mud as they cruised past Cedar Beach.

  When the sun was rising over their starboard side, Shorty knew they were out of Lake Erie and heading upriver. He continued pacing the platform with Mud sitting on his tool bag nearby. Gorski and Linc were on opposite sides of the deck, taking in the view. The only sound right now was the low, steady rumble of Last Call ’s engine and the bow slicing though the rippling water.

  Shorty paused to look over the port side. “Hey … hey, Jones,” he said, pointing. “Is that it?”

>   “No,” shouted Jones from the wheelhouse, “that’s Bois Blanc. You city boys have to be a little more patient.”

  “I’ll be right back,” said Mud. “I want to see this from Jones’s point of view.” Mud climbed the stairs. The first thing he sighted was a beverage container on the window ledge.

  “Hey … what’s in the Thermos?”

  “Brandy. Help yourself.”

  “Thanks.” Mud unscrewed the top and took a swig from it. He made a face like he just swallowed a mouthful of bleach.

  “What the hell kind of brandy is that?”

  “Plum. Homemade. Best kind.”

  Mud looked at the man. “Should I be taking the wheel?”

  “No — these waters coming up take some serious navigating. You have to know what to look out for.”

  They were approaching the Navy Yard in Amherstburg. Jones noticed Shorty with his arm outstretched again, pointing.

  “Listen,” said Jones, “wanna bet here comes Shorty with more of his fool questions? I told him to only bother himself with the islands on the port side.”

  “Jones … that one?”

  Mud smiled and took another swig from the Thermos.

  “No,” Jones shouted, “that’s Crystal Island. A few more minutes and we’ll be there. Relax and enjoy the fresh air, boys.”

  “What if someone else already got to it?” asked Gorski. “Or it got run over or something?”

  “And what if we score, huh?” countered Shorty. He didn’t need Gorski bringing everyone down like he so often did.

  “There’s no harm in trying, is there?” said Linc.

  They were all chewing on that when the old man called down again. “River Canard’s to your right,” he said, “and that means the tail of Fighting Island is what’s on your left. The river’s gonna narrow as we near the head; I’ll be wanting some direction from you boys soon.”

  Jones slowed Last Call and Shorty bound up the stairs to the wheelhouse, which, being more like a closet with three walls, meant that Mud had to return to the deck. “I’m guessing our target is about twenty yards from the island’s shore,” said Shorty.