Border City Blues 3-Book Bundle

by Michael Januska

  “Guessing?”

  “It was covered in snow and ice then; it’ll hardly look the same now. Can you slow it a little more? Hey, Gorski, Mud: gimme a shout if you recognize anything.” They had been with him that morning back in February.

  “The T was closer to the island,” said Mud.

  “I think you’re right,” said Shorty.

  “I can’t get much closer,” called Jones, “or I’m going to hit that sandbar.”

  “You see a sandbar?” asked Shorty. “The T took a nosedive into a sandbar.”

  “Anyone who knows these waters knows about this sandbar. Why, it can’t be more than five yards —”

  Scrape.

  “I think we found her,” shouted Mud, pointing directly below the bow.

  “Jones, drop anchor before you crush the T and our cargo.”

  “Out of my way, city boy, and hold the wheel steady.”

  The old smuggler’s feet only touched about three steps on his way down to the deck. He scrambled to the windlass, unlocked it, and let the weight of the anchor do the rest.

  “Whoa! Did I just hear a clunk?” Gorski asked.

  “Jones!” said Mud.

  “What?”

  “I think you just dropped the anchor on the T.”

  “No, no, no …” moaned Shorty.

  They all froze for a moment, gazing down into the not-so-clear waters.

  “Yep,” said Gorski.

  They turned to Linc.

  “Good thing I brought my swimming goggles,” he said.

  “Your what?” Gorski asked.

  “They come in handy in this river,” said Linc as he pulled them out of the hip pocket of his baggy overalls.

  “I don’t know from no swimming goggles, but those …”

  “Look like motorcycle goggles,” said Mud.

  “They are … or at least they were.” Linc smiled and showed them off before donning them. “I replaced the leather strap with a length of rubber fan belt … and around the edge of the eye cups … pieces of rubber hose from an old acetylene headlamp.”

  “Let me see.”

  Linc handed them to Mud who examined them closely. Gorski leaned in.

  “Nice, huh?”

  “What did you use to … I mean … the adhesive …”

  “I don’t know what it is; some concoction I got from a guy downtown who fixes bicycles tires.”

  “Waterproof?” asked Mud.

  “That’s what he told me. They’ve been tested and they work.”

  “Yeah, nice. You should go into production.” Mud looked impressed. He handed them back to Linc.

  “So how about a demonstration?” asked Gorski.

  “Yeah, Shorty’s probably getting a little anxious up there.”

  “Okay,” said Mud, “you’re on.”

  Linc stripped down to his drawers and dropped toes first into the water, hardly disturbing it. The others watched and waited, trying to interpret the shadows and occasional glimmering below.

  Their diver surfaced, climbing a narrow length of net that was their ladder. He caught his breath and then delivered his report. “It looks like the anchor dropped into the chassis, not through the body. It’s tangled in the suspension and rear axle. The front wheels and most of the hood are buried in weeds and sand.”

  “And the crates?” Shorty had just come down from the wheelhouse.

  “They look solid.”

  There was a collective sigh of relief.

  “All right,” said Shorty, “let’s bring her up.”

  “And just how are we going to do that?” asked Gorski.

  “Whaddya mean, bring her up?” said Jones.

  “If the anchor has a good bite on the T, why don’t we just haul her back to Kingsville?”

  “All the way to Kingsville?” said Mud.

  “You’re daffy,” said Jones.

  “Okay,” said Shorty, “here’s another idea: can we swing this boom around and load the crates into the net?”

  “You’re going to have your man go back down there and load how many crates into the net?”

  “I counted six. Shorty … I can’t manage loosening those crates and loading them into the net. I haven’t got that much air in me.”

  More ideas were tossed around but they were just swimming in circles.

  “Okay, okay, how about we quit the hypothetical for now and just start with trying to pull her out of the sandbar?”

  They all nodded in agreement and Jones headed back up to the wheelhouse.

  “Mud, I want you working the windlass. Take up any slack there might be in that chain right now, then lock it and we’ll have Jones wiggle her out … and keep it tight while he’s working.”

  “Right.”

  “Give me a signal.” Shorty positioned himself halfway up the stairs to the wheelhouse. When he got the sign from Mud, he called up to Jones, “Okay, but slowly.”

  Jones nodded and then gently started to pull on the T. He didn’t want to tug at it — pull, rest, pull, rest — because he thought for sure that would wrench the car apart. Dark, heavy smoke was billowing out of Last Call ’s stack again. The old river rat was walking a fine line.

  There was movement and Mud took up the bit of slack.

  Jones continued pulling, pretending not to notice how the ship was listing, its frame creaking and moaning. And then the ship snapped back, though not quite right. Shorty almost fell down the stairs while the other boys steadied themselves and, looking down again, could see that the vehicle still appeared to be intact.

  “Well I’ll be damned,” said Mud.

  Shorty had Jones stop the engine and then went back down to join his crew.

  “Now what?” asked Gorski.

  “Mud, do you think the windlass and a couple pairs of hands could lift the car to water level?”

  “Shorty, we’re talking twelve hundred pounds of steel and rye.”

  “Not to mention the sand and water,” said Gorski.

  Jones could sense a fight brewing, so he made his way down the stairs and toward the bootleggers. He seemed to be hearing pieces of a plan that worried him.

  “Whoa,” he said. “Whoa, whoa.” He was willing to go along with them on this, but to a point. After all this was his tub. “You’re gonna capsize my boat. Either that or rip the windlass off the deck boards.”

  “We’ll take it slow,” said Shorty, “and we’ll create a counterweight with everyone — except for Linc and Jones — and everything portable moved to the starboard side.”

  “What’ll I be doing?” asked Linc, thinking he already knew the answer.

  “You’re going back down for the crates. You won’t be all that far from the surface this time — and you come up for air between each crate, right?”

  Mud grabbed Linc’s shoulder and said, “You come up whenever you need to.”

  “And when it’s looking like Last Call has had enough, this expedition is over,” added Jones.

  “Okay. Now let’s get to work,” said Shorty, and the others started moving all of the portable cargo to the other side of the boat.

  McCloskey was thinking what an unusually quiet morning it was when his phone rang. It was Elias Jones, one of his suppliers out in Kingsville. There was some small talk and catching up and then McCloskey asked the old man why he was calling.

  “What’re you selling today, Jones?”

  “This comes to you free, Jack; I already got my recompense.”

  “Come again?”

  Jones then launched into a tale of the early dawn fiasco of a recovery mission that almost cost him Last Call and McCloskey one of his crew.

  Linc had successfully retrieved four of the crates, but when he got to the last two, at the bottom of the footwells, he discovered the crates were almost crushed and half filled with sand. He tried to wrestle free the few salvageable bottles when, while looking for some help from the running board, he slipped and put his foot through the net. This wouldn’t have been so difficult to overc
ome, except in his panic to extricate himself he got the ropes of the net somehow tangled behind the rear wheel.

  Mud had been counting down the time of each of Linc’s dives, and when this last one seemed to be going on a few seconds too long, the non-swimmer broke from the group of counterweights and jumped into the river. Mud saved Linc; Linc saved Mud; and no one saved those few loose bottles.

  “Jesus,” was McCloskey’s reply. “So what happened with the T — and the Last Call ?”

  Apparently Mud had volunteered to take his hacksaw to the chain. But if he were successful, that would have meant Jones was out an anchor.

  “And I wasn’t going to have that,” he said.

  Linc wasn’t about to go back in the water, so they all agreed to try dragging the old car, hoping to get into a tug-of-war with whatever it might snag and then gently pull the rear assembly right off the vehicle.

  “It didn’t work,” McCloskey guessed.

  “It sort of worked.”

  Last Call and her anchor did indeed manage to pull the rear assembly off, and Jones was keeping it as proof, along with his damaged windlass. He kept one of the three cases of rye.

  “My apologies, Elias.”

  “Make sure you see those two other cases, Jack.”

  “Thanks. And send me the bill for the windlass.”

  Minutes after McCloskey set the phone down, Shorty walked into his office.

  “Morning, Jack.”

  “Morning, Shorty. So, what have you got for me?”

  — Chapter 21 —

  NO SUBSTITUTIONS PLEASE

  Thursday, August 9

  Several new pieces of furniture had been added to Shady’s, including a few round tables large enough to seat eight, each with a revolving server at the centre. McCloskey got them from the same place in Detroit that had outfitted his office. Claude the maître d’ helped pick them out. He had a good eye and he knew a fair price.

  Seated at one of these tables were Vera Maude, Li-Ling, Bernie, Pearl, Claude, and Shorty. McCloskey got the group’s attention and was ready to make his opening remarks. Quan and the new sous-chef — Sing, recently lured from the kitchen at Essex Golf and Country Club — stood next to him, hands folded, looking a little nervous.

  “Thanks for coming. All of you — Quan included — have no doubt tried out at least some of the Chinese cafés or diners here in the Border Cities and found that some are good, some not so good. Regardless of the quality, what they’re doing seems to be working because, well, they’re all still in business. That’s fine; let them stick to their tried and true. All the better for us because, in my opinion, this leaves the door wide open for a place like Shady’s, where we’ll be offering the same — but a little different. Quan tells me what he’s going to be serving up today are traditional Cantonese dishes, some influenced by what he picked up in kitchens in Montreal and Toronto, along with other dishes made unique by a local twist he’s putting on them. I believe that with this menu, combined with the new entertainment bill — courtesy of Pearl and Bernie — we’ll be on track to making Shady’s the Border Cities’ hottest new food and entertainment venue. Quan, Sing, I hand it over to you.”

  McCloskey took the empty seat between Vera Maude and Shorty. He looked around the table. There were skeptical faces, stone faces, and a couple of eager and anxious ones.

  This would make for an interesting poker game, thought McCloskey.

  “Jack,” whispered Shorty, “have you given any more thought to your idea of Shady’s being dry?”

  “Shady’s is going to be dry.” McCloskey let a flattened hand glide over the table. “End of discussion. I’m not running any speakeasy and this isn’t a roadhouse.”

  “And you still think they’re gonna come?”

  “Yeah, Shorty, I do. Now don’t go spoiling my lunch.”

  Quan was wheeling out a multi-tiered cart from the kitchen laden with covered bowls and serving platters. Sing loaded them onto the revolving server while Quan, in his best English — with Li-Ling filling any gaps — described the dishes, pointing at each one with his chopsticks.

  “Egg rolls … chicken and sweet corn soup … frog legs with ginger and garlic … pork chop suey … a seafood chow mein with crisp noodles … almond chicken … Chinese spare ribs … pig’s feet … shrimp fried rice … moo goo gai pan … egg foo young … bowls of rice …”

  It was a small feast.

  “And now,” said Quan, “sik faan!” But before taking his seat between Li-Ling and Bernie, he remembered one more thing: “Oh … tea!” He called Sing back out and gave him a few instructions. Sing disappeared once more into the kitchen and returned with a smaller cart, a tea wagon of sorts.

  “Oolong, green, and ginger,” said Quan while Sing poured.

  “Jack,” said Shorty, “what are normal people gonna eat?”

  Normal people, thought McCloskey. I’d like to meet one someday.

  “Don’t panic, we’ll still have some roadhouse on the menu. You know, roast chicken dinners, steak, French fries —”

  “Who wants to try the soup?” asked Vera Maude, her fingertips on the server.

  Claude signaled.

  “Here it comes.” She spun it over to him.

  “I can’t work the sticks,” said Pearl.

  “Maybe you just ain’t got rhythm,” said Bernie.

  “Seriously?”

  “I think the chopsticks work with this food,” said McCloskey. “It just takes a little practice.”

  “Hey,” said Pearl, watching him. “Where did you pick that up?”

  “I’ve been getting lessons.”

  “Like this,” said Li-Ling, and she demonstrated for Pearl. “When you hold them … you learn how to be gentle and when to … make tension. Like Mr. McCloskey said, the food sometimes will tell you.” Li-Ling reached over and positioned the chopsticks in Pearl’s hand.

  “And what’s all this stuff?” asked Bernie.

  Again, Li-Ling jumped in, and pointing with her chopsticks at the little bowls, explained, “Soy sauce, black bean sauce, sriracha — very hot — and chili oil.”

  “What’s this?” said Shorty.

  “Shrimps,” said Li-Ling.

  “Doesn’t look like it,” said Pearl.

  “Delicious,” said Claude.

  “You know, I never thought I’d like this stuff,” said Bernie.

  “This one I’m not crazy about,” said Vera Maude.

  “Oh yeah? Which one’s your favourite?” Bernie asked her.

  The conversation began to spin like the server at the centre of the table. McCloskey watched and listened. He and Quan kept making eye contact. A glance at Sing from Quan and Sing was refreshing everyone’s tea.

  McCloskey was the first to raise his cup. He thanked Quan and Sing for the wonderful meal, and Li-Ling for her guidance. He then glanced back at Quan. They had rehearsed this one.

  “Yam sing!   ”

  Following that, the sous-chef drifted back into the kitchen with his cart stacked with empty bowls and dishes, returning with plates of almond cookies and another confection balanced on his arm. The guests helped themselves to the treats.

  “Quan … what do we have here?” asked McCloskey, holding up one of the curious little triangles. It looked like a thin wafer about the size of a small saucer that had been loosely folded. The wafer had what looked like a maze pattern pressed into it; a maze folded on itself.

  Quan smiled and said something to Li-Ling, who nodded and began to explain to the rest of the group.

  “It is called a prosperity biscuit or prosperity cookie. Quan first saw them in Vancouver where Chinese immigrants — some from Malaya — made cookies like this. They called them love note cookies, or kuih kapit. Legend says lovers passed notes to each other this way. Also sometimes the cookies have notes that impart wisdom or foretell events. Break yours open … please.”

  Everyone cracked open their prosperity cookie and found a narrow slip of paper with something printed on
it. They unfolded them and read. The room was silent for a moment.

  “Do you believe this stuff?” said Pearl to McCloskey.

  “What’s it say?”

  “I learn by going where I have to go.” She was quick to dismiss it, but he caught her discreetly tucking it into her cigarette case.

  “Pearl,” said Bernie, “I’m not sure what it means, but I’d come back to this joint just to get another one.”

  “Are you going to share?”

  “There’s no such thing as an ordinary cat.”

  Vera Maude joined in after she put on her cheaters. “Mine says … You are going to have some new clothes.”

  She immediately looked at what she was wearing. So did everyone else at the table.

  “You look fine, sweetheart,” said Pearl.

  Vera Maude was reading something in the flapper’s tone.

  The group started getting their things together and making for the door, thanking McCloskey for the free meal. He listened to them discuss the meal, their notes of wisdom, his vision for the club, and Shady’s prospects as he again complimented Quan and Sing, thanking them for a job well done. As soon as the two turned back toward the kitchen, McCloskey turned back toward the door and managed to catch Vera Maude before she made her exit.

  “Maudie … Maudie, can I talk to you for a minute?”

  She said her goodbyes to the others and returned to the table.

  “Sure, what?”

  “Maudie, we need a menu.”

  “It looks like you’ve got one, Jack,” she said, smiling. “I think you’ve really got something here, the whole package.”

  “Thanks, Maudie, but that’s not what I mean. Here, sit down.” He pulled a chair out for her. “I’m talking about the actual menu, the card, the whatever-it-is that people read so they know what to ask for and what they’re eating. It’s all about the details now.”

  “Gotcha.”

  “Can you sit down with Quan and Li-Ling on your next day off and work on something together? Like I said, I want to make people feel comfortable, so make it something fun, something that will draw them in, something …” He was trying to find the words.