“Quan is learning.”
“From you?”
“Yes,” she said.
When they had reached the lab, Laforet gave Smith a few instructions and then asked Quan to sit down as he wheeled a light stand over, so that he could properly assess the damage. “Not as bad as it looks,” he said. “That’s the way it usually is with injuries like this.” He got to work. “Some doctors might think it was none of their business. I don’t happen to be one of those doctors.” He finished cleaning the wound and was about to start with the stitches. “Can you tell me whose handywork this is?”
The young couple looked at each other.
Quan carried one calling card: Border Cities Wrecking and Salvage. McCloskey had given it to him when they were all at Woo Hong’s place. He took it out of his pocket and handed it to Laforet.
“If you run into any trouble …” McCloskey had said to Quan upon giving him the card.
Quan said, “Trouble.”
Laforet examined the card. “Is this Jack McCloskey’s card? Did he give this to you?”
Yes on both counts.
“I have to ask, did he do this to you?”
“No, no, doctor, not like that at all,” said Li-Ling.
“Who then?”
“Boys on the street,” said Quan.
Laforet knew what to infer from that. “And whose phone number is this on the back?”
“My father’s laundry.”
Laforet gave the card back to Quan. He was torn. It was against his better judgment to encourage Quan to become further entangled with McCloskey, but then Quan might need someone like McCloskey in his corner. He might mention all of this to Campbell. He just needed to figure out how to frame it for him.
The doctor finished with the stitches and gave Quan’s brow one final, quick daub with some cotton. “And where are you going now?”
“The laundry,” said Li-Ling.
“The market,” said Quan.
Laforet walked them to the door of his lab, stopping at his desk to pick up one of his own cards.
“Take this,” said Laforet. “Now you know where to find me.”
That was almost a half hour ago now, thought the doctor as he checked his pocket watch. I hope Quan made it safely to the market this time.
“You can tidy up now,” he said to Smith.
“The young man — Quan, was it? — said ‘boys on the street.’ What did he mean by that?”
“He meant the boys out there roaming the streets who feel it is their duty to let people know whether or not they are welcome in this city. Boys with nothing better to do with their sorry selves.”
“Looks to me like maybe they’re not welcome,” said Smith, examining the bloody cotton balls and bloodstained white enamel dish. “Were you born here, doctor?”
“Yes.”
“I thought I heard an accent.”
“My father was Quebecois. It was a bilingual household.”
“But English was the mother tongue.”
“So to speak. We’re all the same on the inside,” said Laforet. “Trust me. I’ve seen it for myself. Those could be anybody’s guts in that jar.”
Quan and Li-Ling walked together down London Street and parted at Bruce Avenue, just before the laundry. She would tell her father everything that happened, but she did not want him to see Quan or see her with him; not like this. Quan told Li-Ling he would tell McCloskey the same.
He cut down Bruce to Chatham Street, determined to complete his errand at the market. The sun was higher now and he wished he had something to cover his eyes. He saw people wearing those dark glasses that were becoming popular. He made it safely to the Avenue, and at the corner came upon a tobacconist that had eyewear like that on display in his window.
Belvedere Smoke Shop. He tried sounding the words out in his head. He entered, and immediately began looking through the selection in the showcase.
“May I help you?”
Quan smiled and nodded, still nervous with his English. He pointed at a pair of glasses in the front row.
“Please,” he said.
“One dollar,” said the salesman before removing them.
Quan pulled out his wallet, unfolded a crisp bill, and placed it on the counter. The salesman set down the glasses in front of Quan and Quan tried them on. They fit fine and looked good in the mirror the salesman was holding, and were large enough to cover most of his purple badge.
“They suit you,” said the salesman. “Have a nice day.”
Feeling a little better and less self-conscious, Quan jogged alongside a streetcar as it crossed the Avenue. He followed that with an optimistic stride until just before Goyeau.
No.
“Well, well, well. Look who it is.”
They pulled him into a laneway.
“I thought if we spilled a little blood you might have gotten the message. Maybe what we need to do now is break something.”
Quan closed his eyes and heard a crack, followed by another crack, and another. He opened his eyes slowly and saw that two boys had fallen, now writhing on the cobblestone. Quan looked up and saw a man that could have been one of his own countrymen, only bigger, broader.
Mongolian.
The man brandished a long, metal pipe that he seemed to make collapse into itself and then disappear up his coat sleeve. Quan recognized the work of the Mongolian: he had not struck their faces or hands, and judging by the way the victims were holding themselves, had instead hit their knees, elbows, and ribs. He had seen this work before. The giant left the two able thugs to carry the two crippled ones away. He did not utter a word. The thugs made their way out of the scene.
The Mongolian, if that was in fact what he was, rested a heavy hand on Quan’s shoulder.
“Quan Lee,” he said, “you need a friend like me.”
The Mongolian took Quan’s hand and pressed it against his barrel chest. Quan swallowed hard. This was the second time today Quan wished he was somewhere else other than the Border Cities.
ACT FOUR
— Chapter 25 —
NEAR-DRESSED REHEARSAL
Tuesday, August 14
Only after a rush of meetings and late-night telephone calls, bleary-eyed reviews of design renderings, and arguments that must have resembled the antics at the Paris Peace Conference, did they finally finish reconfiguring and realizing the look and layout of the new Shady’s.
More than a few conversations took place behind the scenes between McCloskey and the contractors concerning delays, broken promises, and who needed to settle their tab before the doors could be thrown open. After some pressure was applied in both directions they got to the point where someone — no one was quite sure who — could confidently schedule a walk-through.
McCloskey arrived well before the others in order to check things out and prepare for any legitimate concerns. The designer, a young man who had come recommended by way of a source working in Albert Kahn’s hive, conducted the tour. He was just starting out but already gaining a reputation, specializing in those smooth, welcoming interiors that made an impression and kept customers coming back for more.
“Mr. Jack?”
McCloskey was pacing the sidewalk in front of the building, almost impossible what with the workers shouldering in and out and the hustle and bustle of lunch hour on the Avenue. He had half an unlit cigar clenched between cheek and molars, thumbs tucked into belt, and mind in high gear. He was trying to shift down, to not feel so much like he was turning a corner at top speed with only two wheels touching the pavement. He was getting rundown, working through all of these above-board channels, straddling the worlds of order and his usual ordered chaos.
The designer came up behind him, his fingers pressing McCloskey’s shoulder.
“Mr. Jack?”
He turned sharp. “About time; I gotta meet with people as soon as yesterday, people with less patience than me. Can we get — what’s your name again, kid?”
“Palladio.”
“Paula Joe?”
“Palladio.”
“Lead the way.”
Dust was settling in the foyer, which was about the size of a freight elevator and illuminated by a trio of stepped pendant lights that resembled inverted cocktail shakers. The floor was new — black and white tile in a chevron pattern pointing toward the bottom of the stairs. There was something about the glass brick bordering the floor that caught McCloskey’s eye. He bent down.
“Marbles … how’d you do this? You’ve got some thumpers, mashers, and tom bowlers down here.”
“Yes.” The designer smiled, thrilled that his client noticed these details.
“And more than a handful of peewees.”
“Come, Mr. Jack, and see more.”
There were framed photos along the wall up the stairwell.
“Who are these people?” asked McCloskey, pausing at the first one.
“They are having a good time, yes?”
“Who are they?”
“I found them dancing in a newspaper.”
McCloskey continued his ascent. “You pulled these from local papers?”
“Good?” asked Palladio.
“Yeah,” said McCloskey, fixated. “Very good … really sets the mood. These clubs on both sides of the river?”
“Si.”
They followed the cream-coloured walls up the turn in the narrowing stairwell, their hands gliding along the carved black railing. Approaching the top floor landing, guests would be greeted by a painting on the door.
“What’s that?”
“Like Kandinsky, no?” asked Palladio.
“Like what?”
The designer’s presence had a way of calming the man who signed the cheques where others had only taken note.
“What do you see?”
McCloskey felt like he was being tested. He hesitated, turned and glanced sideways at Palladio, who was standing three steps below and grinning from ear to ear, and finally said, “I see jazz … I see a jazz band.”
Colours, shapes, and rhythm, maybe a face or two; instruments that looked as if they had been bashed around and broken up. It was busy but somehow everything came together inside the jamb.
“Yes.”
“So on to the main event.”
McCloskey opened the door and was almost completely overwhelmed. His eyes roamed the place, taking in all of the details.
Shady’s occupied the entire floor, which included a mezzanine and a fully equipped stage left over from the previous tenant. Claude’s station, an oak podium, was to the left of the entrance. Once a guest got past Claude, a hostess would show them to their table. Booths lined the left and the right walls, with a half-dozen round tables in the middle — three facing the stage, then two, and then one nearest the entrance.
The stage was about two feet off the main floor — a minor elevation. To the right a spindled staircase with a filigree of copper vine wound up to the mezzanine, repositioned so that, if they wished, the girls could use it in a dance number. On the opposite side of the stage was a short passageway to the kitchen. The dressing room was behind that. It wasn’t pretty; it still doubled as a receiving deck for shipments hoisted up from the alleyway. It needed some finessing, as did a few other areas in the club. Sometimes the end work was like trying to detail a truck while it was travelling down the road at forty miles an hour.
“So … you like, Mr. Jack?”
“I like, Mr. Palladio.” McCloskey grabbed the designer’s hand and gave it a shake. “You and your people did a great job here.”
“Thank you, thank you, Mr. Ja—”
“Okay, what did I miss?” Pearl almost swung the door off its hinges. Her girls trailed behind her. They all stopped in their tracks as soon as they got a good look. There were gasps all around.
“Mr. Jack, I have to go.”
“You don’t want to show the girls around?”
“But I think they have something to show you.”
Vera Maude arrived presently with Bernie in tow.
“You’re right,” said McCloskey. “Thanks again — will I see you later?”
“Maybe, after I see a man about an … aquario.”
“A what?”
“Ciao!” Palladio made his exit.
“Jack, this looks wonderful!”
“Thanks, Maudie. I wish he could have stuck around long enough to hear that.”
“Was that your designer?”
“Yep. Hi, Bernie.”
“Hi, Jack.”
Pearl approached. “Jack, we should get started.”
“Okay, let’s grab some seats. What is it you’ve got for us today, Pearl?”
“We just want you to see how things are coming together so far.”
“Right,” said McCloskey. “Say, is anyone in the kitchen or at the bar? I could use a —”
“Ginger ale?” asked Vera Maude.
“Oh yeah, a ginger ale.”
“Your rules, remember?”
“I remember just fine. Now can we get on with this?”
“Okay, Jack, so it’s going to be a little rough. We’re thinking we’re going to open with Bernie — surrounded by the girls in their costumes — saying a few lines and welcoming our guests. He then leaves the stage and the girls do their first dance number, at which time I come out and sing a tune. Got it?”
“Got it.”
Pearl went backstage and returned shortly with the girls. Bernie found his mark.
“I know I don’t need to worry about the licensing inspector,” said McCloskey, “but what about the morality squad?”
“Is it their outfits? Jack, that’s only what they wear to practices and rehearsals. Besides, we’re all friends here, right?”
“Not yet; you haven’t introduced me.”
McCloskey didn’t notice the look he was getting from Vera Maude.
“Okay, line up, girls. Jack, this is our lead, Miss Ardis Breeze. And this is Ethel, Jo, Clare, Genevieve, Zoe, and Ivy.”
“The roster changed,” said McCloskey.
“We’re still the Windsor Follies,” said Ardis, and as if on cue, the girls took a short bow.
Bernie appeared, making a show and flapping his way through the curtain at the back of the stage.
“Looks like you’ve got a tough act to follow, Bernie,” said McCloskey.
“I’ll just be riding on their skirt-tails, Jack.” He went back into character. “Let’s give a nice hand to the Windsor Follies … and I’m only talking applause; please keep your hands to yourself. Aren’t they wonderful? Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Shady’s.”
Bernie’s turn in the spotlight consisted primarily of jokes that sounded like they came from the Starbeams column in the paper — tame stuff, not too broad — as well as his own reviews of current vaudeville shows in the Border Cities. He had a few colourful things to say about Carmen Excella’s performance in The Versatile Lady, now halfway through its run at the Capitol. At one point McCloskey leaned over Bernie’s empty seat to ask Vera Maude, “Am I paying for this?”
“This is what you wanted,” said Vera Maude, gesticulating. “A show, some variety.”
McCloskey straightened up in his seat. “Not this.”
Judging by the slight shift in Bernie’s expression, Vera Maude thought their master of ceremonies might have heard the exchange. Undeterred, Bernie kept things moving. “Maybe we can coax the Follies — in their own inimitable style — into escorting out our first act of the evening.”
Bernie got the applause going. The girls came through the back curtain, grouped in a close circle and wrapped in pink gauze. Once they were front and centre, the circle opened to reveal Pearl in a knee-length glittering white frock.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Bernie, “Miss Pearl Shipley.”
“Thank you, Bernie. Here’s a little number I learned on the coast; it’s called ‘Another Rendezvous’ … Jack, I thought I’d open with the encore.”
“That’s a bit presumptuous,” said Berni
e to the imaginary audience before stepping back into the wings.
Pearl tuned her pipes and the Follies unfolded and waved around her like flowers in May. McCloskey was already seeing problems but he wasn’t going to say anything until the ladies were through their routine. With her hands on her hips and a twinkle in her eye, Pearl started to sing.
I got me another rendezvous,
A meet-up halfway to the moon.
He’ll take me the rest o’ the way
And I’ll have to remind him
It’s all just play.
I like a sweetie on the side,
Someone who can provide a thrill,
Maybe some confide,
And turn me inside — out.
“And this is where we have a short musical interlude,” explained Pearl, “you know, no vocals.” She moved about the stage and hummed a few bars before getting back to the song.
I got me another rendezvous,
A meet-up halfway to the moon.
He’ll take me the rest o’ the way.
Those will ask and I’ll remind them
It’s all just play.
I’ll work me up; he’ll dress me down.
My lil’ swing could sink this town.
Loose me ’fore I’m found,
Wrap this commotion and remind me
How it’s all just play.
Pearl took a bow and Bernie reappeared.
“Ladies and gentlemen, how about a hand for the Border Cities’ own Pearl Shipley and her Windsor Follies.”
The talent wiggled their way backstage to the dressing room. Bernie followed but did not contribute to the wiggling.
McCloskey applauded, saying, “That’s more like it.”
Vera Maude was surprised at his reaction. “You didn’t think it was too … risqué?”
“I don’t know. Maybe she can leave it until the end of the night, after the old folks’ve left and gone home to bed. We wouldn’t want to upset their sensibilities.” He turned to Vera Maude. “Is there going to be more of that variety stuff for me to see soon? I hope she’s working on that.”
Vera Maude knew when McCloskey had had enough of something and needed to move on. Sometimes he had the patience of an eight-year-old.
“Yeah, it’s going to be fine, Jack. Bernie told me about some of the other acts Pearl’s been seeing. Bernie said she might have a juggler.”
Border City Blues 3-Book Bundle Page 62