Border City Blues 3-Book Bundle

by Michael Januska

  “A juggler? You’re kidding, right?”

  “A redhead. She’ll be a hit.”

  “The juggler’s a girl?”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “What’s she juggle?”

  “Live squirrels. I don’t know.”

  McCloskey stood up and straightened his tie and jacket. “I’ve got a meeting.”

  “You’re leaving? What do you want me to tell them?”

  “Tell them anything you want; tell them they still have jobs,” he said, and out he went.

  “Heartwarming,” said Vera Maude. She checked her watch. She was due at the bookstore in ten minutes, and before she left she would probably have to have a word or two with Bernie.

  Futz.

  — Chapter 26 —

  THE INFORMER

  This was the first drug smuggling case to be heard in the courts since Detective Campbell had run into Mr. Gerald on the Avenue. Campbell thought of contacting the gentleman and asking him if he could telephone from the visitor’s desk and let him know if Morrison was in attendance, but he thought he should leave Gerald out of it, for a number of reasons, the main one being that he didn’t want the man jumping to any conclusions and then going around spreading false rumours and muddying the waters. Campbell knew his type; they could get a little too excitable very easily.

  The detective arrived early for the proceedings, entered the courtroom quietly, stealthily over creaking floorboards, and made sure Morrison wasn’t already there — he wasn’t — and then made his way out the way he came, crossing the street and climbing back into the Essex where he changed hats, slumped down in his seat, and observed the intersection of lives at the corner.

  He continued checking his watch, waiting, and then checked it again, like it would tell him something new and change the course of his life. It was almost time for the proceedings to start and there was still no sign of Morrison. He thought he knew the make and model of Morrison’s car, but maybe he missed it what with all the usual morning activity now mixed with the fresh buzz of the courthouse. Campbell remembered Mr. Gerald’s comments about the kind of attention these particular cases were garnering.

  There could be a magazine, something for the newsstands.

  A streetcar approached from the east, behind Campbell, and stopped at Brock. Commuters shuffled and waited patiently to board, the tail of the queue huffing and puffing like they had run to beat the car to its bell, while passengers were exiting in their own style.

  Morrison.

  Campbell slid lower in the car seat.

  Arriving by streetcar. This is something other than detective work, he thought. Slow deceptions in broad daylight.

  Morrison crossed and Campbell waited until he was out of sight before stepping out of the Essex and making his way towards the building. He was one of the last to enter. Flashing his badge at security, he asked about the session and then made the be quiet about this sign with his finger against his lips. “I’m not here,” he said.

  “Yes, sir,” whispered the clerk, catching the detective’s drift.

  He was one of those loud whisperers and Campbell gave him a look that said something akin to, and please stop talking.

  Campbell rolled his gaze back and forth across the room and spotted Morrison. His head was down and it appeared as if he might be working at something, perhaps one of those crosswords that Mr. Gerald had mentioned. Campbell had seen enough. He exited the building and headed straight to his vehicle. This was quick-thinking time.

  If he came by streetcar; he ought to be leaving by streetcar … but I have to see him board.

  Campbell exited his four-wheeled change room, crossed Brock Street diagonally, and feeling only slightly ridiculous, positioned himself behind a tree at the edge of St. John’s Cemetery, where he had a clear view of the front of the courthouse and the streetcar stop. Nothing but squirrels to blow his cover.

  And then what?

  He decided that if he saw Morrison board the car, he would run back to the Essex and follow it, waiting a few blocks before he pulled in front of the thing and brought it to a stop.

  I’m a Windsor Police detective following an important lead … tailing a suspect who might also be a danger to the public at large.

  A bit dramatic, but under current circumstances Campbell was feeling the urge to do a little pushing against legal and social boundaries. It was becoming more and more about boundaries for him.

  The streetcar crossed Mill Street. Campbell waited for a gap in the oncoming traffic, passed the streetcar, and pulled in front of it before it reached Detroit Street, waving his arm. The car ground to a halt and Campbell stopped, jumped out, and approached the side door, flashing his badge.

  “Detective Campbell. I’m sorry to interrupt your route but I’m working on an important investigation. This won’t take but a moment.”

  And then what? thought Campbell. More improvisation.

  “She’s all yours,” said the driver.

  Campbell made his way up the aisle, nodding at passengers, making apologies. None of them even remotely resembled Morrison. He walked back up to the front of the car.

  “Excuse me, but did you take on a passenger at Brock, a rather stout fellow in an overcoat and hat, perhaps a little unkempt, maybe holding a book of crosswords?”

  Now how would he get that? thought the detective.

  “Why yes,” said the driver.

  The roving conductor chimed in with, “He’s one of our regulars.”

  “Where did he get off the car?”

  “Mill, right before you passed me on the left. You must have been distracted with the oncoming traffic.”

  “Yes,” said Campbell. “Yes, I must have been.” He thanked the driver, wished him a good day, and apologized again for the inconvenience. The detective stood on the sidewalk and watched the streetcar pass, continuing toward the downtown.

  He saw me, thought Campbell, and damn it, he was watching me. A half-baked plan if ever there was one.

  ACCUSED CHINAMAN GAVE INFORMATION TO OFFICIALS

  Su Yen Men, Chinese, 50 Chatham Street, appeared before Judge W.E. Gundy this morning on a charge of illegally possessing narcotics. During the hearing of the evidence, Sergeant Burns, in reply to a question put by prisoner’s counsel, A.A. McKinnon, stated that Men had supplied the police with information as to Chinese who were selling opium in Windsor.

  “Did he ever receive the money from the fines?” asked Judge Gundy.

  Sergeant Burns stated he did not know, but believed he had in one case where he had acted as an informer.

  A.A. McKinnon, on behalf of the prisoner, objected to all the evidence on the ground that officers raided Men’s house with a search warrant that was not in accordance with the Act. The officers had a search warrant to search for liquor issued by Inspector M.M. Mousseau, a justice of the peace, and prisoner’s counsel stated that in the case of narcotics, the warrant must be issued by a magistrate.

  Judge Gundy noted the objection, but did not sustain it.

  Sergeant Begg stated that the opium was found in envelopes concealed in a bed in which Men’s 13-year-old son was sleeping.

  “The envelopes were sealed when we found them,” declared the sergeant.

  “Did you think they contained liquor?” asked the prisoner’s counsel.

  “I did not know what they might have had in them,” replied the officer, but after being pressed for an answer admitted that he did not think the envelopes concealed any liquids.

  W.H. Furlong acted as prosecutor for the crown, and the case was not concluded.

  — Chapter 27 —

  IN CASE OF EMERGENCY

  Wednesday, August 15

  “But why?” asked McCloskey.

  He and Vera Maude were standing on the southwest corner of Wyandotte and the Avenue along with about a half-dozen rather anxious-looking citizens.

  “The other day you insisted, for what reason I can’t even remember, that I learn how to drive a car. Well, I th
ink you should learn how the rest of us get around.”

  “Yeah, but why? I got wheels. If I ride one of these … things,” he said, gesturing to one of the streetcars passing on the opposite side, “I guarantee you I’ll never ride another one of them again.”

  “It’ll give you the chance to see the city through other people’s eyes,” said Vera Maude.

  “Other people.”

  She squinted as she looked up at him. “Yeah, people like me.”

  “Sounds like I’m getting some kind of lesson. Seems these days I’m always getting a lesson.”

  “You’re only noticing that now?”

  “Do I get a turn driving it?”

  “Driving what?”

  “The barn on wheels.”

  Vera Maude rolled her eyes. The barn was approaching. “C’mon, Jack. Hey — you got change?”

  “Change of what?”

  “Change … you know, coin.” She paused to examine her shoes. “What was I expecting? First rule is you have to pay a fare.”

  “I thought first rule was I gotta stand in line.”

  “All right — second rule.”

  “I don’t think I’ve carried coin since I was twelve years old,” said McCloskey. A penny here and a nickel there, and then he was borrowing, stealing, and smuggling. He skipped the begging part. McCloskey pulled his money clip out of his jacket pocket. It could barely contain his walking-around money for the day.

  “Jack!” She grabbed his wrist and looked over her shoulder. “Put that away.”

  “What? Why?”

  “I’ll pay your fare.”

  “All right. I’m good for it, you know.” McCloskey put the clip with its wad of bills back in his pocket. “I got paid yesterday.”

  “I don’t want to know about it.”

  The streetcar slowly came to a halt. It looked like there was now about as many people waiting to board as there were getting off. McCloskey looked at their faces, their clothes, their bags and briefcases.

  Vera Maude was right; he didn’t know these people. She paid the conductor. All the seats were taken, so they stood near the back, each clutching a dangling leather strap. McCloskey actually preferred this to sitting down. He could look around, occasionally bend down and get a view of the street if he wanted, and keep an eye on …

  “Maudie, what’s …?”

  A heated exchange drew McCloskey’s atetntion back inside the car.

  “That man just took her seat,” said Vera Maude. “He practically shoved her out of the way to get it. Did you see that?”

  While he may not have been up on his public transit etiquette, McCloskey thought he knew a bully when he saw one and moved in.

  “Jack …” said Vera Maude.

  It was turning into a bit of a commotion.

  “And who the hell are you?” asked the man.

  “Manners,” said McCloskey. He was trying to hold his temper but this situation was beginning to look like nonsense. “I think the lady has claim here. Let’s be respectful.”

  “Are you calling me disrespectful?”

  McCloskey always wondered where people like this guy got their nerve.

  “Jack … Jack …” Vera Maude repeated.

  “What are you going to do about it?” said the man.

  “Jack, please.”

  “Maudie, can we somehow put the brakes on this infernal thing?”

  She took a deep breath, plucked the emergency cord, and braced herself. The car came to an abrupt halt and McCloskey balanced himself, bent down, and grabbed the fellow’s ankles.

  “Hey!”

  “This is your stop,” said McCloskey as he yanked the man off his seat. His head first hit the top of the bench, then the edge of the seat, and finally the floor. He seemed momentarily stunned but he managed to grab onto a pole as McCloskey dragged him down the aisle. It was no use. McCloskey just kept pulling. Passengers were getting out of the way, trapping the driver and conductor at the front of the car.

  Vera Maude plucked the cord again and again. She wanted to make sure the streetcar didn’t start moving until Jack was finished whatever it was he was doing, but it looked like the driver was trying to clear an intersection.

  McCloskey continued backing up toward the side door. Vera Maude followed. The man’s head hit every step down, but before he was knocked unconscious on the curb, McCloskey picked him up by the lapels and dropped him on the sidewalk, leaving him moaning and groaning. Some pedestrians stopped in their tracks. A woman screamed.

  McCloskey looked down at Vera Maude, who was standing beside him with her mouth agape, speechless.

  “Is it always like that on that car?” he said.

  “Wha— no, Jack, of course it isn’t.”

  Some people walked faster, more stopped and stared from a safe distance. McCloskey straightened up, held his hand across his brow, and squinted into the near distance.

  “I’ll never be allowed on a streetcar again. How will I get to work?”

  “Aw, you can get whatever streetcar you want, Maudie,” he said. Then he put his fingers in his mouth and whistled.

  “What are you doing?”

  He waved. “Our ride’s here.”

  “What ride?” Vera Maude looked like there had been a script change that no one had told her about.

  A shiny blue Lincoln sedan pulled in front of them.

  “Shorty,” said McCloskey. “He’s been following us.”

  “Shorty? Who’s Shorty and why was he following us?”

  “Because I told him to.” McCloskey opened a door for Vera Maude. “Now get in before the cops show and I have to unroll a few of these felons.”

  The two settled into the back seat. “Shorty, Maudie; Maudie, Shorty.”

  “Miss Maudie.” Shorty touched his hat and they sped off.

  “That was fun,” said McCloskey. “We should do this again sometime. Say, Shorty, a day like this and you’re riding around without the top down?”

  “I thought you’d like us inconspicuous.”

  “Ah, right.”

  “That and I didn’t want the leather too hot.”

  Vera Maude closed her eyes, rested her elbow on the edge of the open window, and pressed her palm to her forehead.

  “Hey,” said McCloskey. “You wanna go to the beach?”

  — Chapter 28 —

  BE OUT OF TOWN BEFORE SUNDOWN

  JUDGE TELLS CHINESE HE HAD BETTER LEAVE BORDER

  Changing his plea from not guilty to having opium in his possession, to guilty of smoking opium, Su Yen Men, 50 Chatham Street, formerly employed by the Windsor police as informer, was fined $10 and costs by Judge W.E. Gundy in the Windsor police court today.

  The case against Su Yen Men was heard yesterday afternoon in the Windsor Police court, when he claimed that he had been “framed” when officers found opium in his home. Through his lawyer, he told the court that he had given information that resulted in several Chinese being fined for illegally possessing narcotics and he believed that it was some of these men that had placed the opium in his house. Today, however, he admitted that he had smoked opium.

  In imposing the fine, Judge Gundy stated that he had taken cognizance of the fact that W.H. Furlong, acting as prosecutor for the crown, had recommended leniency in view of Men’s efforts on behalf of the police. He told him, however, that his usefulness as a detective had been destroyed, and, considering his relation to other Chinese in the Border Cities, he would do well to look for another field for his endeavors.

  “Our business is done.”

  Men’s fortunes were indeed fading.

  “What you mean?”

  “You, me, we’re no longer in business,” said Morrison.

  The detective was checking out a new piece of real estate, but he already had the feeling that it wasn’t going to suit his needs. It was a furnished house on the west side of Caron Avenue, a few doors south of the Drive. Something about it just didn’t sit quite right with him. He thought maybe it was the
location. He had told Men to meet him on the back porch around noon; he said he’d be the one with his feet up, puffing on a Player’s and tipping a flask. And sure enough that’s just how Men found him.

  “I do good work; I work for you from Detroit now.”

  “No, Men. It’s getting too messy, too complicated. I’m streamlining my operations.”

  Men leaned back on the rail, waving the smoke from Morrison’s cigarette away from his face.

  “Streamlining? I do that too,” he said.

  The detective drained the flask and cleared his throat, which was thick with nicotine-laced phlegm. He wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist. “Men, I need you to get lost or I’m going to get you lost. Get me?”

  There was location, and then there was location, thought Morrison. He was back to looking around the property. He liked the proximity to the Drive, Pitt Street, the railway, and the ferry, but maybe it was too convenient for some and too much of a risk for him. Yeah, he thought, time to have another meeting with the realtors. They were slipping.

  Or maybe it’s the market.

  “What you want?” asked Men.

  No, this isn’t going to work, thought Morrison. Look at all these ladies hanging their laundry in the middle of the afternoon.

  “Like Judge Gundy, I want you to disappear.” He stood up, accidentally tipping over his chair. “It’s simple.” He pulled his wallet out of his inside pocket and pinched some bills between two fat fingers and handed them to Men. “This is your severance and travelling expenses. Understand?”

  Men nodded, though he didn’t understand, at least not entirely.

  “Go to the Westwood — you know the Westwood, right? — and ask the bartender for your delivery. Got that? Give him half this, then do what he tells you. Hear me?”

  Men stared at the bills in his hand, probably more money than he had ever held before. He nodded.

  “Go,” said Morrison, “and tell the bartender that you can’t wait until dark — that’ll cost extra.”

  “To where is my delivery?”