Border City Blues 3-Book Bundle

by Michael Januska

“Across the river … then you’ll be free.”

  Free to check out the accommodations in the Wayne County jail, thought the detective through his haze of rye.

  It was time to move on.

  — Chapter 29 —

  THE SPIDER AND THE FLY

  It was while standing on a dusty sidewalk downtown listening to car horns go off, triggered like so many babies crying in a nursery, that Morrison turned and spotted him making his way up Victoria Avenue through the low-hanging billows of engine exhaust.

  Morrison would occasionally stand on a random street corner for several minutes, not waiting for something to happen so much as seeing what caught his attention. What caught his eye this afternoon was an ill-fitting, out-of-season suit, and the stiff-necked over-the-shoulder glances of the man inside it.

  A Chinese. Unusual on this stretch, thought Morrison. Curious, he decided to follow.

  The dust cleared, Morrison picked up his pace, and got a better look. If he didn’t know better he’d say the suit was pulled off the “unclaimed” rack at a laundry. The subject touched his shoulder with his chin again but was still pretending not to see Morrison; he just kept making like he was checking the traffic and the others on the sidewalk, waiting for his chance to cross the street.

  Why so nervous? Where you heading?

  And then the Chinese puzzle-stepped off the walk, continuing in the direction of …

  The library?

  Morrison stopped in his tracks, waiting a moment before climbing the steps, holding back just far enough. There were children keeping cool in wedges of shade on the lawn. A little girl tented a picture book over her head, squinting at him as he passed.

  It felt slightly cooler inside, though it may have simply been the power of suggestion. Morrison spotted his man but maintained a distance. He held a few membership cards, but not one for this joint. He buttoned the top button of his shirt, straightened his tie, and brushed the crumbs off his lapels in an attempt to look slightly less derelict. Still, he got looks from the librarians as he galumphed his way through.

  He thought the place looked like a small temple: columns, marble, carved-wood desks, and a chain of islands down the main aisle that could easily serve as altars. He would normally have presented his badge as a courtesy but was getting in the habit of keeping it in reserve. He also didn’t want to send the staff into a panic. Morrison thought they looked a little tightly wound.

  The detective did a poor job of making himself look busy while his subject made an inquiry at one of the windows. He pretended to read the postings on a bulletin board and happened to look over just in time to see the staff member point the young man in the direction of an adjacent room.

  Morrison avoided eye contact with the librarians as he followed his subject into the children’s section. The detective couldn’t have looked more out of place, and he knew it. He was sure he was scaring the young readers. He watched the man peruse the shelves and survey what the small group around the table was reading. He would occasionally smile and nod or bow to one of the youngsters. Morrison was beginning to wonder if he wasn’t on to something else here. He picked up a discarded copy of The Curlytops on Star Island and started casually flipping through it. His Chinaman pulled a few books off the shelves and then sat down at an uninhabited table. He opened one of the books and started reading, occasionally glancing over at the children who were trying to figure him out, as was Morrison. He noticed one of the librarians already had her hand on one of the telephone extensions. Morrison had a knack for setting genteel folk on edge.

  The celestial must have been satisfied with his choices because he gathered his reading material as Morrison watched, following him to the main counter where he checked them out. Morrison dropped his Curlytops copy on one of the islands and followed the young man out the doors, down the stairs, and across the lawn to the corner of Park and Victoria. He was looking behind him, obviously aware and very suspicious of Morrison.

  After he crossed Victoria he began walking faster, no doubt looking a little conspicuous. The young man wanted to shake his pursuer but had little idea how to go about it. He slowed, making it easy for Morrison to catch up with him.

  Morrison reached out, put his hand on the Chinaman’s shoulder, and, startled, the young man dropped his books: The Wonderful Wizard of Oz and Aesop’s Fables.

  “That’s library property.”

  The Chinaman bent down and picked them up out of Morrison’s shadow. Morrison then grabbed his arm and pulled him into a garden separating two nearby houses.

  “Do I know you?” asked the detective. “You don’t look familiar.”

  The Chinaman shook his head.

  “Show me your papers.”

  “Papers?”

  “You know what I’m talking about.”

  “I do not have with me.”

  “What’s your name, boy?”

  “Lee, Quan Lee.”

  Morrison squeezed Quan’s arm tighter. “You’re shaking. You got something to be nervous about? You don’t have any papers, do you?”

  Quan said nothing.

  “That’s an answer,” said Morrison. “No papers. Okay, let’s hold that card for now. What’s with the books?”

  “I learn English.”

  Morrison was trying to decide what questions to ask, how much he wanted to know, right now, and how much he wanted to leave on the table. “You’re working, or you have a … sponsor, a benefactor, someone paying your way? Got me?”

  “I am working.”

  Morrison’s eyes widened and he snapped his fingers. “I remember … you were there that night at Hong’s, with McCloskey and his runt Shorty Morand. You remember me, don’t you?”

  Quan answered with his eyes.

  “You do. Now listen, my good boy: my name is Morrison — Morrison — and I’m with the Windsor Police.” Morrison showed Quan his badge. “But you’re going to forget all of that. Understand?”

  Quan nodded slowly.

  “Don’t worry, I’m not going to turn you in — but I do know people in immigration — and Mounties. I have a feeling you know who the Mounties are.”

  “Mounties.” Quan nodded.

  “You could be very useful,” said Morrison, “and do good for yourself at the same time.”

  “Useful?”

  “Jack McCloskey must not know we spoke. We will speak again, or I will contact my friends in immigration. Where are you flopping? Sleeping like? At McCloskey’s?”

  “No, not at Jack’s.”

  “Where?”

  “A room. On top Allies.”

  “Allies? That diner near the Walkerville Theatre?”

  “Yes.”

  “Huh. Okay, Quan Lee, I’ll have other work for you soon, very soon,” said Morrison. “I’ll find you when I’m ready for you.”

  — Chapter 30 —

  FINAL AUDITIONS

  McCloskey leaned back in his chair and, looking over his shoulder to Pearl seated behind him, said, “Remind me again, am I paying for this?”

  She gave the back of his head a gentle smack. “Hush and pay attention. This is what you been asking for, remember?”

  Every day McCloskey had been asking Pearl how things were coming along with the entertainment portion of opening night. She kept putting him off and putting him off, until yesterday when she informed him that — after, in her words, whittling down her talent roster — she would be holding her last round of auditions mid-week.

  So here they were, not even started yet and McCloskey was already fidgeting like a kid in church. Fortunately it was all going rather smoothly. Pearl told everyone to be at the club no later than six, giving everyone enough time to finish up with their daytime commitments and maybe grab a bite to eat — though there would be refreshments.

  One of Pearl’s chorus girls, Susie, handled the talent when they arrived, holding their hands in the dressing room until Pearl gave her the cue to bring one of them out. The first hopeful was a woman who was here to unveil he
r trademark “Salome’s Dance,” a routine she had been performing on stage since the coronation (which coronation, no one was sure). Apparently she had even taken the act to London and New York, where it was well received. Unfortunately the act was looking a little dated, as was Salome. The cringe-worthy act was like watching your auntie perform a burlesque show. McCloskey expressed his dislike with a hand signal behind his back. Pearl thanked the woman and told her she would be in touch.

  The next act was a husband and wife team. The husband did some comedy bits — one with a ventriloquist dummy that kept falling apart, and another as a clumsy juggler. His wife played the straight man the whole time. Pearl told McCloskey that the duo could add some laughs and a bit of physical comedy to the show. They were a “maybe.”

  The third act was a former professional baseball player. He delivered a mildly amusing monologue about his days on the diamond, and then did a short song and dance number. McCloskey liked him and thought he might be a hit with the crowd. Perhaps he could even be persuaded to deliver some prognostications on the rest of the season. He was a “definite maybe.”

  There were a few other artists that got their chance to impress the owner of the club. The only standout was Li-Ling’s father, Woo. He played a Chinese guitar, or ruan, that had a big round moon face and four strings. McCloskey had his reservations but Pearl insisted he give Woo a listen. She said it could really tie together some of the Oriental themes McCloskey already had going on in the club. Woo played a couple of traditional folk songs, impressing McCloskey so much that he made Woo promise to be a part of their bill for opening night.

  That left one more act.

  “Susie — our tap dancer Mr. Piedmont, please.”

  “Coming right up.”

  Susie disappeared through the stage’s back curtain and then reappeared with a smiling, nattily dressed young gentleman with a peg leg.

  McCloskey turned all the way around in his chair this time. “Wait — you were serious? A one-legged tap dancer? Did you save the best for last?”

  Pearl shushed him. “Just watch … and listen.”

  McCloskey turned back around. “Mr. Piedmont, is it?

  “Rufus Piedmont, sir, but usually I just go by Peg Leg.”

  “You lose it in the war?”

  “No, sir, a cotton gin accident when I was twelve.”

  “And that’s when you decided to take up tap dancing?”

  “Tap, yes, but I been dancing since I was about five years old.”

  “Please, go ahead,” said Pearl.

  Peg Leg bowed and then launched into a fiery routine that had both McCloskey and Pearl spellbound. He was nearly acrobatic at times, his routine ending with him landing in a front split, peg leg forward. The room was dead silent for a moment, and then McCloskey started a round of applause. Turning to Pearl, he said, “Make sure we get him for opening night.”

  “You got it, Jack.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Piedmont.”

  The dancer sprung back up. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Mr. Piedmont, Susie will make sure we have all of your contact information.”

  “Yes, sir.” Piedmont mopped his brow and made for the dressing room with Susie.

  “What do we have next?” asked McCloskey.

  “That’s it, Jack.”

  “What do you mean that’s it?”

  “Short notice,” said Pearl. She was hoping Peg Leg would have been enough of a distraction. “People are booked, touring, on vacation —”

  “There must be some other —”

  “Sorry, Jack.”

  “So that’s it? Some show.”

  Pearl had been conversing with bookers on both sides of the river, and even tried to catch a few acts live on stage. She knew it was going to be tough, and she also wanted the right mix of talent. The only guidance from McCloskey was that there be no minstrel acts. She thought that was a given. It was tough and she herself began to have some doubts. She kept that to herself though, and kept the bookers’ doubts about Shady’s to herself, too. People were already telling McCloskey that the concept — a combination of Chinese and roadhouse food; entertainment with no burlesque and no booze — would never fly. Pearl told him that he had to trust her, and that she had a feeling in her gut that it was going to take off. She had to stay strong, especially while McCloskey continued to have these misgivings.

  He was about to go stomping out of the joint when Pearl grabbed him by the arm. “Jack, I’m telling you this is going to work.”

  McCloskey knew he would eventually break out of his funk. He was just in a mood. He needed a drink.

  “I can do this,” she said. “You fill the house and I’ll give them a show like they’ve never seen. If they don’t like it, well then, you can always turn the place a into a five-pin bowling alley.”

  She got a smile out of him. That was good.

  “I feel like I’ve invested more than just money into this place. Pearl, I really want it to work. I need it to work.”

  “You think I don’t?” She pressed her palms against his cheeks. “Just leave the entertainment to me. Who knows … I might have a little something extra for you up my sleeve.”

  — Chapter 31 —

  SALT MAN

  Thursday, August 16

  He had come down to police headquarters of his own volition, proceeding straight to the front desk and asking to speak to a detective regarding a certain matter. He looked a little lost.

  “Any detective in particular? Which matter?”

  He pulled a square of yellow paper out of the inside pocket of a well-worn jacket, unfolded the dusty sheet and held it in front of the duty sergeant’s face. The grit got everywhere.

  “Oh, it’s Detective Campbell you’re after.”

  “Yes — is he here?”

  “What’s your name, lad?”

  “Burke, sir.”

  “Burke.”

  The duty sergeant jotted down the name and the time somewhere in the margins of his blotter and then went back to the ledger opened over it. He looked over the edge of the tall desk and said, motioning blindly toward a uniform standing nearby with his hands in his pockets, “Yes, Mr. Burke, the detective is in.”

  “Sir?”

  “Constable, show this gentleman to our conference room.”

  “Right.”

  Dirkland led Burke down a couple links of hallway to the so-called conference room while the sergeant rang up Campbell and informed him that he had a guest, a young man from the salt mines.

  “He had his papers with him, and that pamphlet with your name on it. Sir, if I may say —”

  “Where will I find him?”

  When the detective arrived in the room he excused the constable hovering at the door and joined the young civilian at the table, pulling out the chair opposite him.

  “Burke, is it?” said Campbell, folding his hands.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Relax, mister. Am I to understand you know something about our victim?”

  There were six other men from the mines who had paid Campbell a visit since he had started his search for answers.

  “Yes.”

  “So …?”

  “Well, I saw the bulletins posted in the offices and on the grounds, asking if anyone knew anything. And if they did know something, well, they should go to Windsor’s police and ask for you.” Burke reached in his pocket and unfolded the paper again. The creases looked like they had been getting a good workout, as if he had been rehearsing this moment. “It’s all right here.”

  “Ah. I’m familiar,” said Campbell.

  “I had a feeling — no, I knew — but I needed to know what everyone else knew, what everyone else saw. There were photographs. How could I face anyone?”

  Campbell unlocked his fingers.

  “Just what exactly have you come to tell me, Burke?”

  The miner looked for his reply somewhere over the detective’s shoulders, in a corner of the ceiling.

  “That I
killed him, sir.”

  Out of the half-dozen other interviewees, this was the first real confession Campbell had heard; not that he was expecting one. He pretended not to notice.

  “Can you tell me a little bit more about that?”

  “He saved my life,” said Burke.

  “In the mines?”

  “In the mines? No, in the war, sir. I carried him to a quiet, undisturbed place, scraped out a small grave with my helmet. I didn’t have much time. I was only able to dig out so much. I fit him in it —”

  “Somewhere in the field?”

  “In the mines,” said Burke.

  Campbell was trying to gather and assemble. “Who was he?” he asked. “He had nothing on him.”

  Burke pulled an envelope — a pay packet — out from his coat pocket, opened the end of it and spilled its contents onto the table. “This is what he had on him.”

  There was coin, a Dominion Salt identification, a wallet with a couple of bank notes, and a pocket watch of little or no value, as tarnished and dead as its owner.

  Campbell searched for a name.

  “Fitzsimmons,” he said.

  “Jim he was to me.”

  “You didn’t tell anyone?”

  “How could I?”

  Campbell could tell that the soldier was about to break down.

  “No one else knows you’re here?”

  “No one.”

  The detective was having trouble figuring out which minefield he was treading through.

  “How did it happen? Underground, I mean.”

  “Well … we were shedding away —”

  “Where exactly?”

  “Near where you found him.”

  “Uh huh.” Campbell pulled out his notebook and a tiny pencil and started jotting notes. “I’m listening … but how? I mean, how did you happen to kill him? Was there a weapon handy that you used?”

  “I told you, detective …”

  “Yes, you did tell me.”

  “It was an accident.”

  “You were a prisoner of war, Burke.”

  Burke swallowed hard. “I was.”

  “And Fitzsimmons?”