Border City Blues 3-Book Bundle

by Michael Januska

Campbell walked Burke down the labyrinth of halls towards the exit, pausing near the front desk, and was caught by the duty sergeant.

  “Any help, detective?” said the duty sergeant.

  “Yes and no,” said Campbell.

  “Should I expect to see him again?”

  Campbell’s mind was somewhere else, somewhere below the river.

  “Could you phone Dr. Laforet and have him meet me in my office as soon as he is available? I’ll be waiting. Tell him it’s about our salt man.”

  When he arrived, Laforet was escorted to the detective’s door. The doctor nodded to Bickerstaff and waved him away with his hand.

  “Why are you so nasty to my constables?”

  “Aren’t they used to it?”

  “I don’t encourage it.”

  “So, why did you summon me? And did you order us lunch?”

  “I’ve been talking to men from the mines, not too many, but maybe just enough. I think I may have something … or someone.”

  “The long and the short?”

  “He didn’t do it. Well … he did and he didn’t.”

  “There’s more,” said Laforet.

  “I need to tell you.”

  “What?”

  “I let Burke go, telling him it was because I already had someone in custody.”

  “You lied to him.”

  “I suppose I did,” said Campbell.

  “Why?”

  “Is it still lying if it’s to someone I know is not in their right mind?”

  “You’re playing games with truth,” said Laforet. “Is this to someone else’s advantage? Or to yours?” The doctor scraped the floor with the feet of a chair and sat himself down. “Campbell, what have you done?”

  The detective was trying to remain cool. “He and the victim were prisoners of war, forced into labour, in one of the salt mines —” he flipped back through his notepad “— a place called Soltau, north of Hanover.”

  “Salt river.”

  “German too? You’re always full of surprises.”

  “I remain a mystery. Go on,” said Laforet.

  “Yes, fitting. Apparently Fitzsimmons — if that was even his name — earned himself a certain position amongst the other prisoners. He was made something like a foreman. Fitzsimmons was taking orders from German officers, and then giving orders to his countrymen, his brothers in arms. When they were down in the mines, they didn’t know which way was up.”

  “And what happened in our mines?”

  “I’m not sure. Right now my only theory is that when they were down below the river, alone together, they were in Soltau.”

  Laforet was twisting his chair, trying to find a comfortable position. “Was Burke somehow putting things right?”

  “Putting himself, or both him and Fitzsimmons, out of their collective misery? He gave me a story about it being an accident. Telling me the story, the look on his face, the look in his eyes … I believe that he believed what he was telling me.”

  “Honestly, do you think that he is a danger to anyone?”

  Campbell poked his teeth with a thumbnail. “A danger to no one, except maybe himself. Damn it, how am I going to get inside his head?”

  “Try meeting him in the mines.”

  — Chapter 32 —

  SPATS AND QUARRELS

  McCloskey had never had a fuller or more varied plate in front of him than he did right now. It was a smorgasbord of trouble.

  He was in his apartment, sinking in his thinking chair. It normally granted him a view of the top of the Dime building over in Detroit; however, Vera Maude — heated and with her hands on her hips — was blocking it, staring him down. It was late morning but it had already been a day. He leaned his head back, with one arm across his chest, holding old wounds, himself together. The leather was soft and smooth. He pressed his cheek against the cool and let his other hand dangle, unable to find that tumbler of rye that existed only in his dreams. Vera Maude was making the room vibrate, making it hot. He wasn’t prepared for this, whatever it was. Not right now.

  What day is this? What time is it?

  Even with his eyes closed he could still see her.

  “All right, what’s going on between you and Pearl?” she asked.

  He opened his eyes and lifted his head. “What?”

  “I’ve been getting the distinct feeling for a while now that something’s going on between you two.”

  He shook his head. “She and me are in business together, remember?”

  “Yeah, well, just what kind of business?”

  “Maudie, Jesus, there’s nothing going on between me and Pearl outside the club.” He paused and shook his head again. “Damn it … where’s this coming from?”

  “I don’t know if I believe you.”

  “Maudie, why’s it bother you so much? It isn’t like me and you are married or anything.”

  “Oh, so there is something going on! Hey — what do mean or anything? I thought by now I would have ranked a little higher than or anything.”

  He sat up. “Maudie, I think this wedding’s making you crazy.”

  “Don’t change the subject.” She turned, faced the window, and stared blankly down at the intersection while McCloskey studied her behind. She did an abrupt about-face and threw at him, “I know I can’t be the only woman in your life.”

  McCloskey was genuinely confused. “Is that a question?” he asked. He was used to pulling crowbars and guns, and generally pushing other people’s buttons when the situation called for it. He was still getting accustomed to using his words, though people often told him he had the gift. He’d say it was purely accidental.

  “A guy once told me,” he said, “only ask the questions that you already know the answer to.”

  That was an unintended curve. “What’s that even mean?” she asked.

  “I’m still working on it.”

  She leaned in and pushed her hands against his shoulders and he folded back into the chair. “So you’re her benefactor or something, right?” she said.

  “Her what?”

  “Patron … you sign the cheques?”

  “No,” he said, “we only deal in cash.” Bad time to get smart, but it was often a reflex of his. He was rarely so smart of his own accord.

  “For what?”

  “She earns it.” That was bad too, but he couldn’t seem to help himself.

  “How?”

  “You wanna play like this?” He straightened up. “What about you and Bernie?”

  “What about me and Bernie?”

  “What’s going on between you two?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I’m hearing his name a lot — Bernie this and Bernie that; stuff like, ‘Oh, I can’t, Jack. I’m meeting Bernie for coffee.’ Is that all you’re meeting him for?”

  “Yeah, that’s all I’m meeting him for,” she said, mimicking him. “We like to discuss our writing and other stuff.”

  She stepped back and did a short pace about the room, barely enough to scuff her shoes.

  “I just remembered I gotta go meet somebody,” said McCloskey.

  “Who?”

  “I have to meet with Quan.” McCloskey thought maybe he could try to end this on a high note. “We can talk some more about this later — if you want.”

  She looked down at him. “Okay.”

  He thought he saw her pout. Uncharacteristic of her if she is, he thought. Nevertheless he still had to fight off the urge to bite her lower lip.

  The two walked down the stairs to the street in silence.

  “Can I give you a ride anywhere?”

  “No, thanks. I think I’d like to walk,” she said.

  He watched her move down towards the river, and when he lost sight of her decided it was probably time to head over to the club.

  McCloskey pulled Quan into the pantry adjacent to the kitchen for a private conversation. It was about the size of a walk-in closet, lined with cans and small boxes of foodstuffs, with a bare bulb hangin
g close to the ceiling.

  “Quan, tell me, you must tell me, when you came from Toronto, were you carrying anything?”

  “Carrying?”

  “Did you have any drugs, any opium on you?”

  He was wiping his hands on his apron.

  “I did.”

  “You had nothing when you came out of the river.”

  “No, nothing.”

  “What did you do with it?”

  “I gave it to the smugglers. When we were at the boat, time to go, they ask for more money. We had nothing; we gave opium.”

  That sounded about right: Get them all the way to the finish line and then tell them they don’t get to cross it unless they give up the rest of their valuables.

  “While here, in the Border Cities, have you ever been in possession of any drugs or opium?”

  Quan shook his head. “No, Jack, no.”

  “Have you used it? Look at me.”

  “No.”

  “I believe you.” McCloskey gave him a little breathing room and then asked Quan if he had been talking to any known drug smugglers or users.

  Quan shrugged and looked away. He said, “Yes.” His tone made it all sound as if it were inevitable, perhaps even unavoidable for him.

  McCloskey put his hands on Quan’s shoulders. “Do you need help with anyone? I can take care of it for you; do you understand?”

  Quan turned away again and didn’t look McCloskey in the eyes as he said, “No, Jack, I do not need help.”

  McCloskey wasn’t sure if he believed that. “Okay,” he said. “Get back to work then. We’ll talk again later.”

  Quan headed into the kitchen and McCloskey paused for a moment in the pantry, his palm pressing his forehead, his other hand on his hip. He needed to find out what the hell was going on. He was feeling a little out of his league with this drug-smuggling stuff. It was coming at a bad time, what with the club and the Wrecking and Salvage pulling him in two different directions.

  “Is this all right?” he said, in the voice of a lover unhinged.

  She smiled a smile that pulled the corners of her mouth into a curl. “Yes,” she said between kisses, making him sure, “yes … I want this.” Hot rye breath and the sticky tang of ginger on his lips.

  It was in an alley off Mercer, on a town car on blocks, low with no wheels and a fractured carriage. Someone else’s destruction-in-progress. He helped her up so that she could straddle the hood. She rested her polished heels inside the bent fenders. He stepped back for a look. Her hair was tousled and her blouse was casually making a departure around her shoulders. He was at a sudden loss for words.

  “If he already thinks I’m messing around,” she said, “well then, I guess I might as well.”

  “So I’m a might as well?” Not that he cared a smudge at this juncture.

  She leaned back across the length of the hood, her arms framing the top of her head, that mane of hair let loose. “Lest it mean as much as you want so long as it means nothing.”

  One dim, bare bulb hung over a nearby delivery door. Her eyes and cheeks glowed and made the cold light warm. He gently worked her skirt further over her hips.

  “What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him,” she told herself, her eyes closed.

  “But what he finds out could get me killed,” said Bernie.

  “He trusts me,” she moaned.

  “Oh —”

  Her finger found his lips. “Don’t say my name … I want this.” She threw her head back one more time.

  “Just this once,” he said.

  “Was that a question? Or some kind of answer? Once … wants … once …” She pulled him closer and closed his mouth with hers.

  He pulled away. “Only once.”

  “Only wants,” she said. “Let the needs take care of themselves.”

  “I’m living in the moment.”

  So long as the moment’s mine to be had.

  “Stop talking.”

  — Chapter 33 —

  REFORMATORY BLUES

  LEE HING IS FREED

  Laundryman Spends Two Weeks in Jail, Then Pays $200 Fine

  Lee Hing, 19 years old, laundryman remanded two weeks ago by Judge W.E. Gundy for violation of the “dope” act and sentenced to six months imprisonment to the reformatory at Guelph, was released from the county jail yesterday when he agreed to pay a fine.

  Hing had been held at the jail awaiting transportation to the reformatory. Yesterday he told W.A. Wanless, jailer, that he would pay the fine. He paid $200 and costs.

  Morrison folded the Star and slapped it on his desk like he was swatting a fly. Having real police matters to attend to, he had missed yesterday’s court proceedings. He rested his elbow on the arm of his desk and pressed his fist against one soft, pink cheek.

  “Freed,” he mumbled to himself, “but marked.”

  Six months lost in the reformatory, or an outcast on the streets of the Border Cities — either way, Morrison was losing another one. But there were always more, and that’s what he kept telling himself.

  Quan Lee would be taking on a little more responsibility, picking up the slack. Morrison decided he’d accidentally run into him when the boy was finished his shift at McCloskey’s place, Shady’s, and give him the good news then.

  He should be pleased, thought Morrison.

  There was a Lucky Tiger Tonic bottle full of whisky in the bottom drawer of his desk. He grabbed it, unscrewed the cap, and topped up his coffee. It touched the lip of his mug.

  “After Shave and Face Tonic,” he read out loud between sips, “To Smooth and Refresh.”

  He replaced the bottle, stood, and shed his hat and rumpled coat. He was decorating the rack in the corner when there was a knock and a shadow appeared at the door.

  “Morrison?”

  “What?”

  “Message.”

  “Fancy.” Morrison took it. “What? You looking for a tip?”

  The constable disappeared and the detective opened the envelope. There was a card inside.

  “Répondez s’il vous plaît.”

  He tossed the card onto his desk and set his gaze towards the window overlooking Goyeau, already humid and shedding light on some old finger streaks.

  Damn.

  — Chapter 34 —

  UNDERCOVER

  It was sometime mid-afternoon and after his fourth coffee of the day when Campbell had decided to work Morrison into tonight’s perambulations. He just had to figure out how to go about it.

  He knew his first problem was going to be the way Morrison kept his movements to himself — unless it was an actual case, and then he made his activities well-known. Campbell didn’t want to have to resort to making up some bogus reason for needing to know where to find him. He thought he’d try something else. He walked out of the building to the street, turned around, and then walked back in, straight to the duty sergeant’s desk. Their brief conversation had gone something like this:

  “Next time you see Morrison, you should tell him it looks like someone kissed his front bumper a little too hard, unless he already knows. I just passed his vehicle and the thing is hanging by a single screw.”

  “Couldn’t have been his car; he’s in Walkerville meeting with their chief constable. Their weekly information exchange. He’s due back around four thirty to bring the chief up to speed.”

  “Ah.”

  “Leaving again?”

  “I only came back to mention that bit about Morrison’s car. I’m actually off to the library to do a bit of research before heading home.”

  The desk sergeant, only vaguely interested, returned to his logbook or whatever detective fiction he was reading.

  That’s when Campbell had gotten the idea. He would go home, grab the street clothes he had acquired from Laforet, those found on the homeless dead and meant for incineration. The doctor always let Campbell sift through them, helping him come up with costumes that would occasionally render him unrecognizable for his nightly walks. He would go stra
ight to his apartment at half past four, change into his get-up, don his overcoat, drive back to a discreet spot near headquarters, and wait for Morrison to exit after his meeting.

  It was after 5:30 now, and sitting in the Essex in this heat all he could smell were the nights the unfortunate owners of the clothes had spent in doorways, parks, or huddled under a bridge; that and the smell of death. His overcoat saved the interior of the Essex from those indestructible odours, but not his nose.

  Morrison finally emerged from police headquarters, alone, and walked right past his own car. That was good, thought Campbell. Careful not to lose sight of him, Campbell got out of his vehicle, removed his overcoat, threw it into the trunk of the car, and found his grubby hat.

  In his frayed and tattered garb, he stayed on Morrison’s trail. Campbell’s biggest risk was being picked up for vagrancy. He double-checked that he had his badge with him.

  Morrison headed east on Park Street, and then along the south side of City Hall Square, taking his time. He then continued north up the east side of the square, cutting over to McDougall, heading north, just past Assumption. With hardly a break in his step, Morrison entered Walker’s Quick Lunch.

  Almost directly across the street were a machine shop and a vacant building separated by a narrow laneway — narrow meaning the width of two sets of shoulders. Campbell tucked himself in there and kept an eye on the restaurant. Morrison came out again not a minute later, looked up and down the street, checked his watch, and then re-entered the establishment.

  It was called Walker’s Lunch but was actually open all day, catering most of the time to City Hall employees and the police department. The officers often came here after a shift.

  Campbell waited and watched passersby. The streets were quieter now, what with people home from work and having their dinner, and most of the shops were closed.

  6:10 p.m.

  Coming from the north and moving at a fast clip was a man who looked to be constable Hawkeswood, in plain clothes. His dress and the direction from which he came suggested that he wasn’t coming from the police station. He entered Walker’s, and Campbell wondered if he was meeting with Morrison.