Border City Blues 3-Book Bundle

by Michael Januska

  “Yeah.”

  “How did you —”

  “Morrison, I’ve got more feet on the ground in the Border Cities than you’ll ever. I thought you would have known that by now.”

  The detective glanced over at Gretchen’s just as someone was walking out. The figure headed in the other direction.

  “All right, what’s this about?”

  “It’s about a kid named Quan Lee.”

  “Your missing rice boiler? I heard his people sent him on a slow boat back to China for importing more trouble to an already troubled community.”

  “How long you been rehearsing that line, Morrison? I don’t buy it. I think you had something to do with Quan’s death.”

  “Why would I want anything to do with that kid?”

  “I think you were looking to make good use of him, but he got caught in your gears. Maybe you learned he had a conscience and could become a liability. Best to nip that one in the bud.”

  Morrison sized up McCloskey, wondering how much this bootlegger knew, wondering if he was going to get physical, if he was carrying, if he would give him his worst. He had heard McCloskey could get a bit wild.

  “You think? McCloskey, you don’t know what to think anymore, you shell-shocked rum-head. I figured out a way to make sense of this street game … a game that, thanks in part to the newspapers, makes no sense at all to your average Border citizen. You could have done the same for yourself, but you keep hesitating. You won’t pull that trigger.”

  “I’m going to get to the bottom of this, Morrison, and then I’ll decide what I want out of you. Right now I’m just telling you that I’m not going to let it go. I’m not going to let it go until it all sits right with me. So don’t get too wise.”

  “Is that some kind of threat, McCloskey?”

  “I don’t waste my breath with threats. Now go home or wherever it is you planned on flopping tonight.” McCloskey turned and left Morrison standing with his thoughts in the drizzle.

  Campbell was in one of the phone booths at the Prince Edward Hotel, needing some privacy and not wanting to make the call from home. Yesterday he had found out that local switchboard operators were using old party lines to allow certain numbers to tap into certain conversations. He wondered if there wasn’t some way he could wire his home telephone directly to the switchboard here at the Prince Edward. He would have to add that to his to-do list.

  “Morrison?”

  “Campbell? … How did you get this number?”

  “From your realtor buddies.”

  There was pause long enough to go to the kitchen and make a sandwich.

  “Morrison? You still there?”

  “Okay, what do you want?” Morrison sounded wary.

  Campbell had his back to the window of the booth. “I think either you killed Quan Lee, or you’ve got someone else doing your dirty work for you.”

  Another pause.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You know what else I got from your realtor buddies?”

  “So you’re going to try to blackmail me into confessing to a crime I didn’t commit and know nothing about?”

  “Something like that. But no one’s going to get off scot-free, not even the realtors.” Campbell paused. “He was just a kid, Morrison, a good kid, and someone Jack McCloskey had taken under his wing.”

  “Jack McCloskey, now there’s an upstanding citizen if there ever was one. Maybe you should be talking to him. I hear he had Quan running drugs through his club. Maybe Quan was becoming a liability.”

  Campbell paused and looked over his shoulder. “And giving you a run for your money, right, Morrison? Is that how you saw it?”

  “I can make it so the realtors can’t tie me to anything. It’ll just look like you stumbled across their little operation and followed a possible trail to me, but it turned out to be a dead end.”

  “It’s not just the realtors I can pin on you, Morrison. I’ve had a file on you for years and it’s grown to the thickness of the city directory.”

  Morrison’s wheezy chuckle came through, and then, “Oh, so this isn’t just about Quan. This is just you wanting to take me down, and you’re going to use this poor, innocent, dead kid to do it. You know all they’re going to see is one detective trying to take down another detective, sully his good reputation. You know, the force kind of frowns upon that sort of thing. This isn’t like you, Campbell. Regardless, you’re in over your head and there’s no looking back. So, we got anything else to talk about?”

  There was a pause.

  “I’m convinced you’re somehow responsible for the death of Quan Lee,” said Campbell, “and one way or another you will pay for that.”

  “So I guess we really don’t have anything else to talk about.”

  “I’m not finished with you yet.”

  “Maybe not, Campbell, but I’m finished with you.”

  Campbell sat in the booth for a moment and tried to gather his thoughts. Morrison was right: this wasn’t like him and maybe he was in over his head. He was also right about the police department. Campbell remembered how they had turned on Detective Henry Fields.

  He opened the door to the booth, thought about getting some food, and then decided one of his walks would be the best thing.

  Morrison hung the earpiece and set the phone back on the table. He had been pacing the room with it the whole time. “You didn’t hear any of that.”

  There was a girl sitting in a wingback chair wearing a blue silk robe with lilies and chrysanthemums on it. She was also wearing what looked like stage makeup. She could have been one of Pearl Shipley’s Windsor Follies for all he knew.

  “I never hear anything,” she said.

  “I think you should leave now.”

  “Drive me home?”

  “No, I got work to do. I’ll give you cab fare. Let me call them.”

  She stood up and gathered her robe. “Thanks for a swell night.”

  “Yeah.”

  At the door to the bathroom she said, “Will I see you again?”

  Morrison had to think about that. “I don’t know.” He was standing there, scratching his chin and staring blankly at her. “Go and get dressed.”

  — Chapter 39 —

  TELL ME IT’S ALL JUST TALK

  Monday, August 20

  Jefferson and Linc were packing a shipment in the basement of the shop: three crates full of headlights mingled with a couple dozen bottles of strong beer. They were also discussing the rumours flying around about Quan Lee’s death.

  It was Jefferson who was first to comment on how McCloskey was clearly having a hard time getting over it, that it seemed to keep revisiting him — and in unexpected ways. They had never seen him like this. It had been a couple days of moods, silence broken by some levity, and then flashes of the McCloskey temper, where he would storm out of the shop, not saying where he was going or when they might expect him back.

  “Yeah,” said Linc. “What’s all that about?”

  “I don’t know … maybe he’s trying to walk it off.”

  “Or maybe he’s doing some investigating of his own.” Linc was also trying to manoeuvre around the ashcans overflowing with automobile scraps. Things were piling up. “We got any more straw?”

  “Over there.” Jefferson nodded toward a burlap sack slumped against a post under the workbench, his hands full.

  “That’s the end of it?”

  “Yep.”

  “One of us’ll have to drop by the creamery,” hinted Linc.

  “I’ll go.”

  A familiar knock startled the two, and the trap door opened. Shorty descended the stairs, holding his hat in place. Someone upstairs and upstanding dropped the door back in place, waiting for the next signal.

  “Hey, yous.”

  “Hey.”

  “Anybody seen Jack?”

  “He was here a little while ago,” said Jefferson.

  “He paced around for a few,” added Linc. “Mutte
red something and lit.”

  No comment from Shorty. He faked some business poking through the crates. “How’s it going here?”

  “We’re almost done.”

  They stood quiet for a moment, each of them with more than a little on their minds. It was Linc who broke the silence.

  “You hearing anything on the street?”

  It was the first they had seen Shorty all day.

  “Hearing anything like what?” he asked.

  “Like maybe Jack’s been talking to people, asking questions,” said Jefferson, “trying to find Quan’s killer and not having much luck.”

  “I wouldn’t know anything about that.”

  “How about this: Was Quan really dealing opium?” asked Linc.

  “No,” said Shorty. “He wasn’t into any of that.”

  “Well then, if he wasn’t into any of that,” said Jefferson, “then why? He was a good kid, right? I mean, that’s what we all kept hearing.”

  “I don’t know,” said Shorty. “He must have got mixed up in something else.”

  “Wrong place at the wrong time,” said Linc.

  “And what about the police investigation?” said Jefferson.

  “Snail’s pace,” said Shorty.

  “You know why?” asked Linc.

  “Yeah,” said Shorty, “I think I know why.”

  “Then again, maybe it’s more complicated than that,” said Linc.

  “How do you mean?”

  “Maybe the cops don’t want Quan’s murder solved. I know people that been down that road.”

  “Why wouldn’t they want his murder solved?” said Shorty.

  “The cops … they have their own reasons for everything. Trust me.”

  There was that familiar knock and the trap door opened again. They turned toward the stairs, only half hoping it might be McCloskey — in a better mood. It turned out to be Gorski.

  “Jesus, look at the long faces. Why don’t you just break out the armbands and get to hanging the black crepe on the windows?” he said. “We still got work to do, you know.”

  Some of the crew was getting annoyed with all the “we” talk. Linc and Jefferson started closing the crates.

  “Before you ask,” said Shorty, “I don’t know where Jack is at.”

  “Maybe he’s interviewing fry cooks,” said Gorski.

  “Somehow I doubt it.”

  “Shouldn’t be hard,” said Gorski. “Jack just tells his buddy Hong, or whatever his name is, that he’ll take the next kid who steps off the boat.”

  “I don’t think it’s going to be that easy for Jack.”

  “Euh.” Gorski waved that off and stepped away from the workbench. “I’m going to get some food.”

  Linc and Jefferson noticed that Shorty didn’t share Gorski’s appetite.

  “That calendar is six goddamn years old.” Shorty pointed at it, hanging over the narrow bench positioned against the long wall. “1917.”

  Link and Jefferson looked at each other. “I know,” said Linc, “but the dates are the same this year.”

  “And we like the cars in it.”

  “What do you mean the dates are the same?” said Shorty.

  “See,” said Jefferson, “Monday, August twentieth.”

  A Dodge Brothers touring car had been featured that month.

  “Huh, yeah, same days.”

  “Same days,” said Linc.

  Shorty did another lap around the big workbench. “All right, get these crates out … I have to meet a guy who’s got a line on some carburetors.”

  “Anything else tonight?”

  Shorty stopped, already halfway up the stairs. He gave the knock and then with one hand on the underside of the door and the other on the draw chain, he turned around and said, “No, nothing … and when you’re finished with these, take the night off.”

  He completed his ascent and the two waited for the door to shut good and tight.

  “Is the bar open?” asked Linc.

  “I hear you, but what if Jack makes another appearance?”

  “I have a feeling we won’t be hearing anything from him for the rest of the day. Tell me he doesn’t got bigger fish to fry.”

  They were about to start labeling the crates when Jefferson put another pause in the action.

  “Didn’t Shorty seem a little off?”

  “More than usual?” asked Linc. He nailed the last crate shut.

  Jefferson pulled a bottle off a shelf and set it down on the crate nearest him. There were clean shot glasses in a cookie tin on the same shelf. He poured the first round and made a toast.

  “To Quan Lee.”

  Clink.

  Linc poured the next and made another toast.

  “To Border Cities Wrecking and Salvage.”

  “We’re here to pick up the pieces,” said Jefferson.

  “Did you just make that up?”

  “You like it?”

  “Yeah,” said Linc, gripping the bottle. “One more?”

  “One more go ’round.”

  — Chapter 40 —

  DID HE HAVE ENEMIES?

  The constable followed the approaching flashlight beam with his eyes while the Salt Works night watchman and the Canadian Pacific security guard argued territorial rights over a body found halfway down the hill dividing the factory and the tracks.

  “Fitzgerald, is it?” asked Laforet. “Do you always draw the short straw?”

  The constable nodded.

  “And where’s Campbell?”

  “We couldn’t locate him, sir.”

  “Not at his apartment?”

  “They went knocking.”

  “Nor at his usual haunts?”

  “The ones we are aware of?” The constable shook his head.

  “I see. Maybe on one of his walks. No other detectives answering?”

  “No, sir,” said the constable. “That’s why we contacted you.”

  “All right then,” said Laforet, gathering himself. “Shall we?”

  They carefully made their way down the slope of dewy grass and found Morrison on his back, gazing up at the stars with dead eyes. Laforet shined his flashlight up and down the body.

  “Bullet wounds … exit wounds. No one heard anything?” he asked the night watchmen.

  “No,” said one.

  “Not with the noise from the plant and the trains,” said the other.

  “It’s a wonder anyone gets any sleep around here,” Laforet remarked.

  “Fell backwards after the shots, you think?” asked Fitzgerald.

  “I’d say his assailant was looking to roll the body down the slope and onto the path of the next oncoming train, hoping to make things just a little more complicated for us. I noticed up at the top, at the crest, that there were deep ruts — angled perpendicular to the slope — ending where the grass started, and the grass was flattened, as if Morrison had collapsed. Then his assailant attempted to push the body, leveraging himself by digging his heels into the dirt and gravel.” Laforet was using his hands to describe this, as if directing actors in a dramatic scene. “The body didn’t make it all the way down, and the perpetrator fled, not wanting to linger.”

  “What do you figure he weighs?” asked Fitzgerald, considering the expired detective as if fitting him for his funeral garb.

  “Three hundred, give or take an ounce … Damn it,” said Laforet, looking up the hill, “where the devil is Campbell?”

  “The constables are keeping an eye out for him, sir, combing the streets as it were. Sir, I’m wondering.”

  “What?”

  “How are we going to get the body out of here? A winch?”

  “No,” said Laforet, ignoring the remark. “We finish the job and roll him carefully down toward the tracks.”

  The pause was left hanging until the constable picked it up.

  “And then what?” he said.

  “Which one of you is with the railway?” asked Laforet. “Forget it,” he said, pointing to one of the night wa
tchmen. “You, send for a handcar or pump trolley or whatever those contraptions are called. We’ll load him onto one of those.”

  “And take him where?”

  “Tell me, is this Campbell’s usual hell? Or has he been saving this up just for me?”

  “Sir?”

  “Where are the tracks on the same grade as the street? Somewhere south of Wyandotte? You’ll take him there. I’ll contact Janisse and have him meet us with his ambulance — at Elliott?”

  “East of the tracks.”

  They glanced at the railway man, who had obviously gleaned his instructions, as he left the scene without any further provocation, hobbling along the shoulder of the tracks to retrieve the handcar. Laforet now turned his attention to the security guard from the Salt Works.

  “There was a murder on your property. You and your superiors will be called upon in the morning, after I’ve examined the body. Make yourself available no later than nine,” said Laforet. “Now go away.”

  The security guard scrambled up the slope and continued his rounds. Laforet and the constable watched, grinning.

  “I suspect it’s the most excitement he’s seen in quite some time. Now, Fitzgerald, is there anything you can further offer the investigation? I’ve heard all the usual questions. For instance, did Detective Morrison have any enemies?”

  Fitzgerald straightened up a little.

  “Detective Morrison collected enemies like some guys collect baseball cards. Wait … doctor, what are you suggesting?”

  “I know I’m no detective, but don’t you think this to be a little unusual?”

  “How do you figure, sir?”

  “What could Morrison have been doing here? If it was something to do with the salt company, he would have first taken it up with them, don’t you think?”

  “I suppose so,” said the constable.

  “And there is evidence, as I have pointed out, that after Morrison was shot, someone tried to dispose of his body. So why was he here?” asked Laforet.

  “I’m sure I have no idea, sir.”

  After the body was removed to Laforet’s lab, the doctor went looking for Campbell. His first stop was police headquarters, where there was no word from the detective or any of the constables who had been told to keep an eye out for him. He then walked from police headquarters to Campbell’s apartment over on Arthur. From the outside, the place looked dark.