Border City Blues 3-Book Bundle

by Michael Januska

  Doubtful he’s asleep, thought Laforet, given his sleep habits. Then again …

  Laforet entered the building and ascended the stairs. There was no answer at Campbell’s door. A neighbour, awakened by the knocking, popped her head into the short hallway.

  “No,” she said, answering the doctor’s question. “I haven’t seen or heard from him since this morning.”

  Laforet walked back to the station, got in his car, and drove towards McCloskey’s apartment at Chatham and Dougall. He waited until he got there before deciding whether or not he would actually go knocking on the bootlegger’s door. He sat in his car for a moment, staring up at the lit window before climbing out and crossing the street to the door of the terrace.

  The conversation was a little awkward. McCloskey had no idea where Campbell might be, and hadn’t seen him all day. Laforet was out of his element here. He wanted to question McCloskey the way a law enforcer would, but he really couldn’t. He had to resort to simply choosing his words carefully. McCloskey reluctantly invited him in.

  “I’m sorry,” said Laforet, “I wasn’t aware you were entertaining.” He touched the brim of his hat, acknowledging the girl seated on the chesterfield. “Good evening, miss.”

  “Good evening, doctor. I’m Vera Maude,” she said as she stood and extended her hand.

  From Copeland’s, thought Laforet.

  He approached her. “Nice to meet you. I was just looking for a colleague of mine, a detective by the name of Campbell. I thought Mr. McCloskey might have crossed paths with him sometime today, or this evening.”

  McCloskey took the opportunity to slip into the bedroom to make a phone call. Laforet could hear the cord slither under the closed door, but nothing else.

  “This evening? No,” she said. “We’ve been out. Dinner and a movie.”

  “Sounds nice. So you and Mr. McCloskey were occupied all evening?”

  “Yes.”

  “And —”

  McCloskey reappeared from the bedroom, telephone in hand, tense, red-faced.

  “I’ll take you home, Maudie.”

  “I guess I’ll be leaving now.”

  Laforet went first out the door and down the stairs, followed by Vera Maude and then McCloskey. They were silent.

  — Chapter 41 —

  THROUGH THE MOTIONS

  Tuesday, August 21

  Morrison’s death punched holes through the fabric of the Border Cities and now everyone on either side was taking their turn looking through them. No one could have fathomed how it might unravel things, but unravel them it did. While it was time for some to seek shelter, for certain others it made more sense to just plain disappear.

  McCloskey suspended all activity at the salvage yard, even the legitimate stuff. They were closed for renovations. Inside the shop, a second workbench was positioned over the trap door and the floor was mopped with a fresh layer of engine grease that was then scuffed with a few pairs of old trench boots. The latch on the back fence was dismantled and its shadow painted over so that no one would know otherwise.

  Police had been phoning at random hours. McCloskey invited any and all of them to drop by, and to bring along any photographer from the Star they wished. He’d let them comb the yard, even toss the place if they felt they needed to. The ones that took him up on the offer, which was most of them, he could easily divide into two camps: those constables who Morrison had in his pocket, and those who were crusaders for the cause of Prohibition and welcomed the opportunity to sift through this well-known bootlegger’s alleged hub of operation. Both these groups knew there was no love lost between McCloskey and Morrison, and both groups had their own reasons for regarding McCloskey with suspicion. Then there were constables who were really not doing much of anything, the rookies still trying to figure out their place and anxious not to find themselves in the wrong camp. Lastly there were the constables who were clearly just going through the motions, the ones with whom McCloskey had an understanding, a sort of don’t ask, don’t tell kind of understanding, similar to the one he had with Campbell. They were the ones who were walking a fine line.

  “Can they do this?” Shorty had asked.

  “I want them to,” McCloskey responded.

  During each visit, McCloskey would sit tight and wait patiently. He knew they’d be back sometime, anytime, soon, maybe with a fresh crew. Sure enough they arrived three days later and repeated the exercise, throwing in a few twists.

  “Business light this time of year, Mr. McCloskey?” asked one of the constables.

  “I hear they’re making a better automobile.”

  “So you might be out of business soon?”

  “Not likely.”

  Of course they never found anything, and looked slightly disappointed at this outcome.

  “How’s the investigation going?” he asked one of the crusaders.

  “It’s going.”

  McCloskey knew this one didn’t care if he did indeed off Morrison. He figured crusaders like this were of the belief that they only kill their own, and that McCloskey would, rightfully, be next.

  The investigation was being led by a young detective from Toronto, Terence Bashford, with a provincial police officer tied to his hip. Apparently the department was saving the best for last.

  “You have an office on Riverside Drive.”

  “I do,” said McCloskey. “It’s not much but it has a nice view.”

  “We will need to see it.”

  “The office or the view?”

  “The office, Mr. McCloskey.”

  “My office?”

  “Yes, Mr. McCloskey, your office.”

  McCloskey always thought that the best way to set up someone determined to find something where there was nothing was to sound as suspicious as possible. It could be a game, and he could drag it out.

  “Certainly. My car is parked outside; you could follow me down the Drive.”

  While all of this was a bit of a challenge, he wondered what Campbell was going through.

  “Were you and Morrison close?” asked Bashford.

  “Close?” said Campbell.

  “Did you share knowledge of cases? Did you ever consult with each other?”

  Campbell didn’t hesitate. “No, there was never anything like that.”

  “That strikes me as a little unusual.”

  Campbell wasn’t sure what to say. He had never been called on like this before.

  “We didn’t work that way.”

  “How did you work?”

  “He had his cases, and I had mine.”

  “He never came to you?”

  “No.”

  “You never went to him?”

  Campbell paused. “No.”

  Bashford waved Harcourt, the Ontario Police officer, over and whispered something in his ear.

  “We’ll follow you to your office,” said Bashford.

  There was another detail at Chung Hong’s, turning all kinds of goods and foodstuffs over. McCloskey didn’t have to give him a call — Hong was always prepared and he co-operated fully. In return, the badges left the place looking like a train wreck.

  “Are you going to clean this?” Hong asked.

  “Clean what?”

  They slammed the door behind them. Hong knew very well that they wouldn’t pick up after themselves, but he had to say something, even if they weren’t taking notes.

  But someone is always taking notes, thought Hong.

  Or carrying a knife. The man wasn’t wearing a badge or a uniform. This was something else. Everyone stopped talking and the man holding the blade positioned the tip under Hong’s chin and used it to steer him toward the back room.

  “Hong, Hong … Hong.”

  Hong couldn’t swallow with his Adam’s apple bobbing under the blade. The knife-wielder lingered a moment and then stepped back, holding his grin. This was his scene, such as it was. At that moment a suit entered. The man looked young and he carried a badge.

  “I’m Detective Bashfo
rd, and I don’t give a fuck about anything you knew two minutes ago. This is the way it is now.”

  Campbell didn’t like what Morrison’s death was doing to his ability to reason. He now had McCloskey on his list of suspects. Campbell had read the reports about the bloodshed at that house on Riverside Drive last summer; he knew what McCloskey was capable of. He had also heard talk of his war record. He thought he knew the man, but perhaps he didn’t, not really.

  Why would he do it? Simply to take out a loose cannon? Was Morrison threatening to upset the order of things in McCloskey’s world? Did he have something on McCloskey, something serious enough for McCloskey to want him dead?

  McCloskey meanwhile was going through similar things in his mind about Campbell. What did he really know about this man other than that he was a good detective, detested violence, and left McCloskey alone so long as he kept his Webley in its holster? Campbell was very private, but he knew the detective had problems with certain elements in the department, certain elements such as Morrison, who had been becoming more and more of a threat to the integrity of law enforcement in the Border Cities.

  And what did Campbell really think about him? Could he be on the detective’s personal list of suspects?

  Why not? thought McCloskey.

  While all the stones were pretty much left unturned in the investigation into Quan Lee’s death, none were left to lie in Morrison’s. Everyone was feeling the heat. McCloskey and his crew were feeling some tension between themselves and their Border Cities clients. Many of them automatically suspected him, and when the law came knocking on their door with questions, their first reaction was “What the hell did McCloskey do to bring this on?” Yes, the balance had been upset. Maybe in their interests, Morrison was better alive than dead. Without meeting to talk about it, the gang went on a sort of hiatus and McCloskey avoided the club, leaving Pearl to run things.

  “Can you handle it?” he had said in a phone conversation.

  “Yeah, sure, Jack.” She hesitated and asked if there was anything she needed to know.

  “The less you know, the better. I’m guessing the police have been through once or twice.”

  “They know the menu off by heart.” Another pause. “Stay safe, Jack.”

  “Yeah.”

  Click.

  His next conversation was with Vera Maude. Friday morning he phoned the bookstore asking if she was working today, saying that she was handling a special order for him.

  “I’m sorry — she’s with a customer right now.”

  “That’s all right. I’m stuck in my office most of the day today. When is her shift done?”

  “Five,” said the voice on the other end of the line. It wasn’t Copeland. It sounded like Lew. “Can I take a messa—”

  Click.

  McCloskey waited on the street for Vera Maude to leave the store. She walked out with Lew at about a quarter after, they said their goodbyes, and she made for the London streetcar. He maintained a distance.

  This gave him a chance to improve his public transit etiquette. He didn’t want his car seen in front of Uncle Fred’s place. And no one would expect Jack McCloskey to be taking a streetcar across town. Just to make sure he didn’t get picked out in the crowd, he was sporting a rumpled trench coat, straw hat, and sunglasses.

  As they rolled along London Street, McCloskey took in another one of what Vera Maude called “street views”: a view of the city from the perspective of someone like her. He looked at Vera Maude — he was keeping her in his line of vision — the people sitting around her, and the people emptying out of the offices and buildings along the way. What did they know about the detective that was gunned down behind the salt mines? Did they care? They probably just wanted to get home to their families, their dinner, and the evening paper in their reading chair.

  The law will take care of it. McCloskey suspected that was what they were thinking. And sometimes they do take care of their own.

  The downtown quickly broke up and became neighbourhoods with churches, schools, and little gardens. People started gradually trickling out of the streetcar. When they got to McEwan, Vera Maude exited from the front while McCloskey, along with a few other passengers, exited out the side. He followed her up the street and quickly lost any cover he had. He caught up with Vera Maude before she reached her building.

  “Excuse me, miss, I think you dropped something.”

  She turned and he removed his sunglasses and folded his collar back down.

  “Jack …? Jack!”

  “Shh.”

  “Where have you —”

  “You been reading about that detective that got himself killed?” asked McCloskey.

  She approached with caution. “Yeah.”

  “We shouldn’t talk until this blows over.”

  “What’s going on?”

  McCloskey had to tell her something without really telling her anything. “Either the investigation really wants answers or they want it to look that way. I don’t know. None of my usual guys are talking right now. We’re just lying low and co-operating, waiting for the day when it’s business as usual.”

  “But what if they don’t find the guy who did it?”

  “They will.” He wanted to kiss her. “I have to go. I’ll stay in touch. Avoid my place for now.”

  — Chapter 42 —

  THE WRONG MAN

  Saturday, August 25

  “Jack, I need to talk to you,” said Shorty.

  This was refreshing to hear after a few days of an uncharacteristic silence. McCloskey was behind his desk in his office on the Drive. He put his pen down, glad for the break in the paperwork sent from the accountant, but wondered what new trouble might be on the horizon. Shorty’s tone and demeanor suggested it couldn’t be good. But then maybe, thought McCloskey, Shorty was also looking for a break from all of this.

  “Sure, sit down.”

  Shorty had just beaten the hard rain but had still walked here through a drizzle. Now the wet was sheeting the almost floor-to-ceiling semi-circle window behind McCloskey, and the buildings across the street were a grey-green blur. Without removing it, Shorty gave his coat a shake, tipped off his hat, sat down, and set his chapeau on his knee. He took a moment to gather himself and McCloskey took the time to shuffle some paper around, making it ready for tomorrow’s meeting.

  “It’s about Morrison.”

  Everything’s about Morrison right now, thought McCloskey. Can’t someone bring me just a little something that isn’t about Morrison?

  “Yeah?” said McCloskey. “What is it?”

  Shorty took a deep breath and started playing with his hat again, avoiding McCloskey’s gaze. Tilting his head slightly to one side, he said, “I didn’t think it would get this hot. I really didn’t think it would …” He trailed off, waving a free hand in the air at nothing.

  McCloskey waited and, when nothing seemed to be forthcoming, leaned forward, no longer quite so distracted with ledgers and letterhead, and said, “What are you trying to tell me, Shorty?”

  Shorty was biting his lip now, glancing up at the ceiling. He looked for something on which to focus, the moulding, a detail in the plasterwork perhaps, anything but his boss’s face.

  McCloskey’s mind was leaping around. “Shorty … no.”

  “Jack …” He was looking right at McCloskey now, coming to terms.

  “No.”

  “Yeah, Jack … I did Morrison.”

  For a good minute the only sound in the office was of the rain on the window and a deep sigh out of McCloskey. He turned in his chair to watch the water run down the glaze. “Why?” he asked.

  He gave Shorty time to put some words together, words he already knew wouldn’t explain, couldn’t justify.

  “I thought it would be good for everybody. I thought, nobody’ll miss him. I mean Morrison, shit, Jack …”

  McCloskey turned back around. “Are you also telling me you weren’t in any kind of confrontation with him, and this wasn’t any kind of
fight?”

  Shorty paused. “Yeah, I guess I’m telling you that.”

  “You called him out to kill him.”

  Another pause. “Yeah, I guess I did.”

  “That’s murder, Shorty.” McCloskey could barely fathom it. “How could you do that?” The question wasn’t meant to be rhetorical. “You know we never, ever —”

  “Jack, it wasn’t like you never.” Shorty’s back was up a little.

  McCloskey stood up to face the window, his hands on his hips. He looked below and could make out dark figures trying to cross the street, dodging cars, heads down in the rain.

  Would you rather get wet or get run over?

  “Jack … Jack, I’m sorry. Like I said, I never guessed it would get this hot.”

  That’s not what McCloskey was thinking about right now. He was thinking, I thought I knew this guy. He dropped his arms and turned. “I don’t care how dirty he was, or how much of a thorn he was in our sides, he was still a goddamn cop. You took down a Windsor police detective. What the hell? You know this could ruin us.”

  “You think the police are on to you?”

  “They’re on to me as much as they want to be right now. They can use this, Shorty. Think about the cards they have in their hand right now. They could find a way to pin it on me and …”

  “I’m sorry, Jack.”

  Footsteps could be heard in the stairwell and the two turned their heads and hushed to listen. The footsteps stopped, then faded as the body entered the office on the floor below. They relaxed. McCloskey sat on the edge of his desk and Shorty’s shoulders dropped farther.

  “Jack, I can fix this.”

  “You know you can’t.”

  The rain stopped but the sky got heavier, tipping the balance between the natural and artificial light in the room. Small vessels caught off-guard, bobbing up and down the Detroit River, were looking for safe harbour. Something worse was probably coming.