Riverside Drive: Border City Blues

by Michael Januska

  “It was an accident.”

  “That’s a terrible thing.”

  “You don’t have to tell me.”

  “I think he liked me. So what’re you up to, Killer?”

  “Would you believe I’ve teamed up with a bunch of crusader cops?”

  “What the hell for?”

  “To ruin Jigsaw’s plans and undermine the Captain.”

  “I still don’t get it.”

  “I’m staying in the Border Cities.”

  “So?”

  “So as much as Jigsaw would love me to stay, it would be conditional on my being dead. And even if I survive Jigsaw, that would mean life in a town run by Richard Davies.”

  “I got you. They’re quite a pair, aren’t they? They even speak the same language.”

  “What language is that?”

  “They talk about blood — good blood and bad blood. They talk about the bolshies and the unions, and the old days, before the war, when people knew their place and the Empire ruled. They say it’s all gone to the mongrel races and the socialists, whatever the hell that means.”

  Shorty leaned back on one of the pool tables.

  “I heard Davies came back from the war with a head full of ideas and fell in with some like-minded folk who enjoyed making lots of noise about what’s right for England. When it got embarrassing for his old man — who was a lord by some accounts — he sent his son packing to the colonies. Lucky us.”

  “I thought he came from Montreal,” said Shorty.

  “That’s where he got started. At one time he was our biggest customer. Then he got the notion of becoming a partner. He didn’t square right with the bosses; he came off a bit fancy and they were all from the street. That’s when he started throwing around his big ideas. Apparently he hit the right note with some people, because in a matter of weeks he had the organization turned inside out and he moved right in.”

  He glanced over at the Lieutenant’s body and lowered his voice.

  “First thing Davies did was kick out the Jews and the Irish. It was over for the Lieutenant when the Captain found out he was a Hebe. And you should hear him go on about the coloureds. Did you know Smoke Jackson’s been missing for weeks? I don’t even want to think.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Davies is winning a lot of friends in high places. He could wind up bag man for the next mayor, or end up sending someone to Ottawa to do his talking for him.”

  “I got that beat: he’s putting a together a small arsenal so he can take on the coal strikers in Michigan. He’ll have Henry Ford eating out of his hand. How you enjoying peacetime so far, Shorty?”

  “We’re going to need some help.”

  “Any suggestions? I’m supposed to meet my cop friends over at the B-A in about fifteen minutes.”

  “There’s a card game going on over at the Imperial. It wouldn’t take much to convince those guys to join us.”

  “How many?”

  “Three or four.”

  “Hardly an army. Anybody I know?”

  “Mud Thomson, Stitch Gorski, and Three Fingers.”

  “That’s quite a cast.”

  “Just a few of the guys that didn’t make the Captain’s A-list. I’ll see what I can do and meet you back at the B-A.”

  When McCloskey got to the British-American, Locke was standing on the corner with a couple of uniforms.

  “McCloskey,” said Locke, “this is Bickerstaff and Corbishdale.”

  “Here comes the rest of the team,” said McCloskey.

  Shorty was walking towards them with his one recruit.

  “Jack, you know Mud.”

  “Thanks for coming out, Mud. And the rest?”

  “Stitch took his winnings to another card game and Three Fingers is jackin’ the ball with some girl on Pitt Street.”

  “More glory for us,” said McCloskey. “Boys, these are officers Locke, Corbishdale, Bickerstaff.”

  There were some awkward nods. Their paths had already crossed at one time or another. It was agreed that Locke should be squad leader.

  “McCloskey, you move in with your team first. When you’ve subdued Jigsaw and his group, my team will move in for Davies.”

  While they cruised down Riverside Drive in their separate vehicles Shorty took the opportunity to try and gain a perspective on things.

  “What’s in it for the cops if we walk away scot-free?”

  “Yeah,” said Mud.

  “A shake-up in the department.”

  “You mean our cop friends are gonna get tossed out?”

  “No, I’m going to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

  “You saying you want to run things?” asked Mud.

  “Have I said as much?”

  McCloskey couldn’t bring himself to think like that. But maybe he had to. His life always had a momentum of its own but seemed to be suddenly slowing down. A little ambition right now might not be a bad thing.

  “It’s just that we’d feel a whole lot better if it was your hand on the tap and not somebody else’s.”

  — Chapter 31 —

  THE GOOD STUFF

  Situated on the north side of Wyandotte Street, Star Meat Market occupied part of a two-storey building that had alleyways running along either side and behind it. Montroy had been watching the butcher’s for close to an hour from an alcove across the street, but so far saw nothing suspicious. Maybe he was wasting his time. He thought back to how this adventure started.

  Last week one of his men purchased a bottle of full-strength beer at Star Meat. It was wrapped in a couple pounds of ground chuck. “Look,” Bickerstaff had said as he held the opened package under Montroy’s nose. Montroy remembered telling Bickerstaff that he should try opening the bottle if he wished to enjoy the full effect of the marinade. Bickerstaff didn’t even crack a smile. Boy’s a wet towel, thought Montroy. “All right,” he said to Bickerstaff, “where’d you get it?”

  The whole thing came about quite innocently: while waiting to be served, a gentleman started up a conversation with Bickerstaff, and when Bickerstaff got a sense of where the conversation was going, he decided to play along. “The gentleman told me all I had to do was ask the butcher for four pounds, four ounces of the good stuff,” he explained. When they called Bickerstaff’s number he gave his order. The butcher nodded, went into the cooler in the back room, and returned with a package wrapped in brown paper. After completing the transaction, Bickerstaff marched the evidence straight to police headquarters.

  “Good job,” Montroy had said. He then told Bickerstaff to go back to Star the next day and perform the exercise again. “It’s just a little weed popped up in our backyard. And it’s easy to get rid of a weed: all one has to do is make sure to pull its root out. Now go home and make your supper.” Bickerstaff gripped the brown wrapper, twisted the greasy bottle out of the meat, and placed it on his sergeant’s desk. It had immediately started attracting flies.

  This afternoon when Bickerstaff went back for a third time, the butcher told him that he was sold out of that particular cut but was expecting was expecting a shipment overnight. Bickerstaff reported this to Montroy. Montroy’s plan was to intercept the delivery, but so far things were looking d —

  Hello.

  A pale yellow light from a window in a neighbouring apartment betrayed the figure’s movements. Montroy watched the shadow dissolve behind the building. When a cat jumped out of a nearby ashcan, the figure surfaced and was caught in the light. Seeing Montroy poised, it bolted around the corner, crossed the street, and continued up the alleyway that ran down the middle of the next block.

  “Stop! Police!”

  Still running, Montroy pulled out his revolver. A few back porch lights from surrounding houses threw light on his path but he saw nothing. He did a slow about face and thought he saw someone crouched beside a storage crate.

  “You — step in the light.”

  The figure didn’t move. It held something in its right hand that looked like a knife. Mont
roy raised his revolver, making sure it was visible.

  “There’s no need for that; put it down.”

  The figure made a sudden movement and Montroy instinctively lunged and brought the butt of his gun down on the offender’s wrist, knocking the object out of his hand.

  “Ow!”

  He couldn’t believe it. What he thought was a knife was a piece of broken pipe and what he thought was a hardened criminal was a boy of no more than thirteen years of age. Relieved but still angry, he replaced the gun in his holster.

  “I didn’t do anything, you know.”

  The boy was rubbing his wrist but trying to look tough.

  “What’re you up to?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You had some business at the butcher’s? I think he’s closed for the day. Turn around and put your hands on the wall where I can see them — now.”

  The boy obliged and Montroy frisked him.

  “Hello.”

  In each of his hip pockets was a bottle of beer.

  “What’s this?”

  “Hair tonic.”

  Montroy swatted the back of his head. “You got a smart mouth, kid. Where’d you get the beer?”

  “I stole it.”

  “Where from?”

  “I didn’t get his name.”

  “Maybe if we went to see your pa he might do some remembering for you, eh? This your old man’s?”

  Montroy held up a bottle. It was the same brand as that purchased by Bickerstaff at the butcher shop.

  “Well, it’s mine now.”

  “Enjoy it,” said the boy.

  Montroy resisted the urge to take another swipe at the kid. Instead asked him how old he was.

  “Eleven and a half.”

  “A boy your age has nothing better to do than risk his neck selling off his father’s beer?”

  “He won’t miss it. He’s back to his whisky again. Says the beer gives him a headache.”

  Montroy popped the caps on a doorframe and started pouring. The boy watched the puddles foam at his feet.

  “A fella’s gotta make a living, you know,” said the boy. “I used to make good coin selling papers.”

  “So now you’re selling beer to butchers in back alleys? In case you hadn’t heard, that’s against the law too.”

  “Yeah, but nobody I know’s busting laws so they can sell three-cent newspapers.”

  Montroy was silent for a moment. “Does your pa stay out of trouble?”

  The boy was calming down. “Yeah.”

  “It’s his beer and his whisky? Legally obtained and with supporting documents?”

  “Yeah.”

  Montroy let the kid dangle then told him to go home.

  “You’re not going to arrest me?”

  “No, not tonight. What’s your name?”

  “Mailloux. Joe Mailloux.”

  “Where you live, Joe?”

  “Over on Aylmer.”

  Montroy made a mental note. He felt sorry for the kid. He reminded him a bit of himself when he was that age.

  “You’ll be looking for new work now. Come by the station Saturday and I’ll let you wash the police flyer.”

  The kid ruminated. “How much?”

  “Two bits,” said Montroy.

  “Fifty cents.”

  “Jesus, kid, I thought the thrill of working over a brand new Studebaker would have been compensation enough.”

  “I’m supporting some habits.”

  “All right, fifty cents. Now go home.”

  The boy walked away slowly at first but then sprinted off, disappearing into the night. When Montroy couldn’t hear his feet any longer, he picked up the empty bottles and hurled them against a brick wall. Dogs started barking and more porch lights came on.

  “Hey — keep it down!” shouted a voice from a second-floor window.

  “Shut your face or I’ll cuff you!”

  Montroy stepped over the puddle of beer and headed back down the alleyway towards the station. The boy’s father would have questions. The boy would swear that he was staying out of trouble. He’d remember what the cop in the alleyway said and remind his dad to stay out of trouble, too. Hopefully his father would be sober enough to know better than to smack his boy for making such a smart remark and send him off to bed.

  Bed sounded like a good idea to Montroy. But he knew he would just toss around. Sleep hasn’t been coming easily lately: shift changes, working late but rising early and letting daytime activities spill over into night, to the point where there was little or no difference between day and night, up and down, black or white.

  — Chapter 32 —

  SWOLLEN RIVER BLUES

  The rain started falling hard on Riverside Drive. Steam was coming off the pavement.

  “We’re not just going to let McCloskey and his friends walk away at the end of this, are we?” asked Bickerstaff.

  “Yes we are.”

  “Then we’ll only be doing half the job.”

  “McCloskey would deny it, but he wants to take control of the bootlegging activity in the Border Cities. It won’t be easy for him; there’s too much infighting among the gangs right now. So while he’s busy trying to get his unruly mob to fall into formation, we’ll be exposing the corrupt elements in the department and setting them back on the right path. Once we’ve done that, we will then all of us turn our sights on McCloskey.”

  “Does Fields know about your plan?”

  “Not exactly,” said Locke.

  “I’m wondering if we shouldn’t be approaching the situation a little differently,” said Bickerstaff. “McCloskey could end up holding the balance of power in the Border Cities.”

  “All the more reason.”

  “But if you take down McCloskey, won’t someone else just come along and replace him? It might be better if we came to some sort of mutual understanding.”

  Locke didn’t respond. He wasn’t going to get into a debate with Bickerstaff and divide the group. Besides, what Bickerstaff was talking about was politics, and politics was the devil. Fortunately, they reached their destination before Bickerstaff could ask any more questions.

  They parked their cars on Esdras, ran out, and got into a huddle beneath a willow tree. The rain was coming in gales off the river. McCloskey had to shout over the din.

  “We’re small but we’ve got the element of surprise. Don’t take stupid chances; stick it to them before they stick it to you. What you don’t want is to give them time to call for reinforcements.”

  They checked their weapons. In the wind and rain the clatter and click-clack of ammo dropping in chambers and revolvers snapping into place was still sharp and clear. Locke took his group to the end of the line of cars in the drive and McCloskey led his to the window of Davies’ war room.

  The rain was streaming down the glass, making it impossible to see details. McCloskey told Shorty to stay and keep watch. He and Mud were going to take the path down to the dock.

  The dock was shaped like an “L,” with Strait Shooter tied inside the angle. Jigsaw was standing at the point, looking down river.

  McCloskey told Mud to open fire on anything that moved on the decks of Strait Shooter then made his way slowly towards Jigsaw. The rain was coming down in sheets. There was a lightning flash and a thunderclap that reverberated between the shores. McCloskey blinked and was suddenly staring down Jigsaw’s .44. He rolled into the tall grass and Jigsaw unloaded his weapon on the shadows.

  McCloskey went around to the left and climbed onto the dock. He caught Jigsaw trying to reload. Jigsaw dropped the gun and went for his bayonet, but McCloskey was already on him. He delivered a blow to Jigsaw’s face.

  Jigsaw staggered back and spat two broken teeth onto the dock. When he straightened himself he took a swipe at McCloskey with his knife. McCloskey threw his hips back, thereby avoiding getting sliced in half.

  McCloskey delivered a kidney punch with his left then grabbed Jigsaw’s wrist with both hands and bent his arm until his elbow sn
apped. Jigsaw dropped his blade, swivelled his body, and sent a powerful left hook into McCloskey’s face.

  While McCloskey stumbled on the wet dock, Jigsaw pulled a pistol from his ankle holster. McCloskey wasn’t ready for that. Fortunately, Mud was; he buried one in Jigsaw’s back. Jigsaw stumbled but managed to fix his aim back on McCloskey. McCloskey was ready this time with his own revolver and put one in Jigsaw’s chest.

  Jigsaw dropped the pistol but still refused to go down. He just grinned his hideous, bloody grin and walked stiffly towards Strait Shooter, his right arm dangling and a dark stain growing on his jacket.

  A man in a slicker appeared on the deck of the boat. He and Mud exchanged fire until McCloskey pulled a second revolver out of his belt, stepped wide of Jigsaw, and answered with some lead of his own. The man tumbled off the deck into the river. The motor revved up.

  Jigsaw continued to stagger towards the boat, trying to hold his ribs together. McCloskey buried another one in his back. His body slumped but his legs continued to carry him. Strait Shooter pulled away but not without some difficulty, and Jigsaw dropped to his knees.

  “You missed your ferry, Jigsaw. You won’t even make it to hell now.”

  Jigsaw looked up at McCloskey with his cold, black eyes. “Ain’t you gonna finish me off, Killer?”

  It was almost a dare. McCloskey held his revolver to Jigsaw’s head then lowered it again.

  “How about a burial at sea?”

  McCloskey gave him the boot and he hit the river with a splash and a gulp and disappeared. McCloskey looked down and noticed the river was rising.

  Two men came running out of the back of the house with guns blazing, and Shorty dropped them both.

  Mud and McCloskey joined Shorty and informed him that Jigsaw was dead. McCloskey told Mud to make some noise if Strait Shooter tried to dock again; he and Shorty were going inside.

  They climbed the stairs up to a deck behind the house. Rain battered the canvas awning. A table and chairs had toppled over and were in a heap in the corner. McCloskey opened the screen door.

  All they could hear was the water from their wet clothes dripping on the tile floor. They made their way slowly down a hall. McCloskey tested doors to his left and Shorty tested doors to his right. All were locked. They kept moving. When they reached the end of the hall they paused to take a breath before entering the front room.