The Bootlegger's Confession

by Allan Levine

  Over the past few days, the murder in Vera had garnered headlines and there had been several references to Max’s family and business connections to the Sugarmans. Though, in Saul’s view, the damage had been minimal and he had his man at the Tribune ensure that any liquor or gangster references were kept out of the story. But he knew he had enemies at the paper as well. The Free Press was also a problem, though thankfully John Dafoe, the paper’s editor, wasn’t as keen on sensational booze and crime stories.

  Sugarman figured he had one other thing working in his favour. A month ago, Colonel John Rattray, the commissioner of the recently revamped Manitoba Provincial Police, had failed to halt a brazen bank robbery in Brandon, even though his men had been tipped off about the crime. The government immediately dismissed Rattray and two of his top men. They appointed as interim commissioner Detective Bill McCreary, who had been seconded from the Winnipeg Police Department.

  McCreary was a tough, no-nonsense cop, but he also never turned down a drink from Sugarman, even since prohibition had been technically enforced in the province during the past six years. Saloons on Main Street might have been shut down, but you could drive a team of horses through the various loopholes in the Manitoba Temperance Act. Given that you could import liquor from Ontario or Saskatchewan, get a medical prescription—and many physicians and pharmacists were eager to help out for a price—or buy booze from the small army of local bootleggers in operation in and around Winnipeg, few Manitobans, McCreary among them, went wanting for whisky or beer. McCreary showed up frequently at Saul’s office, parched and in need of a glass of Scotch. From Sugarman’s point of view, the only strike McCreary had against him was that he and Sam Klein were on fairly good terms and had worked together on cases in the past. Perhaps, thought Saul, he could take advantage of that.

  Sugarman had not had time to read this morning’s paper, but stories in yesterday’s Tribune and one from the day before noted that Max had been killed in what appeared to be a robbery at his general store. Saul had already dispatched one of his trusted fixers, Sid Sharp, to take charge of the matter. Sharp was as tough as any ruffian in the city, yet he had brains and was usually obedient. Sugarman was certain he could clean things up, because there was far too much at stake.

  Meanwhile, Lou was helping Rae with the arrangements to ship Max’s body back to the city for the funeral. She was arriving with the children and the casket early that afternoon.

  Sugarman pulled out his watch from his vest pocket and checked the time. Saul knew that Lou was meeting with Klein in a matter of moments. His brother, ever sentimental, had not wanted to drag the detective into this. But Saul, as he usually did, had convinced him that it made perfect sense. Klein could be useful in this matter and that’s all that counted. And though he had not said anything about this to Lou, Saul had personal reasons for keeping Klein busy and out of the way. He would be occupied with the case and most likely would have to travel to Vera and Sarah would be alone and vulnerable.

  There was, too, the stolen $7000 from the liquor sale to Taylor. The money belonged to Saul. It wasn’t all that much, but that was beside the point. A Yiddish expression his father had once told him always stuck in his head: Gelt tsu fardinen iz gringer vi tsu halten. It’s easier to earn money than to keep it. He wanted what was rightfully his back. How perfect that Klein would solve this problem for him as well. The irony was too good for words.

  There was a knock on the office door. “Excuse me, Mr. Sugarman,” said Miss Shayna Kravetz, his secretary.

  “What is it, Shayna? I thought I told you not to disturb me.”

  “I’m very sorry, sir,” said Shayna, a tall, twenty-two-year-old brunette in a tight-fitting skirt. “But I am pretty sure you’ll want to see this right away. The delivery boy just brought it upstairs from the newsstand.”

  “All right, bring it here and shut the door on your way out.”

  Sugarman grabbed the newspaper from her and glanced at the headline. Outside in the reception area, Shayna heard the distinct sound of a glass ashtray hitting the wall and shattering.

  2

  Klein hoped that the brisk walk from his house to the corner of Cathedral and Main, nearly four blocks, might clear his head. It was a warm and sunny June day, one to be savoured, especially when in five months or so there probably would be frigid temperatures and snow on the ground. That was the harsh reality of life every Winnipegger lived with and why enjoying the summer and early autumn took on a real meaning in the city, different than in many parts of Canada.

  But it didn’t work. As Klein boarded a downtown streetcar in front of the Merchants Bank, he was still in a foul mood. He truly hated having another shouting match with Sarah and upsetting his children. He just didn’t know how else to react to everything that had transpired in the past couple of months. When he thought more about it, he wished that Sarah had not told him anything. She could’ve kept it from him. That’s what he had done. He knew deep in his heart that he was a hypocrite, because he had done exactly the same thing as Sarah. The difference was he had chosen not to compound what was a minor transgression by telling her about it.

  Four years ago, during the General Strike and the messy business with that Bolshevik Metro Lizowski who had wooed his misguided sister Rivka, Klein had become close, a little too close, to policewoman Hannah Nash. He and Hannah had a moment. Someone had taken a shot at them. Neither of them was hit or hurt, but in the danger they were vulnerable. In the heat of the moment, they had dropped their defences and kissed—one kiss, that was it. Both of them had enjoyed it, Klein could not kid himself about that, yet it had been a mistake and it never happened again. He had never told Sarah about it, nor would he. What would have been the point? She, on the other hand, had chosen to tell him about her encounter with Saul Sugarman. Why? What good had it done, other than to drive a wedge between them? They had fought; she had become so upset that he knew she had acted out of character: she had left him and the children for a few days. Nonetheless, when she returned, the wall between them remained erect.

  Klein removed his grey flat cap and loosened the top button of his shirt. As soon as the streetcar stopped at Dufferin, more passengers boarded. Sitting near the back of the car close to the conductor manning the fare box, Klein was soon surrounded by businessmen in suits and fedoras with their noses in the morning newspapers and chatty women whose loud conversations were peppered with various mixtures of English, Polish, Ukrainian, and Yiddish. Out of the corner of his eye, he recognized Mrs. Appelbaum, an old neighbour from Flora Avenue, though he had no desire to speak with her. A bead of sweat formed on Klein’s brow. It was too late; Mrs. Appelbaum saw him. Then, without any warning, the motorman hit the brake hard. When he did so, the conductor in the rear vestibule flew forward as did Mrs. Appelbaum. Seeing this, Klein leaped up and grabbed both of them, preventing what would’ve been a nasty collision.

  “Mrs. Appelbaum, are you okay?” he asked her.

  She was breathing heavily. “Oy vay iz mir. Oy vay iz mir. I thought I was done for, Sam. You’re a good boy. Always have been.”

  Klein feigned a smile and helped her up. “Here, Mrs. Appelbaum, please take my seat.”

  The conductor was able to get up by himself. He replaced his cap which had fallen off and also thanked Klein.

  “Apologies, folks,” the motorman yelled out. “There’s been another accident.” A collective sigh echoed through the streetcar.

  Standing on the wooden floor in the long aisle that separated the rows of seats on both sides of the car, Klein bent down and peered out the window to see what had happened. It appeared that a gentleman who was driving a Model-T Ford had accidently bumped the back of a horse-drawn delivery wagon. And the irritable wagon driver and his horse were not happy about it. A constable was already there preventing the altercation from escalating.

  The number of horse-drawn vehicles on Winnipeg streets had been dwindling in recent years
—as well as, thankfully, the amount of manure that had to be cleaned up each day—but there were enough of them that occasionally there were accidents like this one. Between the electric streetcars, rising number of automobiles, horse wagons, and the heavy traffic of pedestrians in this prairie metropolis of nearly 180,000, the streets of Winnipeg, especially in the vicinity of Portage and Main, were congested eight hours a day or more. Klein didn’t mind the hubbub—as long as everyone stayed out of his way, that is.

  Bidding the still distraught Mrs. Appelbaum farewell, he exited the streetcar on Portage Avenue and headed past Garry Street. In front of the Paris Building, he flipped a nickel to one-eyed Jimmy and grabbed a two-cent copy of the Tribune.

  “Hot off the press,” said Jimmy. The veteran of the Great War had a noticeable scar that stretched from his left ear to his mouth, the result of a nasty saloon fight at the Maple Leaf Hotel during the 1916 soldiers’ riot.

  “Thanks, Jimmy,” said Klein, flipping him another nickel. “Lunch today’s on me.”

  Jimmy doffed his cap, but said nothing.

  Klein stopped for a moment and stood to the side of the walkway buzzing with the morning rush of grain men, executives, clerks, and secretaries dutifully marching like ants to their respective office buildings and shops. Standing back from the crowd so as not to get trampled, he perused the front page. The story headline in bold, block letters was impossible to miss. “Rum–Runners in Murder Plot.” The provincial police believed that a “band of desperados” involved in rum-running across the border may have robbed and killed Max Roter. And the provincial police investigating the crime in Vera confirmed that Roter was also dealing in liquor as well as running the town’s general store. The last line of the story noted that “Max Roter was married to Mrs. Rae Roter, the sister of Saul and Lou Sugarman, Winnipeg businessmen, known to be involved in the liquor trade.”

  Lou and especially Saul won’t be happy with this, thought Klein. It was petty, yet he had to admit that the idea of Saul Sugarman aggravated and squirming over this story made Klein feel better. He knew the brothers had worked hard to keep their names out of newspaper articles dealing with rum-running or bootleggers—though it was common knowledge in Winnipeg that nothing could be further from the truth. He and Lou had spoken of this recently. But Saul, that mamzer, was kidding himself.

  Klein called it “playing ostrich,” and he’d seen it a hundred times. Otherwise intelligent men of wealth and power had their proverbial heads in the ground, just like an ostrich, by convincing themselves that something so plain to everyone else around them was not true. High and mighty Saul Sugarman in his custom-made suits sauntered up and down Portage Avenue as if he was a grain baron with a mansion on Wellington Crescent. When, in fact, he was known as a Jew hotel and liquor man, and more recently as that “Hebe bootlegger,” who was reaping in a treasure from brazen flaws in American Prohibition regulations. From what Klein had heard, the Sugarmans had earned something in the neighbourhood of five million last year, an astronomical sum that he and most of the other 15,000 members of the city’s Jewish community found impossible to fathom.

  Klein continued onward, making his way to Dolly’s Café at the corner of Portage and Hargrave, directly opposite Eaton’s. Looking across the wide avenue, Klein could see that the popular department store’s window awnings were pulled down. The June sun shimmered off the navy coverings, casting a shadow onto Portage. By nine o’clock in the morning, half an hour after opening, a small army of women shoppers were already admiring the latest cotton dresses, pongee blouses, “cool” crepe summer hats, and serge and tricotine dresses for their daughters. Klein observed, too, that like every shopping day when the weather was mild, mothers had parked their baby carriages on the sidewalk in front of the store. As was the custom, the women left the sleeping infants in the baby buggies while they ran in to purchase an item. The mothers didn’t give it a second thought, knowing that their children were as safe as anywhere in the city.

  “Sam, over here.”

  Klein looked in the direction of the voice coming from the back left corner of the café. Lou Sugarman stood tall even at five-foot-eight. He had a receding hairline, protruding ears, and a distinguished, lean nose. He stood up, extending his right hand towards Klein. Lou and Saul resembled each other in height and facial features, though as Lou readily conceded, no one was ever going to mistake him for a Scot or Brit. He was a “Hebrew” through and through, and unlike his brother, was proud of it.

  If Saul was the brains behind the brothers’ hotel and liquor enterprise, a business by 1922 with interests from towns in rural Manitoba to Montreal, then Lou was the heart. Saul and Lou had arrived in the city in 1905. Saul then was twenty-five and Lou twenty-two. Soon after, they were able to purchase their first hotel in Dominion City, the Star. As the well-known “Sugarman legend” had it, a story Klein had heard repeatedly told in Selkirk Avenue cafés, Main Street saloons, and North End synagogues, the brothers somehow amassed $3,000, some of it borrowed from friends, and the balance of $8,000 on the property came from liquor store merchant Mathew Sigurdson and Timothy O'Callaghan of O'Callaghan Brewery in Winnipeg. Though the Star was not much more than a rickety wooden structure with a few dingy rooms for boarders, it was the hotel’s saloon, perpetually smelling of stale booze and rancid tobacco juice, which proved to be a bonanza—especially when a railway construction team stationed nearby made the Star’s bar their home away from home. After that, the brothers purchased one hotel after the other—in Emerson, Plum Coulee, Holland, and finally the Prince Edward in Winnipeg. In 1912, the Prince Edward showed a profit of $32,000 and the Sugarmans were wealthy men.

  Klein shook Lou’s hand and took a seat. Before he could say anything, Dolly Smith, the café’s short and plump proprietor set down a mug of steaming coffee in front of Klein. “Bread and jam are coming in a moment,” she said with a smile.

  Klein nodded and looked at Lou. “How’s my sister?”

  Lou smiled. “Rivka. She’s as feisty as ever. Says she’s going to make a socialist out of me yet.”

  Klein laughed. “Of all the people in this city to court, you and Rivka are about the last two I’d ever have imagined. A radical leftist and a capitalist liquor salesman, amazing.”

  “It’s strange, I’ll admit that,” said Lou with a hearty laugh. “But we’re good together.”

  “Yeah, like oil and water.”

  “More like salt and pepper, I’d say. We like to go to the theatre; you should’ve seen how she enjoyed the London Follies at the Walker a few weeks back. I even convinced her to join me after the show at the Dining Room at the Royal Alex. White tablecloths, low hanging lights, the murals on the wall. Can you believe it: Rivka, the radical, eating at the fanciest hotel in the city?”

  “I can’t,” said Klein with a smile.

  “Well, we have a good time together. That’s all that matters.”

  “And the future?”

  “No idea,” said Lou, chuckling. “You don’t have to worry about her, Sam. Rivka can handle herself.”

  “That’s for damn sure. But you didn’t invite me here to talk about you and my sister.”

  “No, I didn’t,” said Lou. The smile on his face vanished. “I really need your help.” He threw the latest edition of the Tribune on the table. “You see this yet?”

  Klein reached into the side of his jacket pocket and pulled out a copy of the newspaper. “I have. I was sorry to hear about Max. I didn’t know him that well, but from what I gather, he was a good man.”

  Sugarman waved his hand. “He was a paskudnyak, as ornery as they come, though I suppose in a good way. And Rae loved him, so what could we do about it? We couldn’t let my sister and her children go hungry. Saul said we had to trust him. Trouble was Max let it all go to his head. You know the expression, gelt brengt tsu ga’aveh un ga’aveh tsu zind?”

  Klein nodded, lit a cigarette, and took a sip o
f his black coffee. “I know it. Money causes conceit and conceit leads to sin.”

  “Exactly,” said Lou. “Max was in over his head, and I’m not even certain I have the whole story. Which is why, my friend, I called you.”

  “Why? You don’t think the Trib has the story right? That Max was robbed and killed by rum-runners?”

  “I’m not certain, Sam. Saul told me that the man Max met the night he was killed, a guy named Taylor, picked up his booze, gave Max an envelope of cash, and left. Less than twenty minutes later, Max was dead and the money gone.”

  “What do you know about this Taylor?”

  “He’s friendly enough … for a bootlegger, I suppose. I told Saul we’d have trouble once we started with this business. First, a few years back, it was the mail-order business. Then Saul bought the Voyageur Liquor Company in Montreal. Then the Western Drug Company.”

  “That made you some cash,” said Klein.

  “It was good while it lasted, I can’t argue with you. Prohibition in the province has been narishkeit. Just stupid, plain and simple. Blame the feds for allowing pharmacists to sell booze for medicinal purposes. Can you believe that? So I got the wholesale druggist license and overnight we had hundreds of customers whose doctors had prescribed them whisky for what ailed them. We got rich, Sam, but now my sister’s husband is dead because of our business.”

  “You want to give it up, Lou?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Feeling guilty about it?”

  “I suppose.”

  “You didn’t force Roter to go out there. He was more than willing. Isn’t that true?”

  Lou nodded.

  “So what about this band of desperados the paper mentions?” asked Klein.

  “They don’t exist. At least, that’s what Saul says.”