Showdown at Border Town

by Caroline Woodward

  Paul heard their voices continue but farther away. He stood and ran back to the game as questions swirled in his head. What was going on in Bud Brunner’s backyard that would cause the neighbours to talk?

  ***

  An hour and a half later Paul was still deep in thought as he made his way down their cottage driveway, thinking about his near-encounter with Bud Brunner. It felt like his gut was trying to send him a message.

  “You’re back!” Paul’s seven-year-old sister came running out the door, black pigtails bouncing on her shoulders. “Daddy’s leaving for a picnic, Paulie,” she said, using her favourite nickname for her older brother. “He’s been waiting for you.”

  “Thanks, Mary Anne.” Paul sprinted toward the spacious grey Buick. His father was just loading his briefcase.

  “Go on and wash up first, Paul. You can’t show up at a picnic looking like that,” said Mr. Martin, who shared the same first name as Paul.

  “Okay – be right back, Dad.”

  Five minutes later Paul jumped into the passenger side of the Buick beside his father. As the member of parliament (MP) for Essex East, Mr. Martin often spent summer afternoons at local events, mingling with his constituents. During the year, when the House of Commons was sitting, the Martins lived in Ottawa. Between Mr. Martin’s busy political schedule and Paul’s school life, they had little time together. Summer time, on the other hand, allowed the two to enjoy each other’s company. Paul often took advantage of this by accompanying his father to various events in his riding.

  “Have a good time with your friends?” Mr. Martin turned to face his son. His black-rimmed glasses rested against round cheeks. Paul watched his father steer with his right arm. Mr. Martin had lost the use of his left arm when he was stricken by polio as a child. Most of the sight in his left eye was also gone because of the disease.

  “It was great, Dad.”

  Paul opened his window as far as he could. He liked to feel the warm breeze blow through his blonde hair. The car bumped along the road, a patchwork quilt of fertile farm fields on one side and Lake Erie’s endless stretch of grey-blue water and shoreline on the other. Paul watched the passing scenery, until the Buick lurched to the right and Mr. Martin pulled into a grassy park. The park was populated by picnic tables covered in red-plaid cloths. People mingled freely, chatting amongst themselves.

  One man was standing on his own near the edge of the park as if he knew the MP would soon be there. Paul thought he looked middle-aged. He had red hair and kept wringing his hands together.

  “Mr. Martin, it’s nice to meet you. Joseph Fry – I run a shoe repair shop in Windsor.”

  The two men shook hands. “Nice to meet you, Joseph. Are you here for the picnic?” asked Mr. Martin.

  “Ahh, no, not really, sir. Just a quick minute if I may. My business has been in the family for a long time, you see.”

  The MP nodded. “That’s nice to hear. We need strong family businesses.”

  “Yes, well unfortunately I’m in a bit of trouble. I decided to move to a more spacious shop and the rent has just been too much to handle. I thought business would pick up in the new shop, but it hasn’t.”

  “All in good time,” Mr. Martin said calmly.

  “I don’t have time, though. I’ve had to borrow a lot of money from the bank to keep up with my bills.” The man shifted. “It’s starting to pile up and I’m worrying that I’ll have to sell my store. Is there any way that you, as my MP, could help me out? I know it’s a long shot.”

  “I can only encourage you to not give up hope, Joseph. Try not to spend more than you have.”

  The man sighed and nodded. “Thank you anyway.”

  Mr. Martin said goodbye and drew Paul aside before he waded into the crowd of well-wishers at the picnic.

  “That man has put himself into a lot of debt, Paul. That’s never a good position to be in.”

  “So he should have waited to move his business until he knew that he could pay it off,” Paul said.

  “That’s right,” said his father. “The interest on his loan has obviously been piling up. Whenever you borrow money from the bank or from anyone, they charge you a percentage for the amount of time that you keep it. It’s just like an investment where you collect interest, only it works the opposite way when you’re in debt.”

  “So then, you should get rid of debt as soon as

  you can,” Paul said. “You shouldn’t let it build up. Otherwise, you’ll be losing more money on interest for no reason.”

  “Right,” Mr. Martin said. “Try to keep that in mind when you’re older.”

  As soon as they moved toward the picnic area, the MP was quickly surrounded by a group of picnic-goers, all wanting to express their gratitude, concerns or loyalty. Mr. Martin engaged with each person, looking them in the eye as they spoke. Paul stood beside him, tuning in and out of the conversations.

  “Paul, you remember our friend.”

  Paul looked up, startled by his father’s words. He met the steady gaze of a tall, grey-haired man with dark blue eyes that shone like memories. The man lifted his fedora in greeting and smiled briefly. Paul had most certainly never seen him before and he quickly glanced at his own feet.

  “I don’t really recall,” Paul mumbled. Beside him, Paul’s father stifled the ghost of a smile.

  The man introduced himself as Douglas Ward, an Ontario Provincial Police investigator from out of town. Paul could tell the man had thrown Mr. Martin off his stride by saying that they had in fact never met, exposing the trick the politician usually used to coax an introduction. Paul could tell that Douglas Ward was sharp. He listened intently as the inspector spoke to his father.

  “I wanted to let you know what I’m doing here, from Toronto. I’m sure you know Windsor’s crime rates have spiked of late.”

  Mr. Martin led him away from other picnic-goers to talk privately.

  “I do know about the increase in crime, certainly,” said Mr. Martin softly. “And I’ve heard all the rumours of course – about a few members of the police force.”

  The inspector nodded. “I’ve been brought in from the main office in Toronto to deal with this issue.”

  “Bon Dieu,” Mr. Martin exclaimed in French. He always reverted to his Franco-Ontarian roots in moments of surprise or stress.

  “The truth is, Mr. Martin, that the chief of the Windsor Police force himself requested this. They want to get to the bottom of this even more than anyone else, I’m sure.”

  “I’m certain of it,” said Mr. Martin.

  “You’re an influential member in your community, Mr. Martin. Your support in cleaning up these pockets of crime in Windsor would be greatly appreciated.”

  “Of course. Please keep me updated on any findings.”

  The inspector nodded, tipping his grey fedora as he melted into the crowd.

  Chapter 3

  Work Wanted

  The next day Paul slipped on his lucky Detroit Tiger’s baseball cap. He glided down the stairs into the kitchen from his open loft bedroom on the second floor.

  Hungry.

  Paul pawed through the contents of two wooden food cabinets, moving canned vegetables and meats aside.

  “Looking for a snack?”

  Paul’s mother, Nell, joined him in the kitchen.

  “Uh, yeah, I guess so,” Paul said. He saw her move toward the ice box and cringed. Sure enough, she reached in and pulled out an orange, placing it in his

  reluctant hand. Not exactly what he had been craving.

  Paul chalked it up to his mother’s education. She had studied to become a pharmacist at the University of Toronto and had worked in her mother’s drugstore in Windsor before getting married. He figured it had somehow messed up her mind, all this focus on health stuff.r />
  “Remember, Mike should be getting here soon,” said Mrs. Martin. “He’ll be spending the afternoon.”

  Paul pierced the orange’s skin. “That’s great, Mom.

  I hope he brings comics.” Paul’s cousin Michael

  was nearly three years older than him, but they were

  extremely close. Practically brothers.

  “Mom, can Mike and I go see Treasure Island when it opens? It’s out later this year, you know.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “You know the Tivoli Theatre on Wyandotte Street?”

  “Of course.”

  “Someone told me it only costs a dime and six Orange Crush bottle caps and then you get in for free! Can you believe it?”

  His mother smiled. “I suspect you’ll just need six cans of soda pop soon for that free movie, then, right?”

  “Well…” Paul wasn’t sure if she was serious or not.

  “Anyway, enough about movies and soda pop. Aunt Mame will be visiting as well today, since she has some time off from the drug store. She works so hard I’ve hardly seen my own sister.”

  Mike’s mother had studied pharmacology along with Paul’s mom and still ran the drug store in Windsor. She and her family always shared the cottage with the Martins, although she was often away working.

  A light knock sounded at the front door, and then footsteps were heard crossing the living room into the kitchen.

  “Hi there, Paul,” said Aunt Mame, giving him a one-armed hug as she hurried in. “You just keep growing, don’t you? And where’s that big Paul?”

  “Hi Aunt Mame. Dad’s working in his office.”

  Mike followed behind his mother. He was taller, had broader shoulders and darker hair than his younger cousin. Mike fanned himself with an array of brightly-coloured booklets as he passed through the doorway.

  Comics.

  “Are they all new?” Paul caught his breath.

  “Sure are,” said Mike. “I’ve been mowing lawns for some neighbours. Got a bit of extra cash.”

  Paul was already heading for the door, pulling on sneakers as he moved. “Let’s go out front and take a look at them.”

  They found the great oak tree just outside the cottage and plopped down in the shade. Mike looked apprehensive as he handed Paul a comic. “Just be careful – this one’s going to be a collector’s edition.”

  “Neat,” breathed Paul, flipping to the first page. “Superman can fly now!”

  “I know...apparently it happened seven years ago!” said Mike. “We’ve been missing out with the older ones.”

  Over the years, it had become a tradition that Paul and Mike would seek old comic books from neighbours’ attics, rummage sales, or wherever they could find them. They didn’t usually have enough spending money to get the new ones.

  Mike stretched out on the lawn and began to braid blades of grass between his fingers. As he did, he noticed a stout woman ambling towards the cottage. He watched her stubby arms swinging.

  “Paul, look who’s coming up the driveway,” Mike whispered.

  By then, the boys could see that her face was glowing with anticipation.

  “Mrs. April,” sighed Paul. “I wonder what gossip she’s got today.”

  Mona April was one of those ladies who just loved to know what was going on in the neighbourhood. In fact, she had to know. But what she loved even more was spreading her findings to anyone who would listen.

  “Hello, boys,” she chirped. “Is your father around? I must speak with him.”

  “He’s working inside in his study. I’ll get him for you,” Paul answered, already making his way over to the cottage.

  He hurried to his father’s office and walked through the open door calmly. He didn’t want to disturb him at the wrong time. Paul had learned long ago that his father needed a distraction-free environment.

  “Dad, Mrs. April’s here. She’s got something to tell you.”

  Mr. Martin looked up from his desk. A smile played about his mouth but Paul knew he was too polite to say anything.

  “I’m coming,” he said, getting out of his chair and following Paul. “I need a break anyway.”

  Reaching the oak tree, they were immediately greeted by Mona April’s prattling voice. Mike looked up gratefully at the sight of his uncle and cousin.

  “Well, hello Mona,” Mr. Martin began. “What brings you here?”

  Mona took a deep breath. Paul pictured her arranging her thoughts for maximum gossip impact. “I have some news that you must know about,” she said. She lowered her voice as she always did during her stories. “It’s all over the neighbourhood and it’s got everyone flustered.”

  “What exactly is it?” Mr. Martin prodded gently.

  “For the past few days there’s been a boy – a bit older than Paul – wandering around, looking for work.”

  “Well good for him.”

  “But the trouble, Mr. Martin,” she said, “is that he comes from up at the Indian reserve.”

  “And this bothers you?” said Mr. Martin.

  “Heavens, no, it doesn’t bother me at all,” Mona said. “But most people aren’t like me, now, are they?”

  Mike mouthed thank God to Paul, who elbowed him.

  Mr. Martin shifted his weight. Paul could see him trying to understand where she was going with this.

  “It’s heartbreaking, really,” she went on. “The boy’s mother just passed away and there’s no father in the picture. He desperately needs to support his little sister and himself. I didn’t mean to get involved, but now I feel that I must help him.”

  Paul and Mike looked at each other, curious. This wasn’t the light-hearted gossip that they expected from their chatty neighbour. The middle-aged woman folded her hands and drew herself up.

  “He needs a job. Just about anything will do. I know you’ll see fit to help him in some way.”

  Mr. Martin didn’t look entirely convinced.

  “He seems to be a very trustworthy boy,” Mona added, “one that would get the job done honestly. I think he’d work hard – that’s the impression I got.”

  Mr. Martin brightened slightly at this. Paul knew he was considering the possibilities. Work was hard to find for a relatively inexperienced teenager.

  “Has he tried all of the farms around here?” Mr. Martin suggested, “I’m sure that they could use some extra help with the picking season nearly here.”

  “Oh, yes, he’s tried them...no open arms there,” said Mona.

  They stood under the tree, contemplating what seemed to be an unsolvable problem, talking through unrealistic options, until Mr. Martin said, “What about Bud Brunner?”

  Paul froze. Was his father serious?

  Bud Brunner?

  Mrs. April seemed equally mystified by the suggestion. Mr. Brunner wasn’t anyone’s idea of a model neighbour. He didn’t seem like a successful employer, either.

  “Is he looking to hire?” she asked.

  “I spoke with him a week or so ago and he gave me the impression that he was planning to expand his fishing business. He just might want to take on a new employee.”

  “Is that so?” replied Mona. “Well, I did notice an

  expensive looking car parked in his driveway recently. Maybe he’s doing better than folks give him credit for. This could turn out well.”

  Mr. Martin smiled. “Before we get ahead of ourselves though, why don’t you let me go over and talk with Bud?”

  Mrs. April agreed before walking home. Paul watched his father set off for Bud Brunner’s. He tried to figure out why his stomach was still churning as he thought about their new neighbour.

  Chapter 4

  Couldn’t Have Been Easy

 
“Hello, Inspector Ward speaking.” Inspector Doug Ward allowed his tall frame to ease back in his chair.

  “Doug – it’s Chief O’Grady. Guess you made it to Windsor all right – how are they receiving you there?”

  The inspector placed his fedora on his desk and fixed its crease. “Fine. They’re a tight knit group, Chief.”

  “I was afraid of that. Be careful you don’t offend any of the officers. This is delicate, Doug.”

  As he held the black phone handset in his hand, the inspector fidgeted with the telephone’s cord. He had been convinced by Chief O’Grady to leave Toronto headquarters and get the municipal Windsor Police Department back on its feet. Or had he needed convincing at all?

  “I’ve also touched base with the local MP, Mr. Paul Martin. I just wanted to cover all of the bases.”

  “That’s good thinking. Listen, the force needs guidance. And I’m sure you’re the man for the job. I wouldn’t have sent you otherwise.”

  “Thanks, Chief.”

  Silence.

  “You went down to the waterfront, didn’t you?” asked Chief O’Grady. “Couldn’t have been easy.”

  The inspector thought back 28 years again, to 1922. He and his senior partner had been employed by the Windsor force during Prohibition, a wild time to be in the policing business. It had been illegal to sell, buy, or consume alcohol publicly in Canada. Yet the United States was under even stricter constraints. Across the border, not only was it illegal to sell, buy, or consume alcohol, but also to produce it. That was quite a loophole and police forces were real busy, real fast, since Canada could produce alcohol legally.

  Rumrunners took advantage of this loophole by smuggling Canadian alcohol to their thirsty neighbour. Border cities – like Windsor – were the hardest hit by crime. Only the narrow Detroit River separated the two nations and the area became infested with corruption and violence.

  Inspector Doug Ward knew that better than anyone. He had watched his partner die at that same border, for the same reason.