It looked like a cocktail party gone bad. Davies was standing in the middle of the room holding a gun to Locke’s head. Bickerstaff was leaning against the front door gripping his wounded arm and Corbishdale looked confused and panicky, aiming his gun at Davies. There was a cop standing to the right of Davies and a sharp-dressed man on his left. They had their revolvers fixed on Corbishdale and Bickerstaff.
“You must be that pitiful mongrel Jack McCloskey that I keep hearing about,” said Davies.
McCloskey sized him up. He looked confident and capable. And it wasn’t all polish either; there was a well-oiled machine under the tux, one that got used to executing orders long before it started giving them.
“These officers came in here shouting something about a raid. Was this your idea, McCloskey? It couldn’t have been the police depart-ment’s because they know better — just ask Officer Wallace here.”
McCloskey could feel his knees getting weak. It was as if Davies was sapping the energy out of everyone in the room. The weapon McCloskey was holding suddenly felt like it weighed ten pounds. He steadied it with his left hand and tried to keep it fixed on Davies.
“Wallace, I want you to arrest these intruders and take these misguided police officers with you.”
Locke’s expression seemed to be imploring McCloskey to act. Bickerstaff looked like he would faint from pain or shock at any moment. Corbishdale shifted his revolver towards McCloskey and Shorty. McCloskey could see Shorty’s revolver shifting towards Corbishdale.
“Hold it, Shorty,” whispered McCloskey.
“Don’t even think about it,” said Davies, “not if you want to get out of here alive.”
“C’mon, put those weapons down, boys,” said Wallace to McCloskey and Shorty. “Your little street fight is over.”
“Yeah,” piped in Corbishdale, “put them down.”
“I knew this would happen,” said Shorty.
Bickerstaff collapsed. McCloskey flinched and Wallace took a shot at him. He missed McCloskey but grazed Shorty’s arm. Shorty managed to put one into Wallace before stumbling back into a curio cabinet.
“Dogs like you need to be put down.”
There was a gunshot from outside followed by a ship’s horn. Strait Shooter was attempting to dock, probably with Davies’ reinforcements. More gunfire.
Wallace was on the floor but still armed and Corbishdale was moving his revolver back and forth between McCloskey and Shorty. At the moment they were all about to open fire, the big picture window shattered and Davies’ body was propelled backwards, hitting the wall then slumping to the floor. The shot echoed throughout the big house.
The world stopped moving for a second or two and then Montroy came in through the front door. There was glass everywhere and rain blowing in. He calmly walked over to Corbishdale and pried the revolver out of his trembling hand.
“Locke, go look at Bickerstaff. We’ll talk later, you and me. And how about you, young man?”
“I can still hold a gun,” said Shorty.
“Good.”
McCloskey stood up.
“You’re Jack McCloskey.”
“That’s right.”
Wallace was whimpering in the corner. Montroy walked over to him and kicked him in the ribs.
“Shut up, you disgraceful little … if you’re wanting some attention you can walk yourself down to St. Joe’s. If you’re lucky, you won’t bleed to death before you get there.”
“But sergeant —”
“Don’t you sergeant me, you two-faced son of a bitch, or I’ll ask everyone in this room to look the other way while I plug you myself. Now where was I? McCloskey —”
“Yes, sir.”
“Introduce this fellow to a chair.”
McCloskey picked up one of the wooden chairs near the fireplace and pushed the sharp-dressed man into it.
“Now, what’s your name?” Montroy asked with a smile.
The man didn’t answer. He was trembling like a leaf and there were cuts on his face from the flying glass.
“Mr. McCloskey, would you be so kind as to show this fellow your calling card?”
McCloskey belted the man with a right so powerful it threw him against the wall, where Davies was collapsed in a bloody heap. Montroy walked over to him, grabbed him by the collar, and pushed his nose against Davies’ cold, dead face.
“If you’re worried about jeopardizing your relationship with your partner, then maybe you should check with him.”
“Is he…?”
“I’d say he was dead and a half.”
McCloskey was liking Montroy’s style.
“Everything square now with you and Mr. Davies?”
The man nodded.
“Good. Now, what’s your name?”
“Jones,” cried the man, “Henry Jones.”
Jones had connected with Davies at a political rally in Detroit. Jones had friends in the auto industry who needed help. Davies had resources and men and lots of ideas. Jones explained how he and Davies had begun to organize a campaign to purify the labour force in Detroit and end the coal strike in Michigan.
It sounded like a job for the RCMP, but the last thing Montroy wanted was the Mounties poking around. They’d upset the balance of things.
“So how’s Bickerstaff?”
“He’s all right, sir,” said Locke. “I’ve tied up his arm.”
“Good. Now, we don’t have time for introductions. Everybody reload. We got Yankee pirates trying to establish a beachhead. My boys along with your Mud Thomson are trying to beat them off, but they could use some help. Follow me.”
Montroy led McCloskey, Locke, and Shorty back down the hall to one of the locked doors. He kicked it in. It was a bedroom with big windows in two sides overlooking the river and the property between the house and the dock.
The beach was underwater. A car had been pulled up to within twenty yards of the dock and was being used for cover.
“The Pig’s Knuckles,” said McCloskey, surprised.
“Those are my boys,” said Montroy. The Pig’s Knuckles were a gang of about a half dozen teenagers that Montroy kept on a long leash, allowing them to police their own kind in the streets of downtown. In return, they would occasionally provide him with useful information. “They prevented the boat from docking but she’s putting up a fight. Whatever Davies has, those guys aboard Strait Shooter want it real bad.”
“I say we sink her,” said Shorty.
“We don’t want an international incident,” said Montroy. “This is our battle. We have to drive her off ourselves somehow.”
“We could destroy the dock,” said McCloskey. “I’ll go see what Davies has in his armory. Maybe we can blow it up.”
“Oh, that’s discreet,” said Montroy.
“We’re in the middle of a thunderstorm.”
“True enough.”
McCloskey ran back into the house and found the stairs to the basement. There was a crate of grenades and McCloskey pulled three out and tucked them in his belt.
When he returned, the Pig’s Knuckles were falling back closer to the house and Strait Shooter was navigating her way carefully back inside the dock.
“Now how are you going to go about this? You’re still in their line of fire. And if you lob a live grenade out there, it’s liable to blow back at your feet.”
“I could drive it onto the dock.”
“What?”
“The floodwater’s not too deep for me to drive through it and onto the dock. I could detonate the grenades, jump out, and wade back to the shore.”
“That’s crazy,” said Montroy. Then he said, “Grease — I’m commandeering your vehicle.”
Grease, one of the Pig’s Knuckles, brought his Packard down from the road. McCloskey climbed in and made for the dock, but with his head just below the dash. He could barely see where he was going and ended up driving the right side of the car off the dock, almost tipping it into the drink.
He quickly detonated the grenades and j
umped into the river. Now all he had to do was get away from the dock without getting caught in the current.
They saw him struggling when the explosions came: three in quick succession along with the Packard’s fuel tank. Pieces of the dock and the car showered the property. When the smoke cleared they could see Strait Shooter’s windows blown out and there were no hands on deck. She was bobbing slowly back to Detroit.
Shorty waded into the river and started sifting though the floating debris looking for McCloskey.
“There he is!” shouted Montroy.
McCloskey was walking towards them from about a hundred feet down the shore. At the last second he had taken a chance and let the current carry him away from the dock. Luckily it took him to a marshy little cove in the next property, where he was able to pull himself up onto the shore.
Satisfied that Strait Shooter had been driven back to wherever it was she came from, the Pig’s Knuckles disappeared and the others returned to the house.
Montroy looked around and sighed his world-weary sigh. “What a fucking mess.” And then he turned to Locke. “Interesting group you’ve assembled here.”
He pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his shirt pocket. It was soaking wet. He squeezed the water out of it and threw it on the floor. He pulled a flask from his hip and drained it.
“Sir … how did you…?”
“You think I don’t know what’s going on in this city? What the fuck do you think I’m doing prowling around these streets every night?”
Montroy’s face was beet red as he tore into Locke. “I’m trying to keep the fucking peace, which ain’t easy with crusading assholes like you running around trying to start shit you can’t finish.”
He paced around for a bit. No one uttered a word. It was time to break up the party and start to somehow sort things out. Another sleepless night.
“If anyone asks, this was my idea. You can tell the chief I got tired fending off Cossacks and chasing newsies down dark alleys for the price of a bottle of beer. And these three mugs,” he said pointing to McCloskey, Shorty, and Mud, “they’ve got their own reasons for being here and I don’t need to know what they are.”
Montroy approached McCloskey. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t leave town. We need to get our stories straight but we haven’t got time for a rehearsal.”
McCloskey nodded.
“Where will you be if I need you?”
“Ojibway.”
“Fair enough. Now scram, the three of yous.”
Parts of the Drive were flooded out and McCloskey had to cruise slowly though the deluge. He dropped off Shorty and Mud at the roadhouse just down the way then headed south on Lauzon Road.
His mind was still reeling. What just happened? Where was he going? He started thinking about his father and Billy. Then he started thinking about Clara. Then he thought about Sophie. Then he stopped thinking.
When he reached the junction at Highway 2 he kind of surprised himself when he didn’t hesitate. He turned and headed straight to Ojibway.
He took it easy, listening to the rhythm of the engine and the sound of the wheels on the wet road. It lulled him. When he got home he parked behind the house.
The place had been ransacked again. He was relieved when he found a bottle of brandy underneath a floorboard in the kitchen. He carried it up to bed with him.
The breeze off the river was stirring the curtains in the window. He took a drink from the bottle and let his head settle into the pillow. The last thing he remembered was the feel of the bottle in his hand and the moonlight reflecting off the wall.
THIRD GEAR
(TUESDAY, JULY 25)
— Chapter 33 —
YOU KNOW WHERE THE LIBRARY IS, DON’T YOU?
She was convinced now that Braverman didn’t spend the night at Mrs. Cousineau’s. She checked the clock in the foyer. Her moment of truth was going to have to wait.
“Bye, Mrs. Richardson.”
“Goodbye, dear, and have a lovely day.”
When she got to Tecumseh Road she didn’t see any of the usual suspects. She figured she missed the streetcar. Sure enough, when she got to the Avenue she could see it rolling towards the downtown, too far away to catch on foot.
Futz.
Vera Maude was already walking on thin ice with Miss Lancefield; it would be unacceptable for her to be late again. She looked around. She remembered the cabstand at the motel on the corner and ran over. As luck would have it, there was a Yellow Cab waiting in the parking lot. The driver was slouched sideways in his seat with his size twelves hanging out the passenger window, reading the morning paper.
“Excuse me, mister. Can I get a ride?”
He was about to tell the body attached to the voice to scram, that is, until he saw the body. It made him forget about the old man in Room 3 he was supposed to take to the train station.
“Yeah, sure, honey. Where you headed?”
“Downtown — to the library.”
He straightened up, folded his paper, and tossed it on the passenger seat.
“The library?”
“Yeah, you know where the library is, don’t you?”
“Sure, sure.”
He leaned over and popped the door open.
“Thanks. I’m in an awful hurry.”
This was a new one. He’d heard of people being in a rush to get to the ferry dock, the train station, the racetrack, even a poker game, but never the library.
“That must be some book,” he said as he wheeled the cab around.
“Actually, I work there.”
“That so?”
He took another look at Vera Maude in his rear view mirror. She looked nothing like the librarians he remembered. And in his book, she didn’t act like one either. Vera Maude was watching the traffic while bouncing up and down in her seat.
“Here’s your chance. Go! Go!”
He crossed Tecumseh Road and shot up Pelissier Street. Pelissier was the first street west of the Avenue; it was one way almost all the way to the river and you never had to worry about getting stuck behind a streetcar.
“We’ll be there in a flash, honey.”
Every time another vehicle got in the driver’s way he swerved around it without even slowing down. Vera Maude didn’t even notice. She was stewing over Braverman, behaving like a housewife whose husband failed to come home after a night on the town.
Not terribly Maudern of me.
“Ah, honey — the library?”
“Huh? Oh — Park Street is fine.”
“I’ll just make a left here and drop you off at the front door. Is that okay?”
“Sure, thanks.”
Vera Maude started digging in her purse for some change. She had never taken a taxi before. “Is this enough?” she asked.
“That’s fine, honey.”
He took the money, hopped out, and opened the door for Vera Maude.
“Gee thanks, mister,” she said with a wink.
He nearly melted in his boots. “Call me anytime,” he said and he watched her walk up the steps of the library.
“Gotta get me a library card.”
Vera Maude couldn’t remember the last time she was early for work. When she got to the top of the steps she could see some of the girls staring through the windows with their ooh, isn’t that interesting? faces on.
“Buzz, buzz, buzz,” said Vera Maude as she passed through the inner doors.
“Good morning, Maudie,” said Daphne with a smirk.
“Shoo, fly.”
— Chapter 34 —
MARBLE CITY
When McCloskey sat up, the bottle he was sleeping with rolled onto the floor. It felt like it landed on his head. He checked his watch. There was still time.
He pivoted off the bed, walked stiffly over to the wardrobe, and picked out a dark suit and a clean white shirt. He peeled off his damp clothes and then went down into the kitchen to wash up.
He forgot what a mess the place was. A fly was buzzing around his
ears. He looked up; the strip hanging from the ceiling was encrusted with insects. He pumped some water into the sink and found a razor and bar of soap on the windowsill. He shaved carefully around his cuts and bruises, and when he was finished he made himself an Irish coffee and went back upstairs to get dressed.
He was starting to feel better. Then he started to remember things and didn’t feel so good anymore. The first thing he remembered was the Lieutenant’s body on a pool table, then a shotgun blast, and Jigsaw falling into the river. He wasn’t sure if that was the right order or if any of it was even true. The more he tried to remember, the more it seemed to fade away as if it were a dream.
He made his way back downstairs and with the bottle of whisky in one hand and his coffee mug in the other he elbowed his way through the kitchen door to drink his breakfast in the shade of the black oak.
He didn’t want to go to church. He didn’t want to hear the priest and he didn’t want to see the pine boxes. The pine boxes would make them seem small, like everybody else, and that was the saddest thing, especially since they were both so much larger-than-life.
McCloskey walked over to the ruins of the cabin. Should have thrown dirt on them both right then and there, he thought, like in the battlefield. He noticed how their bodies left a reverse shadow on the floorboards. He topped up his coffee then poured libations on the spot where their souls were parted from their bodies.
“Here’s to you, Pa and to you, Billy.”
He dragged himself over to the Light Six and found his sunglasses in the glove box. He glanced over at Lesperance’s house. Did the old man get his burial at sea? His mind flashed to Jigsaw. No, it wasn’t a dream. They were both at the bottom of the river now. He started the engine, spun around, and headed up the path.
He took the bend at the old fish hatchery then slowed to turn left onto the highway. He hit the gas and felt the wheels grab the road. He was retracing his steps again. Around, around, and around. When he was doing shift work he seemed to be living the same week over and over again. As an infantryman in France it was a hundred yards forward and a hundred yards back. When he returned home after the war it was the fight circuit. Then he was a cog in a crime machine.
Border City Blues 3-Book Bundle Page 19
