He heard the bell of a locomotive in the distance, or so he thought. He might have imagined it, an echo in his mind from the other night, or past fights.
He relaxed his grip on the wheel, sat back, and fumbled a cigar from the box on the seat next to him. He bit the tip off the end and spat it onto the road. He struck a match on the dashboard, held the flame to the end of the cigar and puffed away at it until there was a nice orange glow. The aroma quickly filled the car. When he was a boy his father was his hero, a giant of a man, and so handsome with his jet-black hair and broad shoulders.
But Frank McCloskey cried like a baby when his sons returned home from the war. And his sons hardly recognized him.
McCloskey rolled to a stop in front of the church. He had heard it all before and he couldn’t bear to hear it again, though he knew there would be a few new twists, just to keep it current, and some custom fittings. He pulled around the corner and parked next to the cemetery.
“We have come to pay our respects to Francis John McCloskey and his son William Peter. Francis John’s eldest son, John Stephen, and William’s wife, Clara, survive them.”
The priest nodded to Clara and to Henry, who was standing at her side.
“They shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more; neither shall the sun light on them, nor any heat.”
There were vets from the old battalion, a few crusty bootleggers, and a host of other characters from the county.
“But though our outward man perish, yet the inward man is renewed day by day. For our light affliction, which is but for a moment, worketh for us a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory.”
Clara was quietly cursing Jack, wondering where the hell he was.
“For what is a man profited, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?”
There were some clumsy segues into the virtues of temperance that made Clara roll her eyes.
“Woe unto him that giveth his neighbour drink, that puttest thy bottle to him, and makest him drunken also, that thou mayest look on their nakedness!”
The priest was whipping himself into froth now. His face was red, his chin flecked with spittle, and when he waved his arms his robe billowed like a ship’s sail. He glared at the brother by his side and the layman seated across from him. No one was safe from his fire and brimstone.
Clara looked over at Henry. She could tell his head was pounding.
“Know ye not that the unrighteous shall not inherit the kingdom of God? Be not deceived: neither fornicators, nor idolaters, nor adulterers, nor effeminate, nor abusers of themselves with mankind, nor thieves, nor covetous, nor drunkards, nor revilers, nor extortioners, shall inherit the kingdom of God.”
Clara wondered who that left. She looked up and the priest’s eyes met hers.
“Let us hear the conclusion of the whole matter: Fear God, and keep his commandments, for this is the whole duty of man. For God shall bring every work into judgment, with every secret thing, whether it be good, or whether it be evil.”
McCloskey watched the procession file out of the church and weave through the cemetery. He spotted Bernie Lesperance. He wondered if Bernie knew his cousin was dead. He probably came looking for him.
The procession stopped in front of two fresh piles of earth and the priest signalled the pallbearers to lower the coffins.
“… return unto the ground; for out of it wast thou taken: for dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return.”
There were a few final words for the congregation. Clara looked down at the mud and rainwater streaming onto Billy’s coffin. She tried to imagine him buried in that trench in France. Now he was finally past rescuing.
“Choose you this day whom ye will serve; whether the gods which your fathers served that were on the other side of the flood, or the gods of the Amorites, in whose land ye dwell: but as for me and my house, we will serve the Lord.”
The priest walked back to the church. The little group of mourners shared a few words and broke up, heading out in different directions. Henry walked away with the vets. The yolks from the county piled back into their trucks.
McCloskey waited until people were well on their way before he moved in on Clara. She didn’t stop walking or turn to face him.
“You should have come, Jack.”
“You saw me?”
“Yeah — hiding in your car. Why didn’t you come?”
“What for?”
“Oh, I don’t know — out of respect maybe?”
“You like what the priest had to say? You all prepared to hop on the wagon, sing a few hymns, and love thy neighbour?”
“No. We’re going to Chappell House to get drunk.”
“What about the cops?”
“They’re bringing the ice.”
She noticed how beat up he was but resisted saying anything.
“We’ll either end up bawling our eyes out or throwing furniture at each other, or both.”
“Typical Irish wake.”
They stopped at a street corner. The sun was blazing but the humidity was gone. The lawns looked lush and green
“What are you going to do now, Jack?”
“I don’t know.”
“Oh, come on, Jack, you’ve been waiting for this moment all your life. Running the Border Cities is what you were born to do.”
Clara looked down the street.
“I’m the one that needs a new life. I’m tired of this one.”
She read his expression.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I’m not going to do anything rash. Though I am thinking about becoming a respectable member of society, maybe getting a steady job and doing some more volunteer work at the hospital.”
“How’s Henry? He okay?”
“Yeah, he’s going to be fine.”
“He didn’t say anything about last night?” said McCloskey.
“I didn’t ask and he didn’t tell. Was it everything you hoped it would be?”
“It’s too early to say. You might want to wait for the late edition.”
“Somebody told me not to believe everything I read in the papers. You’re lucky, Jack. You always have been. One day, though, your luck’s going to run out.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Clara kissed him on the cheek and looked into his eyes. “See you later, Jack.”
She turned and ran across the street towards the waiting streetcar.
— Chapter 35 —
CANADA CUSTOMS
“Mr. Braverman is with a client right now. He’ll be finishing soon but then he has to leave for an appointment. Would you like me to take a message, Miss —?”
“Uh — no, thanks. I’ll catch up with him later.”
Click.
Vera Maude ran out the front door of the library and raced down to Chatham Street. When she didn’t see Braverman right away, she thought she missed him, but then he stepped out of the building, case in hand.
At Pitt he stopped to let a truck pass and she came up right behind him. She looked down at his fingers wrapped tightly around the handle of his case. It looked heavy. They cut over to Ferry Street.
I could tell him that I’m on to him. Then I could say I only want to talk, maybe go for a coffee.
They were near the top of the hill. She never hated being five-foot-three more than she did right now. This was supposed to be her moment of truth, her opportunity to turn her words into actions. It was no time to be petite.
She lost sight of him in the crowd, panicked, and blurted out his name. “Braverman!”
He turned and walked straight into a group of businessmen making their way up the hill, and his case got lodged between them. He gave it a tug and it popped open. Out spilled brushes, tins, bottles, and a package loosely wrapped in brown paper.
“Shit!”
He quickly rescued his oils before turning his attention to the package. He saw Vera Maude peeling the paper away and his face went white.
It was a book, bound in blu
e leather, with a single word embossed on the cover.
Ulysses.
“Thanks,” said Braverman.
He grabbed it, wrapped it up again, and shoved it back in his case.
“How did you … where did you…?”
“It isn’t any of your concern.”
He was trying to close the latch on the case.
“I’ve been reading about Ulysses for a long time, and about New York and Paris, and Mr. Joyce and Miss Beach.”
Braverman checked his watch. “Look, doll, it’s been fun but I’ve got a ferry to catch.”
“I work at the library. I helped you today with your Book Review.”
That stopped Braverman. He smiled. “Yeah, yeah, I remember.”
He knew he had seen her somewhere before.
“I’m planning a trip to Paris.” She surprised herself with that one. “And I’d love to meet Miss Beach.”
Braverman was noticing the line of commuters at the ferry dock. She had to make her move now.
“Maybe you could come by the library tomorrow and we could go for a coffee.”
“Sorry, I’d really love to, but it’s bon voyage for me.”
“Bon voyage?”
“Yeah — my work here is done. Time for me to get back to the real world. Nice meeting you, though. If I’m ever in the Border Cities again I’ll look you up.”
“What? What do you mean? Aren’t you —”
She couldn’t believe what had just happened. What did just happen? She saw him disappear into the crowd funnelling through Canada Customs and suddenly felt ill.
“Too late,” she said, “we met too late.”
She stood there until the ferry slipped away and the dock was deserted.
Braverman was glad it was finally over. Several weeks ago when he first laid eyes on the crate at the post office, he wondered what he had got himself into.
The first thing he did was negotiate a better duty rate. He did this by convincing customs the books were cheap dime store novels. Next he had to get the crate up to his room at Mrs. Cousineau’s. He paid the courier a mickey of rye to help him get it up the stairs.
The next day he wrapped a copy of the book in brown paper, packed it in his artist’s case and rode the streetcar down to the ferry dock. He remembered the journey across the river being the longest ten minutes of his life. If anyone recognized the book at U.S. Customs he was finished; it would be time and money wasted and Ulysses would be stranded on the shores of the Border Cities.
The official opened it to make sure there wasn’t a whisky bottle hidden in hollowed-out pages. Satisfied the book posed no threat, the official instructed him to move along. He thanked the official, gathered his things, and walked up to Jefferson Avenue. When he got home he tied up the package, addressed it, and sent it on its way through the United States postal service to the first subscriber on Miss Beach’s list: Washington Square Press.
He would repeat the process thirty-nine times.
Braverman shifted his gaze over the bow of the ferry. The city of Detroit was looming in the near distance. Soon this city would be an old memory, too. He couldn’t wait to tell his compatriots in Paris how he pulled one over on the Republic and its Methodist smut-hounds.
Surprise, disappointment, frustration, heartbreak: just a few of the emotions Vera Maude was experiencing right now. She was standing outside the British-American, wondering what her next move should be. There was no point in going back to the library. She was officially AWOL.
She looked up the Avenue and down the Drive. The Border Cities were a great, sprawling machine, constantly evolving, always re-inventing itself. Would it ever become the kind of place she could truly be happy? She couldn’t wait to find out. Life was too short. Maybe she could become a catalyst for change. She could become active, work outside the Music, Literature, and Arts Club. Maybe she could teach.
Be a Maudern missionary?
It was true what she said, she had been reading about Joyce’s novel for a long time. She even tried to procure copies of the Dial issues that contained excerpts. It had come to mean more than the words on the page. And Braverman had come to mean more than just a bootlegger, more than an interesting neighbour. There was something romantic about him, something ideal. There was life in him.
She wandered over to the Michigan Central Railway ticket office and read the fares posted in the window. She stepped inside. There were maps and posters on the walls and postcards for sale. A clerk was sitting in the ticket wicket eating a sandwich.
“May I help you, ma’am?”
“Have you travelled much?”
“Beg pardon?”
“Have you been to any of these cities?”
Vera Maude pointed to a poster advertising Chicago.
“I been to our regional office.”
“But you must be tempted to buy a ticket yourself some days.”
“No, not really.”
McCloskey asked Fields to meet him at the British-American so he could hear the police department’s version of last night’s events. Fields found McCloskey seated at the bar.
“You’re looking better, Henry.”
“I feel like hell.”
“Eddie — a couple of Vernor’s. And a clean glass for my friend here.”
Fields told McCloskey that the Mounties had been watching Davies for some time and were just waiting for the right moment to come charging over the wall.
“You beat them to it and ruined their investigation.”
“Do I have anything to worry about?”
“No one’s quite sure what to do with you. Locke was the sacrificial lamb. He was dismissed this morning.” Fields took a sip of his ginger ale. “He didn’t take it well. I’m expecting Wallace to be let go this afternoon. They’re being a bit more careful with him since he was in so deep with Davies. The Mounties want to use him to mop up some of the mess.”
“And Montroy?”
“Early retirement. He’s going to spend the rest of the summer fishing on Lake Erie.”
“You seem to have been left out of the dance.”
“Not quite. I’m going to be made detective.” Fields seemed a little embarrassed. “Sure, it’s what I wanted but it’s not the way I wanted to get it.”
“I know what you mean.”
Fields was working around to something. “Jack, the city’s pretty shell-shocked and most don’t even know the half of it. Can we call a truce?”
It was the first acknowledgement of McCloskey as the new boss.
“Yeah,” he grinned, “but only for a little while.”
There was some small talk, but no mention of Clara. After Fields finished his ginger ale he was on his way.
“See you in the streets.”
McCloskey was undecided about what he was going to do next. He had a feeling the gangs were waiting to hear from him. He dropped some coin on the bar and surveyed the room. The handful of patrons averted their gaze.
The king is dead. Long live the king.
He stepped out of the British-American and down to the lane that ran behind the docks. Boats were bobbing in the water. Beyond them was the Detroit skyline: the Ford Building, the Buhl Building, and some new pile that looked like it was going to dwarf them all.
A girl was walking towards him, taking in the same view. She was attractive, with wild waves of chestnut hair and an unusual style of dress, a style he’d heard others refer to as bohemian. She had on a man’s shirt, a few long strands of beads, a skirt that stopped just below her knees, and shoes with chunky heels, all in black. She walked behind him then stopped a few feet away to watch the ferries pass each other.
McCloskey was in the mood to talk to someone who knew nothing about him and his world. He made furtive glances. She had a foreign look. Her skin tone suggested a Mediterranean background. And those eyes; even behind the cheaters they were captivating. She pulled a pack of smokes out of her handbag. As soon as the cigarette touched her lips McCloskey had a flame on the tip
.
“Going somewhere?”
She looked up at him with her big green-brown eyes and he could feel his tongue begin to swell and the hairs on his neck stand on end.
“Sorry?”
“That’s a train ticket.”
“Oh — yeah.”
“Where to?”
“New York City.”
“Really?” McCloskey looked over at Detroit. “That’s got to be one of my favourite places.”
She leaned back against the fence and sighed.
“You’re not in any kind of trouble, are you?” he asked.
She chuckled and said, “No.”
“Good. My name’s Jack.”
“Vera Maude.”
“Nice to meet you, Vera Maude.”
“You from around here?”
“More or less.”
“I’d give anything to get out of this place.”
“I thought you were going to New York.”
“Here — take it,” she said and she handed him the ticket.
“What?”
“It was too impulsive of me. I got commitments here in town, family, a job.”
McCloskey had to find out what this girl was all about. “Can I buy you a drink?” he asked. “I know a little place around the corner.”
Vera Maude looked at him sideways. “C’mon. I’ll tell you about all the things you have to do while you’re in New York.”
“So you’ve been there before?”
“A couple of times. And I’m always looking for an excuse to go back. When does your train leave?”
“Around five.”
“We got time. You ever been to an Irish wake, Vera Maude?”
“Does that line usually work for you?”
“I don’t know. I never used it before.”
Border City Blues 3-Book Bundle Page 20
