Border City Blues 3-Book Bundle

by Michael Januska

Mud leaned even closer. “Luck’s got nothing to do with it,” he said. “Luck’s got nothing to do with anything.”

  Shorty backed away and squeezed the key in his palm. It felt hot.

  — Chapter 2 —

  SLIDING ON COBBLESTONE

  Morrison felt winter made him sharper. With everyone wrapped in layers, their hats pulled down low, their collars up high, and the elements assaulting his senses, he was forced to pay even closer attention to the finer details, where and whenever he could find them.

  He had spotted Lavish Learmouth on Chatham Street while he was making his way toward the Avenue. Lavish was wearing a long, heavy overcoat that made him look as wide as he was tall, but he wasn’t very tall. Of course, it was freezing cold out, but for Lavish this garb looked a little too functional, not really his style, not his cut. Morrison decided to follow.

  He was using this quiet Sunday morning to catch up on reports and other paperwork that he could no longer avoid. He hated being chained to his desk like that, getting bogged down in the minutiae of his job. He was looking forward to a walk to clear his head. But his head was already beginning to feel cluttered again, now with thoughts of what Lavish might be up to. He watched him waddle past Palmer & Clarke’s Dry Goods and Ready-to-Wear, Douglas’s Hardware, and then around the corner onto the Avenue in the direction of the river. He thought Lavish might drop into Stokes Brothers, the tobacconists, but he just kept on his way.

  Despite the cold, churchgoers were heading to their services. Morrison had been passing clusters of them, families, heading toward All Saints’ and St. Alphonsus. He was still passing them on the Avenue, though not as many now. Lavish, seemingly unable to control his momentum, almost knocked a couple of older ladies to the pavement in front of Elizabeth’s Hat Shop. They stopped and turned to give Lavish what Morrison could only assume were their best dirty looks. Morrison thought that was strange behaviour for Lavish; he was usually very much the gentleman. He wasn’t moving all that quickly, just steadily and rather purposefully. Morrison’s curiosity was building.

  Lavish stopped in front of the Royal Bank at the corner to let the traffic go by. Morrison paused, keeping his distance, but as soon as Lavish crossed Pitt Street, Morrison picked up the pace again. The churchgoers were starting to mingle with commuters walking to and from the docks, and Morrison was becoming anxious not to lose him.

  Where is he going?

  No establishment other than Pickard’s Drug Store would be open on this last block. Lavish walked right past, paused at Riverside Drive to let some light traffic go by, and Morrison ducked into the doorway at Bartlett’s. He spied Lavish looking over his shoulders then crossing the Drive, stepping carefully through the ruts in the snow. Morrison came out of the doorway. He exchanged discreet nods with the traffic cop standing in the middle of the intersection.

  Must be going into the British-American.

  But Lavish passed the hotel entrance.

  Nope.

  It was now beginning to look like Lavish was heading to the docks to catch the ferry. Morrison could hear the church bells ringing.

  Eleven.

  He had better close in on Lavish, but it wasn’t going to be easy. The slope down to the dock started right here. The snow had been swept away or trampled into patches of a snow-ice combination. Haphazardly seasoned with sand and salt, there were slippery parts still exposed. As he shuffled along toward the dock, Lavish braced himself, extending his arm against the side of the British-American.

  There was a gap between the rear of the hotel and the next building. Morrison watched Lavish stop, slowly lower his arm, and steady himself. He walked like he was navigating a minefield. His next step found a patch of icy cobblestone at the entrance to the laneway and suddenly both feet went right out from under him and he landed flat on his back. Not only that, but because of the slope, he slid down and spun a little, pointing head-first like a compass needle north to Detroit before coming to a stop in front of the Detroit Free Press agency office.

  Morrison had to get to him before any of the commuters did, so he hustled up to him with quick, flat-footed steps. At least he was wearing his galoshes. He found Lavish wiggling around like a turtle flipped on its back.

  “Hi, Lavish,” he said, looking down at him.

  “Oh — Detective Morrison. Good morning.”

  “That was a nasty fall. Let me help you up.”

  “No, thanks — I can manage.”

  “Lavish, it’s below freezing and you’re breaking a sweat. Are you feeling all right?”

  “I’m fine. Really, Detective, I can —”

  Morrison found some dry, secure footing. “No, I insist. Let me help.” He grabbed one of Lavish’s flailing arms but couldn’t lift him.

  “Have you put on a little weight, Lavish?” Morrison once had to pick up Lavish and throw him into the back of the police wagon.

  “Not that I’m aware of. You know, if you could just give me a kick and slide me down toward the dock —”

  “Don’t talk nonsense. I think it might be this coat of yours. Maybe if we just got you out of it first….”

  Morrison unbuttoned Lavish’s overcoat and, with Lavish resisting, wrestled the little man’s arms out of it. People were beginning to pay closer attention now, but they were still moving along toward the dock. It was too cold for gawking. Morrison gave the overcoat a pull and Lavish rolled out of it and onto the cobblestone. The detective could barely lift it.

  “You’re packing more than wool here, Lavish. Get up.”

  “It’s not mine.”

  Morrison draped the coat over his shoulder like it was a side of pork. “We’re going up to my office here at the B-A to have a conversation.”

  “But Detective —”

  “Or I hand you and your luggage over to Fields.”

  “No!”

  “You lead.”

  Lavish shuffled back up the hill in his polished dress shoes, now covered in slush and sand. The wind was picking up again. He tightened his silk muffler around his neck and tucked his gloved hands under his arms. A staff member at the hotel saw Morrison coming and held open the door.

  “Morning, Detective.”

  “Lazarus,” said Morrison, “shouldn’t you be home in bed?”

  “Tolley phoned in sick. He beat me to it. Something’s going round. Now I’m workin’ his shift and mine.”

  “Sorry to hear that. Is my room available?”

  “Yes, sir. It’s been slow lately. Lots of cancellations. You want me to help you with that?” Lazarus was pointing at the coat.

  “No, I got it. Give me about ten minutes; Mr. Learmouth here will need a taxi when we come back down.”

  Lazarus kept glancing over at Lavish, who was still shivering in his suit.

  “Yes, sir.”

  With his free hand, Morrison waved Lavish up the stairs. “After you.”

  Lavish had been to Morrison’s office at the British-American before. It was a dingy room on the third floor that Morrison liked to use for interrogations and dealings of his own. He paused at the first landing to let the detective catch up. Morrison weighed in at almost three bills, but despite that, as well as the booze and cigars, his engine was still in good form. Everyone figured he would just drop one day with no warning and with a smile on his face.

  Room 3b was around the corner from the landing. Lavish stepped aside and Morrison paused and tilted himself forward slightly to better balance the weight of the coat while he searched his pockets. He pulled out a ring of keys with a bottle opener as a fob and jingled them around until the right one fell between his fat fingers. When he opened the door he gestured for Lavish to enter.

  It was just this side of shabby. There was a time the British-American was fancy, but that was back when hotels offered a toilet on every floor. Now they offered one in every room. They were falling behind the times. Morrison let the overcoat slide off his shoulder and onto the bed.

  “We had an agreement,” he said to button-lip
ped Lavish Learmouth.

  “I told you it’s not mine,” Lavish repeated.

  “Don’t insult me with talk like that.” Morrison pulled his automatic knife, a Presto, out of his hip pocket and got to work on the lining of the overcoat. “I could have hauled you into headquarters, but I didn’t want you to suffer the embarrassment.”

  Lavish turned away. He couldn’t bear to watch.

  “There must be five or six dozen flasks in here, Lavish.”

  “Sixty-six.” He thought he should let Morrison know right then and there that he was going to be keeping a strict inventory.

  “Who’s your tailor? That Jew whose brother has the speak on Erie Street?”

  Morrison removed one of the flasks from its sleeve, opened it, and took a long drag on it. Lavish protested.

  “Detective!”

  Morrison wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “We have a deal, Lavish: You keep the information coming and I turn a blind eye to your bootlegging activities. Our deal includes a standing appointment Friday afternoons, and you stood me up last week. And the information in previous weeks has been a little, shall we say, on the light side. And then you go and pull something like this?” Morrison was pointing at the coat.

  “I’m sorry, Detective.”

  “Sorry nothing. I’m confiscating this whisky. It’s good stuff too, by the way.”

  “All of it?”

  “All of it. Now, where did you get it? Are you doing a job for someone?”

  Looking down, Lavish counted the stains on the carpet and suddenly noticed the bed had been moved. Only by about a foot. He wondered what it might be covering up. Something fresh.

  “Yeah, it belongs to Jacobs — his brother, that is.”

  “I heard he was moving some inventory.”

  “He paid me fifty bucks and said I could keep the coat. I’m supposed to be meeting a guy in Detroit right about now.”

  “A friend of yours? Is he a professional?”

  “No, on both counts.”

  “Forget about him then. And forget about Jacobs. Listen, I’ll give you a chance to earn it back.”

  “How?”

  Morrison stole another sip from the flask and took a step closer to Lavish. “I’ve been feeling a little in the dark lately, and it’s not just because of the time of year. I’ll give you two days to come across with something good for me.”

  “Like what?” said Lavish, blinking.

  “Start with Shorty Morand. Ask around; I want to know what he’s been up to. I’ve been hearing things. I’ll keep your shipment safely locked up here. Depending on the quality of the information you have for me, and how quickly you get it to me, determines how much of it you get back.”

  “What is it about Morand?”

  “I don’t know. And I can’t go poking around for no reason. He knows my habits, he knows my routine.”

  Morrison pocketed a fresh flask and the two headed back downstairs. Morrison could see Lazarus helping guests with their bags, taking them out to awaiting taxis. When he returned, Morrison approached him.

  “Here’s money to cover a ride home for Mr. Learmouth.” Morrison handed Lazarus a five. “Also, no one goes in that room.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’ll be back tonight.” Lazarus went out to hail another taxi and Morrison turned to Lavish. “Remember: two days. If you come up with anything right away, I’ll be at my desk, shuffling paper, otherwise, leave me a message here at the hotel. I’ll be checking in regularly.”

  “Got it.”

  Morrison headed back through the doors and out into the cold, patting the bulge in his breast pocket. It would definitely improve the coffee at headquarters.

  — Chapter 3 —

  TUMBLERS

  “And then Gorski brought up the Guard.”

  “Jesus, Shorty.” McCloskey was standing with his back to the middle of three floor-to-ceiling, half moon–shaped windows that were squinting at Riverside Drive, one hand pressed against his forehead and the other resting on his hip. The room, which actually took up the entire third floor of the building, was empty. He was wrapping up an inspection of the refinished floor when Shorty arrived. Shorty appeared a little more anxious than usual so he had asked him to go first. So far, he wasn’t liking what he was hearing.

  “You told me,” said Shorty, “to show some initiative.”

  “Yeah, but more along the lines of your deal with those boys in Rouge. This is a little different. Not only does it sound like a waste of time but it’s also going to fill the boys’ heads with a bunch of nonsense.”

  Shorty appealed. “Jack, you know I don’t buy into any of this bunk about the Guard, but why not let us run with this lost fortune thing for just a few days if for any other reason than to clear the air of it, and then we’ll get back to regular business and never touch it again.”

  McCloskey reached in his breast pocket for his cigar case. He gave it a squeeze and it popped open. His last three White Owls. He pulled one, snipped the end with the cutter he kept tucked in his vest, then started patting his other pockets, looking for his matches. Shorty came forward with his.

  “What was it you told Mud?”

  McCloskey was getting the cigar going.

  “I told him until Friday at midnight — and, Jack, that’s not to say we’ll turn away any business that falls in our laps in the meanwhile.”

  “You’re damn right,” said McCloskey. “Show me this key again.”

  Shorty handed it to McCloskey, who turned to the window and examined it closely in the northern light.

  “Shorty, there isn’t a single scratch on this key.”

  “So?”

  “So how do you know it’s ever poked a lock?”

  “Maybe the lock hasn’t been poked yet,” said Shorty. “C’mon, let me run with this, Jack.”

  McCloskey returned it to Shorty. “All right, you run with it, but I want to be kept informed. And if I come across any leads I want you and the boys to follow up on, I don’t care what day or hour it is, you’re going to drop whatever it is you’re doing and get back to work.”

  “Got it.”

  “You can tell the gang we talked,” said McCloskey, “but this is your game. I’ve got enough on my plate right now.”

  Shorty saw this as an opportunity to change the subject. He looked around. “So this is our new place?”

  “Like it?” McCloskey walked out into the middle of the floor. “It still needs some work. I’ve got some guys coming back tomorrow to check the wiring before we finish the walls.”

  Shorty was inspecting some of the details. “Nice,” he said.

  “The previous tenants, they went under. I guess even insurance firms lose the occasional bet.”

  “One too many in this case. I have a question,” said Shorty.

  “Shoot.”

  “How are we going to get the pool tables in here? In the last place, Green had them hoisted from the alleyway up and through a freight door, you know, like a piano. I don’t see any way we can squeeze these tables in.” He looked around. “Unless we’re having them assembled in here.”

  “I changed my mind. We’re not going back into the billiards business.”

  This caught Shorty a little off guard. “What sort of business are we going into then?” And by business, he meant their front operation.

  McCloskey pulled a small silver case out of his other breast pocket, one not nearly big enough to house a row of cigars. He pried it open, lifted out a vellum business card, and presented it to Shorty.

  BORDER CITIES WRECKING AND SALVAGE

  Surplus and Used Auto Parts

  Domestic and International Sales

  112-16 Mercer St. PHONE SENECA 1008

  Shorty blinked. “Wrecking and salvage, Jack?”

  “We’re going to buy for pocket change any old clunkers we can get our hands on, chop them up and sell the parts — on both sides of the border. It’s a growing business and very profitable. Pay next to not
hing for the car and its parts for, I don’t know, 500 percent? Anyway, that’s the legit part.”

  “I’m with you so far,” said Shorty.

  “These parts we’re moving around, we pack them with straw, newspaper, and a few bottles of rye. That’s how it’s going to work and that’s how it’s going to get done, and in a few months we’ll be moving more whisky than headlights.”

  “All right … but do you know much about this stuff, Jack?”

  “Not much, but I know people who do. We just need to put our heads together.”

  “The address …” Shorty was examining the card again, turning it over and over, looking for some sort of clue. It all sounded good but he had a feeling he was missing something.

  “I just signed the papers. Used to belong to this fellow named Sklash. He’s retiring. We can talk more about that later.” Jack was excited now and started pacing about the room. “The finer points of the deal need to be work out.” He checked his watch. “Oh — I’m late for another meeting. Tell Gorski and Mud I’ll be touching base with them about all this — sometime next week.”

  “We’re still using the British-American?” said Shorty.

  “Yeah, for now. And keep me up to speed on your quest or whatever this is, okay?”

  “Sure, boss.” Shorty touched the brim of his hat and tucked the business card away. He started slowly down the narrow stairwell but then picked up his pace to the point where he almost collided with a passerby on the sidewalk. He stopped, noticed his hand was hurting, and realized he was squeezing the key again. Jack had taken the news better than he thought he would. Shorty guessed it helped that Jack had other things on his mind. He looked up and down the Drive. Wrecking and salvage, he said to himself. He crossed the street to the Crawford Hotel, where the guys were waiting for him in the bar.

  “So what did he say?” said Mud.

  Shorty looked around the bar. Reformed, all of them. The place had been busted one too many times in the past couple weeks and was now bone dry. The Crawford had lost its protection and its game, and now most of the rooms upstairs were empty. The rummies had moved on, but they’d be back.