Border City Blues 3-Book Bundle

by Michael Januska

  “It was a natural reaction.”

  The sounds of the orchestra warming up began to make their way into the dining hall.

  “I had a wild idea,” said Campbell, before he could be drowned out. He was saving this for last.

  “What?”

  “I’d like to bring Zahra into your morgue, have her see Three Fingers’s body.”

  “What do you hope to accomplish by doing that?”

  “It’s an experiment. I want to see what kind, if any, of a reaction we get from her.”

  Laforet sat back in his chair and started drumming the fingers of his right hand slowly on the linen. “All right,” he said. His natural curiosity was working for Campbell. “We can arrange a time in the morning. I plan on being there early.”

  “Thanks.”

  “And let’s try and keep this low-key. I don’t want people thinking I’m turning the morgue into some sort of sideshow venue.”

  “Got it.”

  — Chapter 22 —

  BORDER CITIES AMATEUR ATHLETIC CLUB

  Tuesday evening

  Shorty and Gorski split up after the ferry finally delivered them to Windsor. Gorski went home and Shorty hiked straight over to McCloskey’s place as instructed by the note he had found at the B-A. But in approaching the terrace he could see his apartment was dark. He walked up and into the building and tried McCloskey’s door, just in case. No answer. He figured McCloskey must have got tired of waiting around. He’d have to hunt him down now, or he’d hear about it in the morning. Shorty went to Clara’s apartment first.

  “No, I haven’t seen him all day.”

  “Are you expecting him?” asked Shorty.

  “Nope.”

  Shorty’s concern was rubbing off on her; he could tell.

  “I’ll find him,” said Shorty. “He’s around.”

  They worried quietly about this man. But despite the conversations they were recently having regarding McCloskey’s health — both mental and physical — he was actually in better shape than they thought. His little sabbatical following his convalescence had actually done wonders for him.

  After a couple other stops, Shorty followed up on a lead and finally tracked him down at the Border Cities Amateur Athletic Club — one of McCloskey’s other new homes away from home — on Pitt Street, right next to Royal Lunch. It was a big studio, fully equipped with weights, kettle bells, Indian wands, a medicine ball, mats, towels, and plenty of sweat. There were about a dozen other guys working out here tonight. Nothing much else for these fellows to do this time of year.

  McCloskey was shirtless, punching a bag, making it look like a down-filled pillow. Shorty could see the scar from the bullet hole just below McCloskey’s left shoulder and noticed the asymmetrical pattern to his shoulder muscles. Shorty guessed he was working on evening that out.

  McCloskey stopped swinging when he spotted Shorty standing there still with his hat and coat on. “Where the hell have you been?” He kept punching away.

  “We got stuck in Detroit on account of the ice and went to a vaudeville.”

  “You blew the afternoon at a vaudeville?”

  “And you’ll never guess who we saw on stage.”

  “Who?”

  “Pearl Shipley.”

  McCloskey stopped mid-swing, almost throwing himself off balance. “No.”

  “It was Pearl, I swear. Just ask Gorski.”

  “You’re sure?” said McCloskey.

  Shorty nodded, eyes closed.

  “And Moishe and Ozzie didn’t notice?”

  “They said nothing.”

  “And you didn’t tell?” McCloskey was pointing at Shorty with a taped fist.

  “No, we kept it to ourselves.”

  “Okay, let’s back up. So Moishe and Ozzie had nothing on Baxter?”

  “No — I don’t know. Sometimes I think it was just too much of a coincidence that they’d be taking us to this vaudeville with Pearl in the chorus line.”

  “Like they were leading you to her? Or to Baxter somehow?” McCloskey reached up for his towel. It was looped through the leather straps suspending the punching bag. He wiped his face with it and then draped it over his head. “Wait a minute. They wouldn’t know who she is. She left for California while Baxter was still being spotted on both sides of the river, right?”

  “That’s right,” said Shorty. “I forgot.”

  “Too many questions. Is the show playing again tomorrow?”

  “Same time.”

  “I want you to go back tomorrow and talk to her.”

  “Gotcha.”

  “And go alone,” said McCloskey.

  “Without Gorski?”

  “Without Gorski.”

  McCloskey then asked to see the key again. Shorty handed it to him and McCloskey turned his back on the studio and re-examined the key, still looking for some kind of clue, some hidden meaning. As it got passed back and forth and jostled, buffed in coat pockets, it became shinier. Maybe it was worth something. He handed it back to Shorty.

  “Talk to Pearl.”

  “Will do. Oh, Jack, you might want to check in with Clara. I stopped by her place when I was looking for you. You don’t want to get her all worried on you now, do you?”

  Shorty wanted to say, because she’s been taking good care of you.

  “Thanks.”

  “Hey, I’ve been thinking we should do something for Three Fingers.”

  “I’ve been thinking the same thing,” said McCloskey. “Next time we all get together we can talk about it.”

  “The police are working on the case?” said Shorty.

  “Yeah, a Detective Campbell. Seems like a decent guy. Don’t know all that much about him. I should tell you, I don’t think he’s interested in us.”

  “He’s not into bootleggers.”

  “I guess we’re just not his type,” said McCloskey. “Maybe he prefers blondes.”

  “Anything else? Anything new on the wrecking and salvage front?”

  “I’ve got someone going through the inventory sitting in the yard on Mercer. Getting rid of some dead wood, clearing some space for another garage. It’s going to have quite the cellar, let me tell you.”

  Shorty smiled. Now this was more like it.

  McCloskey went back to the bag, working that left. He appreciated that Shorty left the Guard out of the conversation.

  — Chapter 23 —

  THERE WILL BE MORE

  The tires on Campbell’s Essex had a knack for finding any bare patch of streetcar track along London Street, and when they did, he would always lose control of the vehicle for a split second. It made Madame Zahra want to reach for the dashboard.

  “Do you drive?” he asked when they were stopped behind one of the streetcars as it dropped off a few of its passengers. He knew what the answer would be before he even decided to ask it.

  “No,” she said.

  She was wearing a long coat and had her neck and shoulders wrapped in a heavy shawl covered in what looked to Campbell to be some sort of Oriental print. There were patches of leather in her fur hat, and strings of small beads, some silver, some stone, hung in loops on the sides and back. Her hair must have been pinned up under the hat. Her hands were tucked into a muff. Despite all this, and the fact that it was rather snug in the front of the Essex, especially with all of the winter garb they were wearing, she looked like she was freezing.

  “Isn’t it at least this cold in Belorussia?” He wanted to impress her with his fresh geographic knowledge. Earlier he had dropped by Copeland’s again to see what they had in the way of atlases. They had a copy of the Times atlas published last year. There was no Belorussia; the artificial lines dividing people in the world had once again been redrawn. The maps contained in the atlas clearly identified the new political boundaries of Lithuania and Russia. He recognized the names of the places Zahra had mentioned to him, leaving Campbell with only his imagination to draw a picture of Belarus. He wasn’t satisfied with that. Now it was the bookstor
e sending him to the library. There he found a few older atlases where her homeland was clearly marked. People had always told him how visually oriented he was.

  “Colder. And I always hated cold.”

  The streetcar got moving again. They were approaching Crawford Street now and Campbell looked for a break in the snow banks along London Street, or anything that would indicate a safe entrance into the hospital’s circular drive. He slowed to give himself some distance between him and the streetcar; glancing left, he could now make out the gap and carefully made the turn. The cinder drive was covered in packed snow and he immediately thought how much more convenient it would have been had the cinders been on top of the icy surface rather than locked below it. It was a wide drive; hugging the curb, he parked just beyond the front doors.

  “Hold on a minute,” he said to Zahra.

  He climbed down into a ridge of shovelled snow that was as high as the running board and had to continue through it, taking high steps until he got to the front of the car where it was clear. He stomped the snow off his galoshes as he walked around to the passenger side, and once he got there he opened the door for Zahra and helped her step down.

  Her boots navigated the front steps of the hospital better than his galoshes. She paused at the door and Campbell held it open for her. This was going to be quite an entrance, he thought.

  Inside, it was quiet as a church. Campbell made his way toward the reception area just to the left while Zahra waited, standing in the middle of the lobby, looking not a little uncomfortable. Passersby almost walked into each other as they stared. It was warm inside, even a little humid. She loosened her shawl.

  Campbell peeled off his gloves, pulled his identification from his breast pocket, and showed it to the nurse. “Detective Campbell here to see Dr. Laforet.” The nurse was looking around Campbell at Zahra. Campbell noticed and shifted his position so that she could get a better view. “He’s expecting us,” he said.

  The nurse picked up the phone. It must have rung several times. “Yes, Dr. Laforet? Detective Campbell and —”

  “Madame Zahra,” said Campbell.

  “— Madame Sarah are here … very well.” She hung up. “He’ll be right up.”

  The detective and the medium shuffled around the lobby, trying to stay out of people’s way. The chairs were occupied, so they stood. It wasn’t long before Laforet surfaced.

  “Sorry for the wait.” Laforet smiled and gave Zahra a very continental bow. “Please, follow me.”

  More heads turned as the doctor led them to the elevator, bringing them to the basement. The new wing had been open only for a couple of months now, and the administration was still deciding on how to allocate a few vacant spaces in the building. Apparently they wanted to see how the building functioned in full operation before making any of those final decisions. While Laforet’s laboratory had a temporary feel to it — coming from the fact that he was only using about a third of the space and there was furniture piled in a corner — it was still far better than the conditions he was used to working in. He had a feeling the space might get further carved up. The doctor entered first and held one of the swinging double doors open for his visitors.

  Zahra froze as soon as she entered, and Campbell almost walked into her.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  She looked white.

  “Yes,” she said and proceeded slowly, seemingly with caution.

  When Laforet didn’t hear any footsteps, he turned around and saw his tour group was lingering at the gates, likely due to Zahra’s unfamiliarity with such an environment. He looked at Campbell, standing behind her but to the side, and Campbell nodded and raised his hands slightly, as if to say, It’s all right; let’s just let Zahra set the pace. Laforet took Campbell’s cue and walked over to his desk.

  “This is probably where I do half my work,” said the doctor. “Not very exciting or particularly interesting. Coffee?” He had a drip coffee maker standing on one half of a dual, coil-element hotplate, the footprint of which was no larger that the tall, white-enamelled table it rested on.

  “No, thanks,” said Campbell. “Zahra?”

  She shook her head. It occurred to Campbell that she had not said a word since entering the building. The detective and the doctor kept glancing at each other.

  “Madame,” said Laforet, “may I take your things?”

  She handed the doctor her muff and then unravelled her scarf from her neck and handed him that too. She left on her headgear. She unbuttoned her coat slightly. It looked like it might have taken a major operation removing it. Campbell left his hat on a coat rack that stood just inside the door.

  Zahra couldn’t seem to take her eyes off the mortuary tables at the end of the long room. While she was hesitating, she at the same time appeared drawn to them. Meanwhile, the doctor needed to keep things moving along. His work was piling up, as it were.

  “Shall we?” he said, extending an arm toward the tables.

  Campbell touched Zahra’s shoulder and the trio moved forward, past a couple of countertops, one empty and the other covered in lab equipment — some as yet to be unpacked; stacks of wooden stools and a chalkboard perhaps meant for instructional purposes. Their footsteps on the tile floor echoed through the mostly empty space. It wasn’t Campbell’s imagination; the room actually got colder the nearer they got to the tables. There were five of them, on wheels, standing side by side. Four of them were occupied, the bodies covered by a sheet, one of which Campbell and Zahra could see now was stained.

  The two men let Zahra break away as soon as she started moving quicker toward the bodies. Laforet had arranged them in no particular order. It could be a sort of shell game. They silently watched her move between one and the other. Campbell did not know which was which, though he had a pretty good idea where Three Fingers was resting.

  One of the bodies, the one to the far right, held no interest or fascination for Zahra. She returned to the one that was second from the right, the one with the stains. She gently pressed her hand on the torso and then the head, and then turned to Laforet.

  “May I?” she said.

  Laforet looked at Campbell, and Campbell gave him a look that must have said, That’s what we’re here for.

  “Let me help you,” said Laforet, and he walked around the other side and positioned himself between the wall and the head. Campbell followed and stood opposite Zahra.

  “Are you sure you are all right with this, madame?”

  She looked at Campbell, and Campbell suddenly remembered what she had told him about how she had practically run through battlefields to escape her country. Campbell gave the doctor a nod, and Laforet folded the sheet down until it was at the bottom of Three Fingers’ ribs.

  Campbell watched her reaction the whole time. She didn’t flinch; she didn’t even blink. It was as if she knew exactly what was under the sheet before it was even lifted. Her reaction came the moment she stepped into the room.

  “Zahra?”

  She looked up at Campbell. “No one touched him,” she said.

  The two men looked at each other.

  “Is that what you’re telling us?” Campbell asked.

  “Not with their hands,” she said and then moved around to the next table. They followed Zahra’s lead. She seemed unable to settle between this table and the next. She stood between them for a moment with her eyes closed, but that somehow seemed involuntary. There was an unmistakable shiver, and then her eyes opened, and when they did, she was staring straight at Laforet. He would say later to Campbell that the sensation he was experiencing right then was of someone speaking directly to him, but without moving their lips. It was something in her eyes.

  Zahra then removed the sheet from the body next to Three Fingers, turned, and removed the next. Campbell would have never thought it possible, but these guys looked even worse than Three Fingers, and not just because they had been sitting around a couple more days.

  “These men … they did not know. B
ut they were wrong to be there.”

  Campbell knew these to be the two bootleggers that were thrown from the train outside of town on the weekend. They were carrying identification and Laforet was still waiting for instructions from the next of kin. The police had a hard time tracking them down. These bootleggers weren’t from the Border Cities.

  Zahra glanced back over at Three Fingers.

  “Is there a connection between the first body and these two, Zahra?”

  She was looking a little overcome, like this was something she never expected, and something she had never felt before. Campbell looked over at Laforet, who remained as stoic as ever, and then went over and gently pulled Zahra away from the bodies. As he did this, the only other thing she said was, “Kaufman is not with them.” Campbell glanced back at the fourth table and then at Laforet, who was pulling the sheets back over the other bodies.

  The farther they got away from the bodies, the warmer it became in the room. Campbell noticed for the first time the electric space heater in the corner behind Laforet’s desk, the bars glowing dimly. He pulled out the chair and swivelled it around.

  “Zahra, here, why don’t you just take a moment and sit down, warm yourself up?”

  He wanted to catch any image, thought, or sensation she might be holding within her before it was lost or buried. She slumped down in the wooden office chair, her fingers loosely folded together and hands resting on her lap. She was staring blankly at the floor. He squatted in front of her and gripped each arm of the chair, trying to lift her eyes with his. He spoke softly.

  “Now, tell me, Zahra, what did you see? What was it you were feeling?”

  It was clear to Laforet that Campbell’s interest in all of this was becoming something more than of an investigative nature, more than just clinical. He maintained his distance but observed closely.

  “What did you see?” repeated Campbell.

  “There will be more,” said Zahra as she looked straight into Campbell’s eyes, “more will die.”

  “Who?’ asked Campbell. “Who will die?”