Border City Blues 3-Book Bundle

by Michael Januska

  “Oh, Jack. Who did it?”

  “That’s the thing, we haven’t got a clue. I’m not saying any more.”

  “Okay,” said Clara.

  He stood up.

  “What’s the hurry?”

  “I just remembered I’ve got some furniture being delivered to the new office shortly. I promised I’d help the guys move it in.”

  “How’s the shoulder?”

  He was walking toward his coat. “Right as rain.”

  She got up to unlock the door for him.

  “Take care of yourself, Jack.”

  “You bet. Thanks for the drink.”

  — Chapter 28 —

  A DARKNESS FROM WITHIN

  Laforet greeted Campbell at reception; he started talking when they got inside the elevator.

  “I opened up Lapointe. His entire digestive tract, his lungs, were packed with coal. You have to see this. I haven’t finished cleaning him up yet, so your timing is perfect.”

  Campbell drew back the brass scissor gates, and then the heavy brass door. He closed it up behind him and Laforet moved quickly toward the swinging door into his lab. The doctor was already tying his apron behind his back by the time Campbell caught up.

  “How is that even possible?”

  The room was dim except for where Laforet was working.

  “Come.”

  The mortuary table that Lapointe was on stood apart from the other tables, near one of the long counters. Two very bright surgical lights stood over the body, shining down on it. A smaller, white enamel table, also on wheels and positioned an arm’s reach away, had a top no larger than the tray that was resting on it. There were a few instruments on it as well as Laforet’s rubber gloves. He stretched them back on, pulling them up to his wrists.

  The doctor had indeed opened up Lapointe. He was cut from his Adam’s apple to his pubic bone, his ribs cut laterally and chest plate removed. Campbell was leaning over the body cavity, his hands behind his back.

  “I never would have believed it unless I saw it for myself. The physical evidence suggests the coal coming from the inside of the body out, as if it expanded from within him, rather than it being stuffed into him at either end.”

  “The physical evidence?”

  “The way the organ tissue was stretched and torn, the rib damage.” Laforet was shaking his head. “The victim’s tongue should have been jammed down his throat — it wasn’t. His stomach, his esophagus, his throat, everything I’m looking at is consistent with a body producing internally a foreign matter that found the paths of least resistance, forcing itself out.”

  Campbell was letting his eyes rake over the sooty organs. Without looking up, he said, “Based on what you’re telling me, I’m surprised the coal didn’t just burst through his abdomen.”

  “So am I. But there weren’t any particularly large pieces. What I’ve pulled out of him so far is in that washbasin.”

  Laforet gestured toward a medium-size basin over on the countertop. It was almost overflowing with coal. Campbell hadn’t noticed it in the dim light. He walked over to have a closer look.

  “You’ll notice there are no pieces with sharp points or jagged edges. None are much bigger than a walnut. A lot of it’s like gravel, some of it’s like sand. That’s why it’s taking me so long.”

  Lying next to the basin were Lapointe’s chest plate and his other major organs, everything but his lungs and gastrointestinal tract. Campbell gave them a cursory glance.

  “Nothing else unusual?”

  “Not that I could see. An otherwise healthy specimen.”

  Campbell came back around. “I know this will sound like a stupid question, but you know I have to ask it: How did he die?”

  “Choked or suffocated. Take your pick. Whatever it was, I think it started slowly, and then finished him off quickly.”

  “What’s your report going to say?”

  “I don’t know yet. I’m not finished. I was about to remove the stomach and bowels and attempt to flush them out.”

  They were already small slits in them.

  “One more time, Laforet: How is this possible?”

  The doctor rested his hands on the edge of the table and leaned forward, out of the dim light of the room and into the surgical light.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “It just isn’t possible.”

  “And yet ...” said Campbell, looking down again at the body splayed open in front of them. “Now you know how I feel.”

  Laforet knew what Campbell was referring to. “I’m sorry about last night.”

  “Now you have an idea where my mind is right now.”

  “Not entirely,” smiled Laforet. “You have to leave at least some of yourself to mystery.”

  “It’s only natural,” said Campbell. He paused. “You’re the one who pulled that bullet out of Jack McCloskey last summer, weren’t you?”

  Laforet stiffened a little. “Yes. He’s lucky to be alive.”

  “Point blank range, from what I understand.”

  “He lost a lot of blood.”

  “The other night, at the stable, was that the first time he’d seen you since then?”

  “Yes, well … it was a long recovery. I was concerned, and I visited him a number of times after the surgery to follow up.”

  “It looked like he might not make it?”

  Laforet gave a sigh. “Oh, I knew he’d make it, physically. Once he fully regained consciousness, I spoke with him. He had no recollection of the event that brought him to me, the trip to the hospital or the surgery, or his recovery. There was a convalescence … I always thought he was recovering from more than the bullet wound.”

  “He’s a vet, isn’t he?”

  “Yes,” said Laforet, “as well as a few other things.”

  Campbell glanced over toward the other tables, still parked at the end of the room. “And his other friend over there, the one they call Three Fingers, his wounds, don’t you find them as curious to you as this man’s?”

  “They are.”

  “Remember what Zahra said yesterday morning? ‘There will be more’?”

  “It’s been echoing in the back of my head all morning.”

  “I just met with McCloskey. He doesn’t have much to say about all of this — not yet, at least.”

  “If you don’t mind my asking, is he hiding something?”

  “Definitely.”

  “Does he know who the assailant or assailants might be?”

  “He says he doesn’t, and I believe him on that point.”

  “But you have other questions?”

  “Yes.”

  Laforet knew that when Campbell started with the one-word answers he should quit with the questions. He gave Campbell some breathing space, and then he opened up again.

  “I wonder if when Zahra said there would be more Lapointe was all she meant. I don’t need to tell you this, Laforet, but I’d rather none of the details about his and Three Fingers’s deaths leave this room. I’ll only share them with McCloskey if I think it will get him to open up.”

  Laforet nodded.

  “I’ll show myself out.”

  — Chapter 29 —

  BETWEEN TWO WORLDS

  Vera Maude was glad she didn’t have to wander too far in this weather to grab some lunch: Andros Brothers’ Confectionery was on the same block, just the other side of Woolworths.

  Winter wasn’t half over, but she was already getting tired of bundling up and burying herself under layers; all she did before heading out was tuck her hair into her red suede tam, give it a peak, and throw on her coat without bothering with the belt. And nix to her gloves and muffler. When she got outside, she shoved her hands deep in her coat pockets and folded one and then the other panel across her front.

  There was a wind, but it wasn’t bringing any snow, at least not yet. Of course she had to bump into a few shoppers going in and coming out of the five-and-dime because she had her head down while they had their hopes up. She caught her
beacon — the Andros Brothers’ neon sign — just in time before passing it, and it signalled CANDY, SODA, AND LIGHT LUNCHES.

  Andros Brothers’ wasn’t really much of a sit-down kind of place, not like the other Border City diners and cafeterias. For starters, it was too narrow, and it had no real kitchen. Inside the entrance and to the left was a cluster of small, marble-topped bistro tables with curved metal chairs. Patrons willing to brave the occasional gust from the open door occupied a few of them. The tin ceiling, painted white, reminded Vera Maude of a shop in SoHo she would visit when she needed to calm her raging sweet tooth. The candy and sweets also kept her off the cigarettes. To her right and after the space on the floor reserved for those kind and generous enough to take a number was the showcase featuring today’s freshest, most eye-catching confections. While gawking, she was buffeted by bodies moving in all directions, making their lunch-break sorties. It reminded her she had better keep moving.

  This showcase was joined at a right angle with the main display area and counter that ran the length of the place. The penny candy selection was an organized chaos arranged around the register, enabling the person attending it to keep an eye on any children with particularly sticky fingers. Next was the soda fountain station: a shiny, sweet version of the control panel on a locomotive; and then the lunch counter with its polished colonnade of leather-capped stools. The rear was close and humid, packed with patrons and insulated with the smells of hot lunch and damp wool. Even with the traffic moving the way it was, she wondered if she would be able to get a seat. When she turned around, prepared to eat her lunch huddled by the door, she noticed the first stool after the soda fountain was now available. Someone was heading toward it. She hustled, nearly sliding on the greasy slush that covered half the floor. She won the race, much to the chagrin of the young bank teller from next door.

  “Hi,” she called to the man behind the counter who looked as if he had been rolled into the apron he was wearing, “do you have any soup?”

  “Of course I got soup. I got a nice beef barley and a French Canadian pea soup. I make both this morning.”

  “I’ll have the pea soup.”

  “Sure.”

  “Oh — excuse me, are there biscuits with that?” He was already on the move and it was probably her last chance to place a bid before he was out of earshot. She upped and leaned into it. “And could I get a tea?”

  I know how to get served. And I’m not talking court orders.

  He turned and gave her a nod without missing a step as he made his way to the soup tureens. This Andros brother knows how to get people on and off these stools, thought Vera Maude.

  He was back in no time with a piping hot bowl, as wide as it was deep, and a side plate with a couple buttermilk biscuits on it. Vera Maude immediately started stirring the soup, sending a few pieces of the salt pork to the surface. She blew gently on her first steaming, thick spoonful.

  Delicious.

  She gave it another stir and then started breaking up one of the biscuits, dipping the largest piece first. Relaxing now, she let her mind wander back to the most obvious issue at hand.

  So, Jack McCloskey, what’s your excuse? Do you really not remember me? I know it was only a few hours out of your busy bootlegging life, but really! How many girls are you going through in any given week? Or am I that forgettable?

  The fellow sitting next to Vera Maude was attempting to pry himself from between her and the person sitting on the other side of him. Luckily, she was last on the row and could widen the gap a little. And good thing she wasn’t left-handed or this spoonful of pea soup would have ended up on her blouse, leaving a stain that would be like a ticket inviting her male customers to stare at her chest.

  She looked around as she continued to spoon the yellow goodness into her mouth, all the while trying to remain conscious of the time. She spotted the Ward’s Orange Crush clock on the wall behind the soda fountain station. Time enough, she thought.

  She turned toward the door to check on the conditions outside, and much to her relief it looked about the same, though now that she was all warmed up inside from the soup, she dreaded heading back out into it. She noticed the ceiling again. A different kind of light was hitting it at this end of the long room. She returned to her soup, thinking about New York again, about the Village, about him.

  Out of sight, out of mind. I’m not even going to give him the satisfaction of thinking his name.

  “Bill,” she said out loud to her soup.

  Damn it.

  She put her spoon down and pushed the bowl away.

  “More?” Half of the Brothers Andros suddenly appeared out of nowhere. He never seemed to stop moving back and forth behind the counter. It was like there a little conveyer belt on the floor back there.

  “No, thanks.” I’ve had enough of him — it. I’ve had enough of it. He — “It was delicious.”

  She managed to get out another “thanks,” but he was already heading back toward the sink where it looked like Mama Andros had her hands full. Vera Maude stopped her mouth with the last piece of biscuit before she embarrassed herself any further.

  “Hey, George!”

  That got everyone’s attention. An older gentleman had just entered, calling out to none other than the Andros brother who’d been waiting on her. It looked like he was some kind of a regular. Next time she’ll call him by name, and try not to behave like such a ninny.

  Vera Maude slid down off the stool, made sure she still had her gloves and her purse, and headed down to the register. Before the girl totalled it up, Vera Maude asked her to add a dime’s worth of Tootsie Rolls.

  That should get me through the afternoon.

  “Thanks.”

  — Chapter 30 —

  CAN’T FIND THE WORDS

  As anxious as Campbell was to get back to Madame Zahra about yesterday morning, he knew he would have to give her some time to regroup, as it were. He also had to remind himself that she ran a business and wasn’t at his beck and call, even though she was part of an ongoing “mysterious death” investigation. That’s what he insisted everyone in the department refer to it as, though with these last two homicides most people had stopped talking about Kaufman. It was on to the next headline.

  This was becoming routine now, and it concerned Campbell not just a little: Sitting with Zahra in her attic apartment and talking over coffee or tea, his concern was that, especially with the Kaufman case, he might be losing his objectivity. On the other hand, he could feel himself changing, as a detective, that is, and he hoped it might be for the better. He remembered what Laforet had said to him in the past about his methods, his approach to certain cases. Maybe with what had been transpiring over these last several days a new dimension was being added to his skills.

  “I’m not going to ask you to come back to the lab with me. I’m not even going to go into any details with you about this latest victim. I will tell you, however, that there are certain similarities between the two cases.”

  She had a fringed scarf tied over her head, but her hair was left hanging loose down her back. She was wearing no makeup. The blouse she wore looked heavy; there was a shawl wrapped around her shoulders. Her skirt almost touched the floor. One of her legs was folded under her. Sitting there like that, with her hot tea cupped in her hands, Zahra looked as if she was recovering from a terrible cold.

  Campbell added, “You had said there would be more.”

  “Now you wish to know how many more.”

  “You can’t tell me, can you?”

  She took another sip from her tea. “No hands touch this body too?”

  “There were no markings on it that would suggest that.” He leaned a little closer to her. “Zahra, have you ever seen anything like this before?”

  “Seen? No, I only hear stories. But where I come from stories … everything is made from stories. They are like water and air, you know?”

  “I understand. But the person or people who are doing this, they are not ju
st stories.”

  “You don’t understand. Sometimes, Detective, there is no difference.”

  “But this is really happening. You’ve seen the bodies.”

  “Yes.”

  He leaned back. “Do you mind if I smoke?”

  “If it pleases you.”

  Campbell lit up the unfinished cigar he had tucked into his breast pocket after breakfast.

  “I’d like to share something with you. Something a little more tangible.”

  She looked sideways at Campbell.

  “I spoke with someone this morning who might tie all, or at least some, of this together for us. The two victims that I’m most interested in right now — the one you saw yesterday, Three Fingers, and the one that arrived overnight, Lapointe — worked for him. He has other people working for him right now. That should explain some of the questions I was asking you — I’ve been trying to figure out if it’s a who or a what this other gang is after. You seemed to feel that there is something in all of this, and I agree. I need to find out what, and I need to stop them before there are any more. I don’t want any more to die because of whatever the hell it is. Will you help me?”

  “Yes, I will.”

  — Chapter 31 —

  BITTER GROUNDS

  They were sitting in a booth at White’s Lunch. Irish Thom had picked the location; he figured he’d be safe there. It was crowded with the usual lunchtime patrons. Shorty got there first; he picked the booth.

  “Keep your voice down,” said Shorty.

  Since there was all of this business to do with the key this week, rather than keep driving in from the county every day under these severe conditions, Thom and Lapointe decided to share a room at the Bridge Hotel on London Street in Sandwich. It was just a little enough out of the way. McCloskey first drove to Shorty’s to give him the news and then he proceeded to the Bridge. He knew the people who ran it, so the hour wasn’t a problem. Thom didn’t take it well.