Shorty was thinking, You’re asking because you want to see him or because you want to avoid being seen by him? The rest of them were thinking the same thing. They had each one of them been down that same road at some point with McCloskey, so, without discussion, they somehow agreed to drop it.
“No,” said Shorty, returning to the sports pages. “He had some business to take care of. Meanwhile, we’re waiting on a few things.”
“Jack adopted himself a pet Chinaman,” said Gorski.
“What?” said Jefferson.
“Last night Jack and Shorty pulled a Chinaman out of the river,” said Gorski. “Jack’s probably training him to go on the papers as we speak.”
“Enough of that,” said Mud.
“The Chinese, Quan Lee is his name, and one of his compatriots got dumped in the river,” said Shorty. “As the story goes, they paid someone to smuggle them across the border. Quan Lee made it back to shore. The other one’s probably still floating downriver, or washed up on Fighting Island.”
“Shit,” said Linc.
“So is Quan in the gang now?” asked Jefferson, worried that his already small piece of the pie just got that much smaller.
“No,” said Shorty. “Jack’s going to have him fry noodles at the club. He’s not our problem. And if you need to talk to Jack, he said he’d be back around noon.”
Jefferson grabbed the discarded front section of the Star on the workbench. “Harding’s dead?”
No one better to change the subject than a dead president.
“You should try to keep up on current events,” said Mud.
“He had a heart attack,” said Shorty, “or something like that. Coolidge is going to get sworn in.”
“Man alive,” said Linc.
“Not so much,” said Jefferson, still reading. “We’re getting out the black crepe?”
“Means nothing to us,” said Gorski.
“It depends,” said Shorty. “Events like this, you’re either distracted from drink or you drink to distraction. It’ll probably all even out.”
“Back to this Quan guy,” said Jefferson, “does he know about us, I mean all about us?”
“No,” said Shorty, pivoting on his heel. “I don’t know. What’s it matter?”
“The gang sure is getting colourful,” said Gorski.
“I told you, he’s not in the gang.”
“Whatever you say,” said Gorski. He raised the paper and leaned back in his chair.
“So do we have any crates ready?” asked Linc, hoping a little work might settle things down to the normal amount of tension.
“We’re supposed to pick up some from Hong’s. You two can go fetch them, along with some straw from the creamery. When you get back, you can stencil the crates and start packing. Mud’s got the parts set to go.”
“What are we moving?” asked Jefferson.
“Seventy-three steering wheels,” said Shorty. “Makes your handful of spark plugs pale by comparison.”
“Seventy-three steering wheels?” said Linc. “Where are we … how did we get seventy-three steering wheels?”
“This guy was collecting them,” explained Gorski. “He kicked a few weeks ago and his wife has been cleaning house.”
“Who collects steering wheels?” Jefferson asked.
“Why do people collect anything?” replied Shorty.
“So where are they going?” asked Linc.
“To another collector,” said Gorski.
“Okay,” said Jefferson, “what else?”
“This other guy is also collecting gin,” said Shorty. “Fellas, this is easy money. We’re just the brokers here.”
“And where’d we get the gin?” asked Jefferson.
“From the widow. After the husband died she took the oath,” said Shorty.
“I’m confused.”
“Why do I get the feeling there’s more to this story?” said Linc.
“You don’t want to know,” said Shorty.
Linc and Jefferson headed out to what was referred to as the “company car,” a beat-up old Ford TT stake-bed truck. Actually, it looked like pieces from a bunch of other trucks put together. They called her Betsy and they kept her parked perpendicular to the entrance of the yard as kind of a “do not enter” sign. Border City Creamery was just around the corner so that would be the boys’ first stop. When they climbed in, Linc was behind the wheel. Jefferson reached in his jacket pocket for his cigarettes.
“Hey, I told you I’m not comfortable with you smoking in this thing.”
“You seriously think if I light up in this car it’s going to blow us to smithereens?”
“Can’t you just do this one thing for me?”
Linc was always saying that.
“All right.” Jefferson pocketed his cigarettes and let Linc negotiate the reverse, turn, and the roll out of the yard onto Mercer Street, smoke-free.
They were quiet for a moment before Linc said, “What did Gorski mean when he said, The gang sure is getting colourful?”
“Just ignore him,” said Jefferson. “I told you, if you’re going to listen to anyone, listen to Mud.”
“I know, I know. But Mud doesn’t say much.”
“All the more reason to listen.”
— Chapter 4 —
THE PURGE
Detective Morrison was sitting at his desk at police headquarters, skimming the morning edition of the Star, which waited for him on his desk each morning. He read it to stay on top of things, more the reason if he might happen to be the one creating the news. He had to know what message the readership — including the police department — was getting, what their opinions were, and how they were reacting to things. He had to try to decipher it all, and then form a plan of action before finishing his first coffee of the day.
It was a grimy, unnamed street urchin who had recently started delivering copies of the first edition to the detectives, with Compliments of the Star scrawled along the margin of the fold. Morrison pictured the kid squatting, sitting on the flatbed of the loading truck with his legs tucked under him, grammar primer on his knees for a writing surface, his tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth, and a type-written note that had been handed to him by a boss only two years his senior. After the war, kids learned the ropes from other kids.
The detective always started at The Third Page. That’s where the news of arrests, petty crimes, court reports, and general misbehaviour landed. He wouldn’t even take his hat and coat off before settling like a rumpled landslide into his chair, with the column opened and his coffee parked within reach, where his mug had tattooed a ring on his desk.
POLICE MAKE RAID ARREST TWO CHINESE
Cocaine and Opium Paraphernalia Are Found Authorities Say Determined Effort to Be Made to Ban Narcotics
In an effort to purge the Border Cities of the evil of the drug traffic, local and federal police are working together to entirely eradicate traffic in narcotics. Last night a raiding party, composed of Sergeants Byng, Pereau, Acting Sergeant Richmond and Constables O’Dell and Hawkeswood, raided the premises of Lo Ying, 117 Sandwich Street East, and arrested Lo and another Chinese, Lo Wing.
The police state that a considerable quantity of cocaine was found on Lo Ying, while an opium pipe, opium lamp, and all the paraphernalia of the opium addict was found in the possession of Lo Wing, together with a considerable quantity of opium.
This makes the second arrest in a week, a considerable quantity of drugs being seized when Yong Poy was arrested last week by a detachment of RCMP officers. The police state a determined effort will be made to stop the traffic of the peddlers, and also those who are bringing drugs into Windsor to smuggle them into the United States.
An unwelcome phone call in the middle of the night had informed Morrison of the raid. He had had a feeling something was brewing.
There were scant details and no names mentioned, but he recognized the voice at the other end and caught its drift. It was Hawkeswood. Morrison knew that the co
nstable enjoyed this sort of thing — the risk, the secrets, and the games that could be played. Morrison was also aware that someone like Hawkeswood could be dangerous; luckily he knew how to make a constable dangerous only to himself.
Hawkeswood claimed he didn’t know the raid was “going to bolt,” as he put it, until he was tapped to be part of the team just minutes before. That also gave Morrison some concern — it meant that either the Mounties were holding their cards that close or that, though needed, Hawkeswood was beginning to look suspicious to certain members of this already tightly wound force and might be expendable.
But Morrison had to set all that aside for the moment. Right now he wanted to know what Star subscribers were reading about. And he would have to give this morning’s edition as close a read as he did every morning, line by line, word by word, to make sure there was nothing buried in code. He licked his already ink-stained thumb and turned the page, blackening the tip of his tongue, and shifted his attention to Border Briefs.
Break and enter … vagrancy … drunkenness … speeding … causing bodily harm …
He turned next to the classifieds to look for any other possible messages. His communicants rotated their categories weekly. Last week it was automobiles, the week before that it was real estate. This week it was supposed to be livestock. He skimmed the ads.
Airedales for sale … a bull terrier … foxes. “Three live red foxes. Three months old; two males, one female.” People buy dead foxes? … Wait, who buys foxes? … Barred rocks … what the hell is a barred rock?
He felt he needed a new codebook because these people already seemed to be speaking another language.
Nothing here.
Morrison didn’t like nothing. What he liked was information, even the wrong information — the lies, the boasts, the shilling for a buck. All of it told him something, if not directly then at least it would help him draw a picture. Never nothing. To him, nothing always meant that something wasn’t right.
Regardless, last night’s raid meant he had to check in with his contacts. They had to be careful, lest they got caught in the net of this so-called purge. He didn’t want them, but he needed them. He also needed the cops that, unbeknownst to them, were being used by him to run interference. He couldn’t cut them loose, not easily at least, and not without creating bigger problems or increasing risk. There was already enough of that. He had to keep these so-called law enforcement officers held in position, looking in other directions while he went about his business.
For now, he was like a hotel operator working two switchboards, one carrying the facts and the other carrying disinformation. This was his currency, his stock and trade. He just had to make sure the wires never got crossed. It wasn’t easy. He trusted no one and he never put anything to paper. He carried it all around in his head. But there were fissures forming.
He lifted himself out of his chair, folded the newspaper, and tucked it in his coat pocket. It was time to get to work. He made his way down the hall, nodding at the staff and constables he passed, and then made his way down the stairs and into the lobby, letting others weave their way around him.
“Will you be back today, detective?” said the staff sergeant.
“After lunch. I have to pay some visits.”
“Something tells me they’re not expecting you.”
“You know, with this bunch, no matter how many times I drop by, they always seem surprised to see me.”
The staff sergeant grinned. “Not too bright.”
“No,” said Morrison, “not too bright, but just a little dangerous.”
“To the city?”
“No, to each other.” He paused. “Yeah, the city. Maybe we got a few too many live wires walking around.”
He headed out the door and down the steps, passing a few constables on the way. He briefly considered tracking down Hawkeswood, but then thought it might be wise to avoid being seen with him for a day or two, not unless they were in a group where no one would think twice.
His first conversation would instead be with a lab coat at one of Lanspeary’s locations. While the man didn’t handle prescriptions, he seemed to know a thing or two about morphine. He sweat like an addict and his conversations were often a word game ending in funny syllables, a sort of gibberish that only Morrison seemed to be able to understand. Morrison never wanted to defeat him in this game; he only wanted to keep the druggist talking, and talking in the right direction.
Has to be someone’s nephew.
— Chapter 5 —
ENGLISH LESSONS
Chung Hong’s brother Woo’s laundry was on the south side of London Street, between Connaught Lunch and the shoeshine. The family lived upstairs. Woo had two sons and a daughter, Li-Ling. She worked at the laundry during the day and did some English tutoring in the evening. Woo made an exception this morning and temporarily relieved her of her laundry duties so that she could give Quan Lee his first formal lesson. Up until now, all Quan knew of the language was what he had picked up off the street or from countrymen who had managed to cross the divide. The lesson was chaperoned by Li-Ling’s mother, Qingzhao. While the lesson took place, McCloskey, Chung Hong, and Woo talked business — business and Quan Lee — in the back garden.
“I’m settled on offering him a position at the club, in the kitchen,” said McCloskey.
“And he will take it,” said Woo. He was enjoying his first cigarette of the day. The garden was the only place his wife would let him smoke.
Hong nodded in agreement.
“Done,” said McCloskey. It was obvious there would be no further discussion. “Last night, Chung, I brought up living quarters. I can put him up for maybe one or two more nights, but —”
Hong smiled. “But your girlfriend doesn’t approve of the arrangement.”
McCloskey bristled. “My girlfriend?”
“C’mon, Jack,” said Hong. “It’s your worst-kept secret.” He chuckled, his cigarette dangling from his lower lip.
“It’s not —”
“There’s a spare room with a bed above Allies,” said Hong.
“The diner?”
“Far from the action, if you know what I mean, but still on the streetcar line. Clean, quiet. Good people there.”
Allies Lunch was the diner that Chung Hong held an interest in. It was on the north side of Wyandotte, between Gladstone and the Walkerville Theatre. It was a Border Cities oddity: built on the dividing line between Windsor and Walkerville, theatre goers could attend the same show in separate Border Cities. Between the local residents during the day and nightly theatre crowds, the diner was doing a solid business.
“But it’s not a free ride,” said Hong. “He’s got a job now; he pays rent.”
“Of course,” said McCloskey.
“Good timing,” said Hong. “My partner just lost a son.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“He eloped with one of the waitresses.” Hong closed his eyes and shook his head. “Not Chinese.”
“Laowai,” muttered Woo.
“What was that?” asked McCloskey.
“Nothing,” said Hong.
McCloskey leaned back in his chair and looked around the yard. “This is nice.” There was a vegetable garden that ran in an “L” along the south and west side, catching the sun. Onions, carrots, celery, a few other leafy things, some of which McCloskey couldn’t identify, and a few plum trees inside the angle, presumably for making wine.
“You should start a family, Jack,” said Hong. “I’m not saying you should quit. We are businessmen; it is in our blood, that much we have in common. And as long as there is ground to be broken … we will always be working. But you should think about a family, too.”
Woo chuckled again.
“You need balance,” said Hong, “harmony.”
“I don’t know anything about starting a family,” said McCloskey, “and I sure as hell don’t know anything about settling down.”
“Maybe that’s something Quan can t
each you,” said Woo.
McCloskey looked at him.
“You never know from whom you might learn a valuable lesson, or be shown a new path,” said Hong.
It sounded to McCloskey like Hong was quoting from scripture, or whatever it was the Chinese quoted from.
“Who said that?”
“My delivery boy.”
Quan, Li-Ling, and Qingzhao were making their way into the garden.
“Lesson over?” asked Woo.
“For today,” said Li-Ling.
“And the next lesson?” asked McCloskey.
“Tomorrow,” said Li-Ling, “Quan needs work.”
Woo looked at his wife. She closed her eyes and nodded slowly. This didn’t escape McCloskey.
“I’ll pay for it,” he said.
Woo rubbed his chin. “Half hour.”
“An hour,” said McCloskey, “and when he starts really picking it up, we take it down to a half hour.”
“To start, no more than one week at one hour a day.”
McCloskey glanced at the fruit trees, paused to think, but only for the split second he knew that Woo would permit.
“All right, one week at one hour a day, and then half an hour a day.” He could smell the fruit mingling with the herbs.
“Same rate,” said Woo.
McCloskey looked over at Hong.
“Same rate,” said McCloskey. “What about results?”
“You test him,” said Woo. “You will see results.”
McCloskey faced Quan. “Quan, you’re working for me now … understand?”
Those words were already part of Quan’s vocabulary. He nodded and said, “Yes.”
“And as far as room and board goes,” said McCloskey, turning to Hong and giving him his cue.
Hong nodded and addressed Quan in his own language. Li-Ling was listening carefully and she translated for McCloskey.
“Make sure Quan is here by ten tomorrow morning,” said Woo. “Later, one of my sons will take him to Allies, get him a key, and introduce him to everyone. He will learn the route and get his bearings. We will see if he can find his way back to your club. And then you might want to get him to a tailor.”
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