Maybe what we need is an insecticide, thought Campbell.
And all the folk of gentle and open hearts should know that among us there are girls and glorious lads who, without any obliquity in themselves have become victims to the thrall of opiates …
And thus endeth the sermon. Campbell paused to rub his tired eyes and then brought them back into focus by playing them around the staggered piles of books rising from the floor. His thoughts turned to bookcases and how he could ever possibly manage to get one up the stairs.
If I could assemble them in the apartment … why couldn’t it be done? So simple. Focus now, focus, focus …
It was found that opium was being brought to America in chests of tea; in coal-bunkers; in the beams of the vessels; under the stairways; behind panels in the saloon; in water-tanks, and even in the ship’s piano. Sometimes, it was smuggled by means of nutshells …
This was beginning to sound vaguely familiar to Campbell. How soon, he wondered, before we went from nutshells to piano cases filled with tins of the stuff.
He could hear a body coming to life on the other side of the shared wall, rising with the sun, shuffling about, and hitting the shower.
Theobald, Edmond, machinist … at least according to Vernon’s city directory. Now back to Ms. Murphy.
He adjusted the book on his chest until it rested on a shirt button.
Chapter IV: Opium.
Opium is the juice of the white poppy (papaver somniferum) and is the sap which exudes from incisions made on the outside of the capsules when they have attained their full growth after the fall of the petals. The poppy was well known to ancients, its cultivation mentioned by Homer, and its medicinal properties by Hippocrates.
Morphine is an alkaloid of opium — that is to say, its active vegetable principle having alkaline properties.
Codein is a derivative of opium.
Opium and its derivatives are distinguished by a flavour that is acrid, nauseous, and bitter.
Opium is smoked, morphine is taken hypodermically, or by the mouth. Hypodermic injections are more favoured by the users of this particular drug in that they become intoxicated without the disagreeable effects of the substance. Then, too, when morphine is swallowed, it takes longer to produce its solacing effect.
Contrariwise, the use of the hypodermic needle is attended with dangers from an infected solution or from a dirty needle. Frequently, morphine habitués will insert the needle into their arms without the precaution of rolling up their sleeves. This infection results in the form of abscesses.
Surely, thought Campbell, Laforet would have read about this in the medical journals.
He wondered if the doctor had already treated any such cases. He should inquire. Still, there are the clouds and fog that descend upon —
“The unknown users.” The words came out of him like a breath. He read on.
Last year, a young bride of three months who had married an addict, and had herself become one, was charged with having opium in her possession unlawfully.
During the trial, she became hysterical and began to beg piteously for morphine of which she had been deprived from the day previously. She complained of intense neuralgia, chills, thirst and abdominal pains. Finally she collapsed. Surely, the soul of her was “full of scorpions.”
Campbell set the book down again, got up, and stood at the window as if he had been commanded to. He blew smoke at the glass and flicked some ash into the saucer perched on the radiator grill. He looked down at Arthur Street, not exactly new to him but not quite home, seeing men in their factory clothes, half of them stoop-shouldered, feet dragging, coming home from their shifts; the other half moving in the opposite direction, clean and dry, bright-eyed and caffeinated, ready for endless hours of repetitive motion. Campbell wondered how they did it. He tilted his lean frame over the radiator, rested his forehead against the windowpane, and let his arms dangle. He stared down at what passed for a garden.
I don’t know how they can tell what’s a weed or not. Weeds flower, too.
He had forgotten about the lit cigarette in his hand. He twisted what was left of it into the saucer, hot ash mingling with cold, and returned to his study of the garden, though he could feel his interest fading. Back to Ms. Murphy’s opium den.
That this Ring has its runners directly across Canada is evidenced by a communication received recently from Chief-Constable William Thompson of Windsor, Ontario. “There is,” he says, “every evidence that there is a drug organization from the continuous endeavors to transport drugs from Montreal to border cities, and across the line to American cities, namely Detroit, Pontiac, and other places within close range of our border. I also had information to the effect that ‘ dope ’ crosses at our own border and is taken through to Chicago.”
This statement is borne out by Sergeant A. Birtwhistle of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police who declares that prominent men in commercial and club life in Windsor are at the head of a Ring which is supplying drugs to peddlers. It is altogether likely that these men receive the bulk of their supplies from Montreal as suggested by Chief-Constable Thompson.
Campbell tucked another strip of yellowed envelope between the pages and closed the book. He needed another coffee. He made his way to the kitchenette, opened the lid of the coffee can, closed his eyes, and took a whiff.
Acceptable.
He got the Flavodrip going and stood over it while it made its gurgling noises and blew off steam, and then he looked around the kitchenette. He was thinking that he could put all of these cups, plates, pots, and pans in the bathtub, fill it with hot, soapy water, let them soak, drain the tub, and then run the shower over them. He could clean the place up.
Yes, he thought, that just might work. And after that, I could start having my dinners delivered to me, a minor inconvenience for the establishment, but maybe a small gratuity would make it worth their while.
His lack of sleep was starting to catch up to him. He refilled his cup and made his way back to the table, already a little brighter than when he left it. The morning sun climbed quickly this time of year, eager to get the show on the road.
It is said that the ringleaders’ names in Montreal were obtained through the death-bed confession of Mrs. William Bruce, aged 24 of that city in February of this year.
Mrs. Bruce and her friend, Dorothea Wardell, aged 21, were found unconscious on the Montreal express, near New York City, by a Pullman porter, suffering from overdoses of heroin.
Campbell gently blew ripples across the surface of the hot, black brew, took a sip, and set the cup down. He then reached for his cigarettes and got one going with his trusty Ronson. He stared at the flame for a moment, thinking about the spoon and the needle. And then he studied the smoke twirling up from the glowing tip of his Player’s. He was having a flashback, back to his childhood.
“What’s the last thing you remember?”
The faces in the wallpaper.
Campbell wondered if the drugged state was like having a fever, falling asleep, silhouettes swimming, flying all around you, and then waking up in a crisp, colourless hospital ward, lying in a pool of one’s own sweat.
The girls received emergency treatment but the Wardell girl died on the way to the Bellevue hospital.
Mrs. Bruce recovered sufficiently to tell her story to the deputy-police commissioner in charge of the drug squad.
Campbell thought he might have had more in him, but this was enough for now. That part of his brain, whatever it was, was winding down now. He closed the book and finished his coffee and cigarette over the view of the river. He looked east. The orange shades had won out, and the first vessel of the morning was making its way into the strait.
Like a pair of shears cutting through satin, he thought.
It looked to be a canal freighter, long and low. Campbell set his cup down and grabbed his binoculars off the windowsill. He wondered what she might be carrying. There appeared to be a few men on deck, and seeing how they already seemed to be bus
y with their tasks, he thought he ought to get moving. He set the lenses back down and made his way towards the bathroom. Time to shower and start the day, try and turn it into something, or at least get something out of it.
“Flower of dreams,” he muttered to himself as he unbuttoned his shirt.
Smuggled in a nutshell.
When he removed his trousers he could almost stand them up. It was time to send them to the cleaners. He dialed up some water from the taps and let it warm before stepping behind the curtain and letting the water run over him. Rubbing himself with the bar soap, he stretched out his arm and considered the blue veins inside his elbow. When the steam came, he lay down on the floor of the tub, eyes closed.
Morpheus. And what about the insomnia, the sleep deprivation? He wondered. What does it, can it do to one’s brain?
He opened his eyes.
One begins to see things.
He closed them again, and tried to focus on the sound and feeling of the water on his skin. He began to drift.
Cold water — the hot having run out — woke him a few minutes later. He turned off the taps and looked for the time on his bare wrist.
Damn.
He managed to climb out of the tub without slipping on the floor.
— Chapter 16 —
THE SNAKE ISLAND GANG
McCloskey figured the smugglers had to be operating in a thinly populated area somewhere downriver, so they started their search in Ojibway. The three of them — McCloskey at the wheel, Quan with his elbow out the passenger window, and Li-Ling wedged between them — slowly cruised south along Front Road.
A map was stretched across the dashboard. McCloskey had picked it up at a roadside stand advertising fresh produce and live bait. The exposed section featured details of the shoreline and islands along the length of the river from Sandwich all the way down to Lake Erie.
The first landmark McCloskey came upon was his family homestead. The yard had become so overgrown he almost missed it. He stole a few quick glances through the gaps in the scrub. It was boarded up, safe and sound, though probably a warren for any variety locals, two legs or more. The front porch appeared to be intact but in need of some attention, as did the roof.
Maybe some other time, he thought.
McCloskey told Li-Ling to ask Quan to point out anything that looked even remotely familiar — a barn, a shed, a windmill, a bend in the road, a canal, anything. The problem was that so much of it looked the same, especially if you weren’t from these parts. And if you were from here, you might be of even less help because it could be like driving through the same daydream over and over again.
Betsy chugged along. McCloskey had to wave ahead every vehicle that came up behind them. Even a truck pulling a trailer stacked with rows of gold-and-green hay bales passed them. This was a little embarrassing for a guy who usually sped around town in a fiery, lightweight Studebaker. He began to dread the thought of eventually being overtaken by an old lady riding her bicycle to church. To be fair, Betsy was in need of a good tune-up. McCloskey would get Mud on that as soon as they got back into town.
“Ask Quan again if he recognizes anything.”
Li-Ling asked and Quan just shook his head.
McCloskey was beginning to wonder if they had any real chance of finding his target. “He did see the place in the day, right? I mean, when it was light out?” The bootlegger was still getting used to the idea of his young protege not always grasping his rapid-fire speech or certain turns of phrase. Also, as quick of a study as Quan was, he was still a little self-conscious about his accent.
Li-Ling rephrased the question for Quan.
“Yes, Jack,” replied Quan.
McCloskey smiled and kept rolling along, past strip farm after strip farm, neat little rows of corn and what looked to be radishes running from the road all the way to the river. Approaching LaSalle, Front took a bend and you could make out the head of Fighting Island about a mile downriver. McCloskey pointed across the dashboard. “Okay, ask him if he recognizes that island.”
Li-Ling asked Quan. He squinted at it, examined his surroundings again, and shook his head.
“Tell him to keep a close eye on the island and the farms along the shore here.” Smugglers, like McCloskey and his boys, liked to work the long ribbons of islands that cleaved the river into channels from here to the lake.
The land between the road and the water began to narrow, lending some variety to the landscape. McCloskey thought that might help. It was also a little more picturesque. If he had a cameraman perched on Betsy’s flatbed they could be making a nice travel reel for Pathé right now. They passed through LaSalle.
“Ask Quan how long he was in the boat. Was he in it for a long time?”
“He says shorter than China.”
“Shorter than China.” McCloskey could tell Quan and Li-Ling were losing interest. If Quan’s English was better, McCloskey could be teaching them a camp song to pass the time. McCloskey spotted the head of Grass Island. On the map it resembled the head of a great water snake slithering between Fighting Island and the shore. He nudged Li-Ling and pointed. She in turn nudged Quan.
“What about that island?”
Quan squinted at it. He shook his head. And then he looked again.
McCloskey had the feeling Quan recognized something. He had an idea. “Li-Ling, tell Quan to watch out the back window.”
Quan gave McCloskey a curious look and then complied.
McCloskey kept glancing over at him. Quan seemed to be staring intently, examining his surroundings with new interest. It had occurred to McCloskey that it might be more likely that Quan had seen the property as he approached from the south, not coming from the north out of the Border Cities or west from inside the county. When they crossed the little bridge over Marentette Drain, Quan started bouncing in his seat. He stuck his head out the window, repeating the same phrase over and over again.
“Jack — Quan says it is here.”
“Where?” asked McCloskey, gearing Betsy down to a crawl.
Quan discreetly pointed towards a farmhouse in the distance, closer to the shore.
“Are you sure, Quan?”
Quan turned to McCloskey and nodded. He suddenly looked paler. This place meant something to him. McCloskey stopped, looked up and down the road, and examined the property. No one seemed to be around; it was dead quiet, except for the sound of ducks overhead. A dirt path bordered by wild-looking shrubs lead from the road to the house.
“Li-Ling, there’s a canvas on the flatbed. I want you to get under it.”
She climbed down out of the truck and up onto the flatbed. The canvas smelled of motor oil and stable. She held onto the pickets, making sure she still had a view outside. McCloskey reversed and then turned up the path. Tall weeds brushed the underside of the truck while shrub branches scraped the sides. This is a lot of cover, he thought to himself.
He had a clear view of the house now. It was smaller than his family’s, and maybe a little newer. Still, an old clapboard box covered in peeling paint covered in dead fishflies. The path skirted the house and appeared to go all the way to the shore, presumably to a dock. McCloskey pointed to the house and said to Quan, “Here?” Quan nodded. Then, touching the boy’s shoulder, he gestured to Quan to get down under the dashboard.
McCloskey stepped out of the truck and checked inside the front panel of his greasy overalls. He had cut a hole in the bottom left-hand corner of the large pocket, just wide enough to accommodate the barrel of his Webley. His cover would be that he was answering a call to either pick up some unwanted auto parts or chop a vehicle on-site; he hadn’t decided yet. He pulled his cap down further, walked up the verandah, opened the screen door, and gave the solid one hanging behind it a few quick raps. No answer. He repeated. Still no answer. It was unlocked so he let himself in.
Men live here, and only men, thought McCloskey. The signs were obvious. In the front room there was a ratty chesterfield and a low table covered in dirty dishes and
spoons standing in open cans, with flies darting all around. The next room was a small dining room with a table covered in a pyramid of boxes. There was clothing strewn about. McCloskey stepped lightly through this room and into the kitchen. Strangely, there was no evidence of food here. An empty sideboard, an icebox, a long table in the middle of the room with several empty Mason jars scattered about, a map on the wall, and a what looked to be mail bags piled in the corner. This looked like it might be the strategy room. McCloskey heard a screen door open behind him.
“Who the hell are you?”
McCloskey turned. “I’m here to chop the T.”
“The what?” asked the young man, a stoop-shouldered beanpole in long johns and rubber boots.
“Border Cities Wrecking and Salvage. We got a call from a place fitting this description saying they had a Model T they wanted chopped and hauled away.”
“We ain’t got no T, and I don’t know no Border Cities …”
“Wrecking and Salvage. You sure?”
“Sure I’m sure.”
At that point the man stuck his head out the back door.
“Perc! Perc, did you put word out about an auto parts pick-up or the like?”
The man shook his head, mumbled something, and then went out the door. McCloskey followed. He needed to learn a little more about these guys.
There was a narrow stretch of ground not more than eight or ten yards long sticking out into the river, with a slip on either side and a boat in each — a low-slung skiff on the left and an outboard on the right. He looked up and down the shore and saw much of the same.
“Who are you?” asked Perc.
“Jake, from Border Cities Wrecking and Salvage. Like I was telling your cousin here, we got a call to come out and chop an old T for the price of a cold beer.” McCloskey was taking a shot in the dark with the beer remark.
“Don’t know nothing about it,” said Perc. “And he ain’t my cousin.”
“Figure of speech,” said McCloskey. There was a pause. He let the two continue sizing him up. “I guess I’ll have to settle for the cold beer then.”
Border City Blues 3-Book Bundle Page 57
