It was just before 7:00 when the two of them emerged and headed in the direction from which Hawkeswood had come. Campbell waited until the two were a little farther up the block before stepping out of the laneway. He kept them in view. It wasn’t difficult; there was hardly anyone else on the street. The downside was that it also made him quite visible. He pulled his greasy old hat down a little farther.
When his two subjects stopped at Chatham Street, Campbell had to quickly find cover. Not easy since all there was along this stretch were homes with front gardens. He ducked between two parked cars and hoped he didn’t miss anyone sitting out on their verandah. Luckily Morrison and Hawkeswood shared only a few words before separating, Hawkeswood heading west towards the Avenue and Morrison continuing towards the river.
The market was shuttered. Empty carts pushed up against the side of the building and vendors’ stalls were closed. Quite a difference from your average Saturday morning, when the place was a beehive of activity.
Morrison stopped at Pitt Street. Campbell shuffled over to one of the stalls, where he still had a good view of Morrison. For the first time since he left the diner, he looked over his shoulder, not once, but twice. Satisfied, it seemed, he crossed Pitt where he took a turn towards the Avenue. The streets were tight here and Campbell was losing opportunities for cover. He hung back a little.
Morrison stopped at Windsor Avenue, looked over his shoulder once again, and then hung a right toward the river. Campbell sprinted ahead, almost on tiptoe, hugged the building at the corner and carefully peaked around it. Morrison was on the other side of the street, walking more swiftly now. Without pausing, Morrison took one last look over his shoulder and entered the alleyway that separated Pitt and Riverside Drive.
Campbell moved quickly. He pressed himself against the building at the mouth of the alleyway and observed Morrison, who stopped about halfway down the block and knocked on the back door of a building on the right-hand side. A few seconds passed, the door opened and Morrison entered.
This was a bad spot for someone dressed like him to be standing around. He’d get picked up for sure. He knew he had his badge on him, but for some reason he was feeling that could end up blowing his cover. What he needed to do was find a safe place somewhere in the alleyway. The problem there was that he had no idea what direction Morrison would be heading once he emerged. Campbell decided to take a chance.
He moved slowly down the alleyway with his hands in his pockets and his head down — there was a possibility that Morrison would be making his exit just as Campbell was walking by — looking left and right for any opportunity for some kind of cover. There appeared to be nothing on this side of the door that he believed Morrison had entered. Tense, he paused and made mental notes about the door. It was lime-green with what looked to be a slot at eye level. A yellow dragon climbed the left side and across the top, ferociously gazing down at callers.
It suddenly dawned on him: Chung Hong’s … the Thursday night poker game McCloskey was talking about.
He continued down the alleyway. Not far along, there was a recess, just large enough for a vehicle. It was probably a loading area. On the Chung Hong–side of the recess was a set of metal stairs. Campbell parked himself on the third step, keeping out of sight but at a good angle for leaning out and occasionally peaking around the corner.
While he sat, he occupied his mind with thoughts of Morrison. He searched his mind for any odd piece of information, any observation that at the time might have seemed irrelevant and he just filed away.
Perhaps there are one or two missing pieces in there somewhere.
His thoughts were interrupted when a man entered the alley from the opposite end. Campbell watched and listened as the man lifted ashcan lids and sifted through the packing in crates and boxes. He was getting closer.
The sight of Campbell startled him. The figure paused for a moment. He had a young face and his clothes looked not unlike those that made up the detective’s disguise. He nodded without smiling and continued about his business down the alley.
It made Campbell think about the man, whoever he had been, who died wearing these clothes. They weren’t an old man’s clothes. Maybe they were worn by a man this transient had even known. Perhaps he thought for a moment he was seeing a ghost. He’s the age of many veterans, thought Campbell.
He turned to watch the young man exit the alley, cross the street, and continue on his way. When he was out of sight, Campbell turned his mind back to Morrison.
At about 8:40 he heard a door slam, taking him out of his thoughts. He peeked around the corner. It was Morrison. He pulled his head back and listened. The big man’s footsteps echoed slightly between the buildings, making it difficult at first to tell in which direction he was heading. Campbell waited. The footsteps were approaching.
Campbell eased himself up carefully, but the rusty steps still creaked. He rounded them, tucked himself underneath the stairs, sat down with his back against the wall and his knees up, his face pressed against them. Morrison must have heard and had possibly seen every movement.
The footsteps stopped at the stairs. A few seconds passed. Morrison was lighting a cigarette. The footsteps continued. Campbell waited until the sound of them stopped echoing between the buildings and then he unfolded himself and quickly moved to the end of the alleyway.
Once he got out in the open there were more city and street sounds, not to mention the distant noise of the train station and even the ferry dock.
Which direction?
Campbell took a chance and went back up to Pitt Street. There were more people moving about too. His instinct told him to head towards the Avenue. He spotted Morrison up ahead.
Campbell’s luck quickly ran out: he lost sight of Morrison. He flipped a coin in his head to determine his next move. Heads he would take a right, tails a left. It was heads.
Damn. He’s definitely not making for the British-American.
Surmising that Morrison went in the other direction, he doubled back in a hurry.
There … there he is.
Campbell could see Morrison, slowly galumphing his way up the Avenue. He seemed unconcerned about being seen as he crossed London and then Chatham. Between the doorways, the pedestrians, and the streetcars there was no shortage of cover for Campbell along here. He watched Morrison turn into the Allen Theatre.
Going to the movies, Morrison?
Campbell kept walking. He considered turning into the alcove of the theatre but decided against it at the last second. That was a good thing because leaning against the inside of it, just inside, was Morrison trying to light up another cigarette. Fortunately his head was down, but Campbell’s heart skipped a beat. He paused several yards away and glanced over to see if Morrison was still there. He was, enjoying his cigarette and eyeing a building across the street. Campbell followed his line of vision.
The Auditorium Building.
Campbell looked around for a place to position himself. Steve Paris Shoes was on the other side of the theatre. They’d be closed for the day and he could tuck himself in their doorway — he was sure Mr. Paris wouldn’t mind.
It was after 9:00 now. Morrison hadn’t moved and apart from the moviegoers and those out for an evening stroll, the streets had thinned. The only thing about the Auditorium Building that might be of any interest to Morrison, concluded Campbell, was Jack McCloskey’s club.
But what about it?
Campbell was now more curious about this than anything else. People who looked like they could be McCloskey’s staff started trickling out of the building. Campbell looked over at Morrison, who straightened up, pulled his cigarette out of his mouth, and rubbed it into the pavement under his toe. It was as if he had been looking for someone in particular.
— Chapter 35 —
HEAVEN HELP ME
Saturday, August 18
They were putting the finishing touches on the place. Claude had the sweepers rearrange the tables and chairs for the third time in as many day
s, the pieces ending up right back in their original position. The new linens, freshly laundered, were then draped over the tables, straightened, and smoothed with careful hands in white cotton gloves. Claude had his boys polish the silver — again — while the waitresses folded napkins into the shape of diamonds and set them on side plates. The tables were finished by the time the flowers arrived. The florist and his wife came in holding crystal vases overflowing with bold arrangements of purple hyacinths.
In the kitchen Eddie, Quan, and their assistant, Vern, had completed their inspection of the produce and were now sharpening their steel weapons, muttering their final prayers, and readying for battle. They had developed a rhythm in the kitchen, which was essential in the small space. Long and narrow, much like a trench, the cooks always seemed to be dancing around each other in it. Their young assistant, still slightly offbeat, was occasionally body-checked into the counters and appliances. He’d pick it up soon enough.
McCloskey managed to stay out of the way while all of this was going on. He knew he had a good team; it was just a matter of learning to leave them alone and let them do their jobs. In order to look more the part, he had bought himself a tuxedo from Camden’s in Walkerville, his first, and Vera Maude had bought a new dress at Smith’s, a long, navy-coloured canton with a satin face. Apart from the stage costume that people had already seen in rehearsals, Pearl was keeping her other outfit — her mingling wear — a surprise.
Vera Maude was given the okay to invite Uncle Fred and Mrs. Cattanach, which she did, and they politely declined. That was expected. Uncle Fred may be up for a trip to Shady’s for a boys’ night, but Mrs. Cattanach, the church volunteer, was a different story. Of course Shorty would come, but McCloskey wanted to limit the gang’s attendance to just him. He didn’t want the seats filled with friends and family; he wanted to see some fresh faces in the crowd, people who would help get the word out.
The doors opened at seven. McCloskey noticed guests gravitated towards the bar right away. There were rows of champagne flutes and bottles chilling on ice. He thought he could hear a few groans. He knew some would disapprove of the evening’s non-alcoholic signature drink, Ginger’s Tease — sparkling white grape juice with a splash of ginger ale. McCloskey spotted a guest whispering into the bartender’s ear, no doubt asking if there was anything wetter behind the bar. The bartender shook his head and continued pouring glasses.
After spending some time greeting people at the door, McCloskey started making his way around the room, shaking more hands, helping them find seats, and smiling at everyone. His face was starting to hurt. He promised them good food and a great show. He had felt more relaxed negotiating his way out of a bad rum-running deal on a government dock at gunpoint. He was of two minds: If this worked, he’d either keep rolling it out for the people of the Border Cities, or cash in his chips and hang a FOR LEASE sign on the door Monday morning.
It was time to check in with the talent in the dressing room.
“Make yourself decent, Pearl. You’re on in two minutes.”
“Are my seams straight?”
“Jesus, Pearl, I got councilmen waiting for me out there. I got other flesh to press. Now get the girls in line.”
“Wish us luck.”
“You know what I always say to that,” said McCloskey.
“Yeah, that luck’s got nothing to do with it.”
McCloskey turned, a fist in his pocket and the other hand rubbing his chin, wondering away with that same old feeling. Without turning back, staring at the playbills the girls had posted on the wall for inspiration, he said, “Just light the room for me, Pearl.”
She finished fussing with her stockings, stood, and kissed the back of his neck. “Just watch me.”
Pearl led out the Windsor Follies, who came out first in the same costume — white sailor’s suits, but with above-the-knee skirts instead of trousers. The idea was to have them set the tone of the evening. They seemed to do just that with two song and dance numbers: a rendition of Paul Whiteman’s “Hot Lips,” followed by Gershwin’s “Do It Again.” There wasn’t a lot of room on the stage so they were limited as to what they could do, though no one in the audience seemed to mind. All the men in the room sat up a little straighter — out of respect for the uniform, they’d later tell their wives and girlfriends.
When Pearl and the Follies were done they filed off the stage, swinging their arms slightly at their sides, giving the impression of a march. They wove between the tables, saluting the guests. A few of them got a pat on the rear. They were used to that. They eventually made it back to the stage, much to the disappointment of the men. Without missing a step or looking back, they passed through the curtain.
While the applause was going, the waiters came around with the menus. The break in the entertainment gave the talent a chance to catch their breath and the guests a chance to examine their dinner options. There was much discussion over it. McCloskey hoped it was because there were too many solid choices. He quizzed his table about what they thought looked good to them. They were all feeling adventurous, except for Shorty.
Bernie’s time had been trimmed, his spotlight slightly dimmed. He had imagined a larger role for himself, some deciding power on the entertainment side of things. He was none too happy, but when he saw the big picture was relieved that he had been kept on board. He had been beginning to worry that he would be cut altogether. The audience responded favourably, and he took a little something away from it. McCloskey had Pearl smooth it out — it really wasn’t his territory — and it was now hers to run with.
When it was time for the dessert course, Pearl came out from behind the curtain in a floor-length sequined gown the colour of seafoam. She was beaming. She was turning it all on. There were a few gasps from the tables seated closest to the stage. She gave a short bow and then blew McCloskey a kiss. He looked over at Vera Maude, who squinted and wagged her finger at him, as if she had caught him up to no good. He shrugged.
“Thank you, thank you for being here for this very special night. I’d like to sing you an original number called “Heaven Help Me.”
She looked over at Patch, her piano accompanist who would also pitch in on the vocal, and gave him a nod.
I got the wares, but no one’s buyin’ — no sale
I got troubles, but no one’s troublin’ — troublin’
I got reasons, but ain’t no one list’nin’ — deaf ears
I got the blues while sisters ARE ROSY
Heaven help me, ’cause I can’t help myself.
Oh, heaven help me, I just can’t help myself.
He’s got the looks, and I keep lookin’
He’s got the moves, and I ain’t dodgin’
He’s got the car, and it’s not stallin’
He’s got the goods that I want so bad
Heaven help me, ’cause I can’t help myself.
Oh, heaven help me, I just can’t help myself.
River’s wide, tide is low, spirits high
River’s wide, tide is low, spirits high
River’s wide, tide is low, spirits high
We got some bills, but they’re not payin’
We got our ills, and no one’s healin’
We got each oth’r, we’re not complainin’
We got our sins and the preacher’s cashin’ in
Heaven help us, ’cause we can’t help ourselves.
Oh, heaven help us, we just can’t help ourselves.
Patch closed it up as the applause started. Pearl took a bow. It didn’t seem like her smile could have gotten any wider, but it did. She gave the audience a wave. McCloskey briefly considered going onstage to thank her and take her hand while she took another bow, but this was her moment. The audience was looking for an encore. And she had one, of a sort.
“Thank you, thank you all. Would you like another?”
The wave of applause crested.
“Okay,” she mouthed something to Patch in an exaggerated way and then turned and smiled
at the crowd. He was reluctant, but she coaxed the tune out of him.
“Patch has been tinkering with this one for a while, that’s why he was being a bit shy about it. I love it. He’s going to perform it for us, and I’ll just hum along. Ladies and gentlemen, ‘You Were Made to Break My Heart.’”
Patch dropped himself slowly into the rhythm, and then it came, fingers hitting keys, hammers hitting strings. He closed his eyes, tilted his head back, and let the words come.
There’s nothing I can do, I’m powerless
Can’t stop your emotion once in motion
I’ve got a funny feeling
A not so funny feeling
You come home tremorin’ like you got shook
And I know someone else did the shakin’
You cast a shadow on my heart
A shadow on my heart
Please don’t come home now, she said
Don’t come home
Not right now
Heartbreak don’t come cheap; I pay a premium
They see the scars but I’m the one’s untouched
Thought I knew her, guess I did
Guess I always knew her did
Flesh is weak but it cuts to the quick
Smiling while she shares her wiles and I while myself away
She was made to break my heart
Break it up and down
If you could come home now, I said
Come home now
And find me time
A fool to friends, but I can still bend a smile
Her wants begets a vacancy in me
I find myself stagg’ring sober
And shouldering empty arms
Love’s a terrible thing, especially when
Passion plays its trump and everyone loses.
That band of gold’s bad for your circulation
Keep me somewhere close while you wander
If I could only forget your every yesterday
And meet you over and over again
You were made to break my heart
Made to break it.
Patch’s hands slowed and brought it down, then touched the keys one last time, holding the chord. For a moment the audience was silent. It was Pearl who started the applause. She knew talent when she heard it. She rushed over to Patch, gave him a kiss on the cheek and wiggled through the curtain to the dressing room. She had to prepare for the next act. Maybe she could throw the audience a curve.
Border City Blues 3-Book Bundle Page 66
