Border City Blues 3-Book Bundle

by Michael Januska

  “You know there’s only one way we can fix this.”

  — Chapter 43 —

  RETREAT

  Sunday, August 26

  McCloskey was still trying to make sense of things. Thoughts and memories continued to ricochet, mingle inside his head. He felt the need to forget everything and everyone. But if he did that, he wondered, what would hold him together?

  His sister-in-law, Clara, was gone; she had had enough of him, his problems, and the Border Cities. She skipped and didn’t leave a forwarding address. He flipped through his mental notebook, trying to remember their conversations, the ones that helped. It didn’t work. He then thought a physical rather than mental workout might once again do the trick, like it did when he came back from the war. He returned to the gym and punched the bag off its chains. He sparred a few rounds in the square circle and knocked his partners flat. A trainer told him that maybe he should just run it off at the Jockey Club track.

  He had to find a new way, a new place.

  Or an old one, he thought.

  Ever since his adventure downriver with Quan and Li-Ling, thoughts of the old homestead had been lurking in the back of McCloskey’s mind.

  Maybe now’s the time.

  He hadn’t been out there since last autumn. Clara saw to make it a part of his convalescence after someone tried to off him with a cheap shot at Michigan Central station. She had tried to help him remember who his would-be assailant might have been and why he was at the train station in the first place. The investigator’s only evidence was the bullet they pulled out of McCloskey’s chest. The bullet was replaced with a scar, along with residual anger, confusion, frustration … emotions that were his but to which he was still trying to connect.

  Clara would use words like unresolved, and unfinished.

  It was a little over a year ago when he and Clara had made their first trip out to Ojibway. He remembered the sun was high and the shallow waters were warm. They came for the quiet, the fresh air, and a little therapy. Whenever Clara found the right moment, she would carefully manoeuvre him into his past, his family history, and the war. She was his sapper, trying to defuse his psychological minefield. He knew what she was up to, so he found that small part of him that still listened to what other people had to say and decided to go along for the ride. It got a little rough at times. She always seemed ready for it though; he gave her that. He had also known that it was only the beginning, and she wouldn’t let go until he was in a better place. There would be more to come. She had given him so much and never asked for anything in return.

  They usually arrived with a full basket from the farmer’s market or a roadside stand along the way: fresh fruit and vegetables, baked goods, a couple of steaks and a roaster. Clara would busy herself in the kitchen while he’d give the property a work-over. He’d trim the shrubs, prune the fruit trees, and push the lawn mower back and forth across the patches of grass.

  McCloskey remembered that on one of their earliest visits, he had looked up from his work and noticed Clara watching him from the kitchen window. She held a dish in one hand and a tea towel in the other, wiping it dry. He had turned back and rested his chin on the handle of the thatching rake, staring down at the charred remains of the fishing cabin where his father and brother had met their end, now overgrown with weeds. He imagined her putting the dish down and picking up another while watching him methodically go at it, breaking up the cinders and pulling up the weeds and saplings. He worked it until he had a loose stack and then he returned to the kitchen with a focused and determined look on his face. Clara stayed out of his way. He rummaged around a bit and found what he was looking for on the sideboard: a small can of lighter fluid. He marched back out. She watched him squeeze the little rusty can until it puckered in his grip, wheezing out the last bit of fluid it had left in it. He took a match to the dry heap, crouched down — arms bent on his knees, cheeks cupped in his hands — and watched it burn. It was like he was re-enacting something. It was like a ritual. When the leaves and scrub finished burning, he picked up the rake again and mingled the ashes with the sand and dirt so as to let nature take its course. McCloskey had stood and took a deep breath, turned, and saw Clara sitting on the little wooden steps that led down from the kitchen door and into the yard. She got up and brushed herself off.

  That blue floral sundress … cornflowers they were.

  At the end of that day and the fine days that followed they would sit silently on the rickety picnic table between the house and the shore that McCloskey had built with his father, stare out at the river, and watch the sun set.

  It was on their last trip out, late last November, that he boarded up the doors and windows, it being the end of the season — long beyond, in fact. He remembered feeling that he might never return to Ojibway, that he no longer had reason to and would abandon the homestead.

  But now he felt this was something he wanted to share with Vera Maude. She could help him reinvent the place, make it mean something entirely different to him, maybe something more. He looked over at his passenger, wondering what Vera Maude might be thinking. She was still a bit of a mystery to him.

  He had to take it easy up the path from the road; everything was overgrown again. He glanced over at Vera Maude, whose eyes had gotten wide. The city girl was taking it all in.

  He stopped the roadster at the end of the gravel drive. He came around to help her out and then grabbed the crowbar off the floor behind her seat. He got right away to pulling the boards off the ground floor windows but kept one eye on Vera Maude as she walked to the shore. He thought she must be glad she decided to wear her rain boots but was probably regretting the white frock.

  In a short while McCloskey finished prying boards and pulling nails and leaned the wood against the back of the house. He needed to cool off, so he walked down toward the shore where he found Vera Maude trying unsuccessfully to skip stones across a mile of river. The ripples on the water were glittering with sun. She had unpinned her hair and those chestnut waves were now teasing her shoulders in the breeze.

  He thought he was being stealthy, but she must have heard him coming. Still facing the water, she said, “I’ve never been out this way before — years ago we used to make trips to Essex by train to visit my older siblings for birthdays, certain holidays, and get-togethers, but never along the shore. Funny, when I think about the country I don’t think about the river, I just think about endless corn and tobacco fields.”

  McCloskey was noticing her already sun-kissed cheeks. He smiled and asked her if she would like a tour now.

  “Would that be the nickel tour?”

  “For you, two bits.”

  They made their way back to the house and he opened the screen door for her.

  “Wait,” she said.

  “What?”

  “I think I’ve got a pebble in my boot.”

  “How’d you get a pebble in your boot?”

  “Gee, I don’t know.” She put one hand on his shoulder and removed her galosh with the other, turning it upside down. “There,” she said, tucking her bare foot back in the boot.

  “Ready now?”

  “Ready,” she said.

  “Keep in mind I haven’t had much of a chance to tidy it up.”

  Vera Maude and her smirk entered the kitchen. McCloskey followed.

  “I guess I should start by airing the place out,” he said.

  It was damp, and not a little musty. It occurred to McCloskey that as they made their way through the place he should discreetly make sure there weren’t any four-legged squatters. So far he wasn’t hearing any evidence as he took a broom to the sticky cobwebs.

  “So this is where you grew up?”

  “This is where I was born.”

  She looked at him and then around the kitchen in disbelief.

  “I tested the pump,” he said, pointing at the sink. “It still works. Shoot, that reminds me — I should have brought something for us to eat. Sorry, I guess I wasn’t thinking. The ge
neral store is up the road a bit. We could have a clam bake on the beach.”

  “With real clams?”

  “Actually, more like wieners and beans in this cauldron. We can go see what they got.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “I was kidding about the wieners and beans. In the city, I don’t know how to cook. Out here, I can cook.”

  “I’d be fine with wieners and beans,” said Vera Maude.

  “Really?”

  “Really. But why don’t you show me around first.”

  “Well,” said McCloskey with outstretched arms, “this is the kitchen. I remember eating most of my meals at this table or standing over the sink … or at that picnic table.” He walked over to the window. “Or sitting cross-legged on the beach, snacking on a roast chicken leg or some kind of fried sandwich.”

  “Your mom did the cooking?”

  “At first,” he said, “when we were really young.”

  “And later?”

  “Later, well, I guess we just fended for ourselves and ate when we were hungry.”

  “I’ve never seen a stove like that before,” said Vera Maude.

  “My ma could bake,” said McCloskey. “Pies, pies with meat and pies with fruit. I remember in the cold months, she’d finish cooking up something, and she’d leave the oven door propped open. Me and my brother would warm our hands over it.” He smiled again. “Didn’t warm our feet though. C’mon, I’ll show you the front parlour.”

  McCloskey entered first. He was surprised at the state of things, that and the smell.

  “Okay,” he said, “so the furniture has to go.”

  It looked like it had been either retrieved from the dump or pulled out of the river, the chesterfield especially.

  “Oh I don’t know, maybe a couple pillows, a nice throw. And is this the dining room?” Vera Maude broke away from the tour.

  “We didn’t do much dining here. Usually only on Sundays and special occasions.”

  The table looked as old as the house. There was no cover on it, and one of the chairs was missing a leg.

  “When it had seen a few too many spills, my pa would sand it down. C’mon, let’s go upstairs.”

  “You lead.”

  “Use the banister.”

  The bathroom was right at the top.

  “I don’t think you want to go in there,” he said.

  “But what if I …?”

  “At least not yet.”

  “And this was your room.”

  “You can tell? Not my brother’s or my father’s?”

  “No, yours.” She was looking around. “Your shirts … your brand of rye … you’re longer than the bed.”

  McCloskey pointed down the hall at the other two rooms. “My pa’s room, and my brother’s.”

  “You got the view of the river.”

  “I watched the river and my pa watched the road.” McCloskey was back to reflecting. “For a while at least, I guess we were quite the team. C’mon, let’s get some fresh air.”

  The kitchen reminded McCloskey of something. “Now, back to the subject of dinner,” he said. “Would you prefer fish or chicken?”

  “What happened to our clam bake?”

  “The clams took a vote.”

  “Okay, I like — you’re not going to tell me that I have to catch my own fish, are you?”

  “No.”

  “Do I have to strangle my chicken?”

  McCloskey rolled his eyes. “No.”

  “You gonna pull a rabbit out of a hat?”

  “I can do rabbit,” he said.

  “I don’t like rabbit.”

  “Me neither. All that fur.”

  “All those feathers.”

  “Then perch it is. I’ll just —”

  “Wait, don’t tell me — I know a guy.”

  “Is that how I talk?”

  “What? You don’t like my Jack McCloskey impression?”

  “Okay, let’s forget about the hooks and worms. I know a place —”

  “I know a place.”

  “Again with that?”

  “Sorry. I can’t help it.”

  “I was gonna say, where the perch will jump right into your net.”

  “No, no, I’m not —”

  “C’mon, Maudie. I know it might not be like one of those moonlight cruises upriver, but this is the way we do things downriver.”

  “I’m not dressed for it.”

  “The way I see it, you’re not dressed for much else other than skipping stones on the beach.”

  “All right. What do I have to do?”

  “You have to stop being so serious, Maudie. I’m only kidding. C’mon, let me show you the general store.”

  “Another tour?”

  “This one has candy.”

  “Where’s my hat?”

  They headed out the door and back into the roadster. The sun was getting high already. Driving down Front Road got McCloskey’s mind wandering again.

  Yeah, he started thinking, picking up a thread he had left dangling earlier, I could make this our retreat, a place where we can get away from things.

  — Chapter 44 —

  PROSPECT AVENUE

  Wednesday, August 29

  Mud went knocking at Shorty’s door just after dawn. He had to make sure he caught Shorty before he slipped out anywhere, never to be heard from again. There’d be time and a place for that, but not now.

  Shorty knew by the hour and the look on Mud’s face what this might be about. He invited Mud in anyway.

  “I hope I didn’t wake you.”

  “I was already up. Did you want some coffee?” The truth was Shorty had hardly slept at all these last few days.

  “No, thanks. I can’t stay long.”

  They were standing in the middle of Shorty’s front room. Mud looked around. He had been to Shorty’s place before and it was usually neat as a pin. It looked like it hadn’t been tidied up in a while. He noticed the phone was off the hook.

  “Shorty, I just came to tell you … everything’s been arranged.”

  Shorty’s face remained expressionless. His sunken eyes looked dead. “Everything,” he said.

  “You’re to meet a guy at the Westwood at midnight. He’s going to take you across. Bring whatever you need, but my advice would be to travel light.”

  Shorty knew what he meant by that. “How will I know him?”

  “Don’t worry; he’ll know you,” said Mud. “Oh, and Jack wanted me to give you this.” Mud pulled a thick envelope out of his inside pocket and handed it to Shorty. Shorty knew what it was.

  “Tell Jack thanks.”

  There was a pause in the conversation that left them staring at the floor. Mud broke the silence with, “Jack put a tail on you.”

  McCloskey had taken to occasionally using operatives to check on his own people. They didn’t come from an agency but rather from somewhere among the players in the auto industry, somewhere deep. It had all started in the spring when Mud got tangled with a couple of them and McCloskey had to come to his rescue. He had been caught watching through binoculars the comings and goings at the loading docks at the Studebaker factory. For these activities he would don his garage gear and carry around a toolbox. He’d position himself behind the boxcars parked on the Pere Marquette tracks that ran alongside the main building and take notes. He was working on a scheme to divert parts deliveries to the salvage yard. On what would turn out to be his last reconnaissance, a man in a plain dark suit and overcoat suddenly appeared up close in his lenses, looking right at him. Turning he found another man dressed similarly standing behind him.

  He was brought to an empty room not within the walls of Studebaker but rather in a vacant building over on Walker between American Auto Trimming and Buhl Stamping. When they refused to identify themselves or engage in any conversation, Mud got a little nervous and decided to play his one card: the Border Cities Wrecking and Salvage card with McCloskey’s name on it. They examined it and then left the room,
presumably to make a few phone calls. About a half hour later he heard a couple doors open and close and a conversation starting up in the hallway. The voices were low so he couldn’t make anything out. Some time lapsed before the men re-entered, this time with McCloskey in tow. Let’s go, was all McCloskey had said and led him silently out to his car.

  In the weeks following, Mud had started noticing some strange coincidences — mostly to do with McCloskey all of a sudden being a couple steps ahead of everyone in the gang and calling out some of the boys on questionable deals. Mud was starting to think his boss had eyes in the back of his head and his ear to every wall. Then he connected the dots. McCloskey had enlisted the aid of those men.

  Mud never brought any of this up with his boss and never shared it with anyone in the gang, not even Shorty. He managed to put the operatives out of his mind. That is until yesterday’s conversation with McCloskey. McCloskey didn’t mention any names or go into any great detail. It was just this is what’s going to happen.

  “I know. He wasn’t very good,” said Shorty.

  “Jack was hoping you’d notice him.”

  There were actually two of them, but Mud didn’t share that part. Being too distracted by the first and most obvious, the second tail is the one no one ever notices.

  “Is he still outside?” asked Shorty, resisting the temptation to peak through the curtain.

  “Yeah.”

  “Is he taking me to the Westwood?”

  “No.”

  “But he’ll be following me out there.”

  “Yeah.”

  They stopped talking again for a moment before Shorty said, “Tell Jack I’m sorry.”

  “Okay.” Mud didn’t really know what else to say, except, “Good luck, Shorty,” before making for the door. Outside he paused on the sidewalk and straightened his tie. It was his signal to the operative, wherever he was.

  It’s a go.

  The cabbie turned up Prospect Avenue and took his fare right up to the door of the Westwood. Shorty paid the man, picked up the small grip he had with him that carried a few essentials, and headed inside.

  Being a Monday, the joint wasn’t exactly jumping. Shorty did a walk around, trying to see if he could pick out the face of a man in the business of smuggling people across the border. And then he heard a voice behind him.