Riverside Drive: Border City Blues

by Michael Januska

  He boarded and climbed the stairs to the top deck as the little wooden ferry pushed off. To his left the sun was peaking over Belle Isle, burning off the thin fog that was clinging to its beaches. Straight ahead was the Canadian shore. He watched the perspective enlarge from a postcard to life-size view. When he could clearly read the “Distillery of Canadian Club — Walkerville” sign he got a lump in his throat. It was like seeing the dome of St. Paul’s after spending months adrift at sea. Only a local could get this sentimental over rye.

  The water was blue-black and smooth as glass. Near the imaginary line running down the middle he glanced back and forth between Detroit and the Border Cities. A mile of water separated them but these two communities seemed worlds apart. On the American side was a sprawling metropolis, factories that were putting the world on wheels, buildings that poked the sky; hustle and bustle, challenge and ambition.

  In contrast, the Canadian side was still very green in places. Cottages and clapboard houses stood alongside the small factories along the shore; church steeples watched over tree-lined streets. The downtown still had an old-world feel and the pace was slower. There was still less horsepower than horse power.

  The ferry docked and McCloskey was the last one to disembark. When he entered Canada Customs he was greeted by a portrait of King George V in full regalia, eyes bulging and beard sharpened to a point. He would have preferred a greeting by a barmaid pouring shots of homemade peach brandy, but he knew that would come later. The official asked the usual questions and McCloskey, penniless and jobless, returning home with little more than the shirt on his back, answered politely and played the veteran card. The official waved him through and once outside, he took a deep breath.

  Devonshire Road looked the same as it did before the war — the Peabody Building, the train station, Crown Inn. He resisted the temptation to drop to his knees and kiss the cobblestone and instead started picking his feet up and putting them down again until they got him all the way over to Ford’s, about a half-dozen blocks up Riverside Drive.

  He wandered around and then fell in with some workers sharing a cigarette around a smouldering scrap heap. They exchanged stories about France and then McCloskey told them about his post-war life on the other side of the border. When he felt he had their trust, he told them he was willing to wager that after putting in a day’s work on the assembly line, he could step into a ring and demolish any challenger.

  He did a good job of selling himself. Word quickly got around, and by the end of the day he got himself a job at the engine plant and an invitation from an old comrade from the 99th Battalion to stay with him until he got a place of his own. The soldier and his young wife kept an apartment above a store on Drouillard Road. It wasn’t much, but after all the nights he’d spent sleeping in his car, McCloskey was more than happy for a warm spot on the chesterfield. Fortune seemed to be smiling at him again. It felt good to be home.

  It was a few days before McCloskey got a match. His opponent, Vito “the Volcano” Tarantino, worked in casting. McCloskey checked him out at shift change. He was a mountain of a man with a bald head and hairy shoulders, and the word at the plant was that he could bend and twist automobile parts with his bare hands like he was making balloon animals at a kid’s birthday party. McCloskey smiled to himself; he was back in the game.

  The fight was set for the third Saturday of the month, a couple of days before a big referendum on Prohibition in Ontario. The bookies had a field day with it. The short money was on a victory for the wets and the Volcano. If you wanted to hedge, you saw a potential victory for the drys since the rest of the province never seemed to go along with what the Border Cities wanted.

  McCloskey was the long shot. People weren’t familiar with his fighting skills, and when they saw him he didn’t exactly inspire a whole lot of confidence. He was six feet but not that big, weighing in at 180 pounds. And despite the broken nose and scar over one eye, he seemed too well-preserved to have had the experience needed to flatten the Volcano. With his jet-black hair and sculpted features, he didn’t look like a fighter so much as a Hollywood actor playing one in a movie.

  When the bell rang McCloskey got right to work on the Volcano, driving blow after blow into his face and torso. The Volcano stood his ground. His massive body and granite-like head absorbed every hit. The timekeeper’s bell was mounted on a board perched on his lap. After three minutes he gave the string a yank and the bell went ding. McCloskey walked back to his corner, surveyed the audience and saw a bunch of yolks with stupid grins on their faces. He wondered if he hadn’t been suckered into something. He glanced down at his weapons: fingers and hands wrapped in a thin layer of cheesecloth begged off a butcher at the local delicatessen, already bloodied. It would be a bad thing to lose his first fight in the Border Cities.

  The bell opened the second round. McCloskey immediately decided to open things up a bit and offered the Volcano a few golden opportunities, but they were ignored. It became clear his opponent’s strategy was to lie dormant while McCloskey tired himself out, and then erupt.

  But McCloskey wasn’t going to let it come to that. He started circling the Volcano, all the while winding up a punch from the tips of his toes. When he felt the power surge into his upper body he stopped dancing, planted his feet on the mat and pointed his right foot at the Volcano. His right arm then swung naturally, like a lightning bolt discharged from a storm cloud. It made sharp contact with the side of the Volcano’s head and nearly knocked it off his shoulders. He went down hard and the boys standing along that side of the ring took two steps back.

  A cloud of dust billowed up from the mat and there was a big empty space where the Volcano used to be. The audience was in shock at first, then the shouting started between attendees and between Volcano and his trainer. His trainer, who also happened to be his brother, started crying into his towel. Over in a dark corner of the room serious money was changing hands.

  McCloskey just stood there, surprised that he still had that much fire in him. He had thought he would have mellowed a bit. He took another look around the room, half-expecting to see his father and brother in the crowd for some reason. If word had not already made its way out to Ojibway that he was back in town, it would very shortly.

  At the end of the day it turned out to be a bittersweet victory. While McCloskey won the fight and Windsor voted against Prohibition, the majority in the province supported it. So for anyone who happened to miss the war to end all wars, they needn’t worry, Prohibition would be their chance to see some action.

  DRYS LEAD BY 140,000 read the headline in Monday’s paper in big, bold letters. It was like the world had finally come to an end. Technically speaking, though, the world wasn’t scheduled to end for another three months. July 19, 1921 — that’s when the new legislation would come into effect. From that day forward, not only would it be illegal to manufacture liquor for sale within Ontario, it would be illegal to import it as well. There was still time to stock up.

  McCloskey was in a downtown pool hall going through the mechanics of his left hook with his new friends from the plant when someone came in with the afternoon edition of the Border Cities Star and began reading bits out loud. McCloskey remembered being in Cleveland when Prohibition hit the States. The general feeling then was that folks would just have to get their booze from across the lake. Now both sides would be more or less dry and a solution would require a little creative thinking.

  Further reading revealed the date for the upcoming Dempsey-Carpentier championship fight. The focus of the conversation immediately shifted back to boxing, with brief asides on the seating capacity of a Studebaker Big Six and the best route to Jersey City.

  Then the room fell silent. McCloskey noticed everyone suddenly looking past him and some then retreating into the shadows.

  “You like Dempsey?”

  There were a few, especially among American veterans, who still thought of his hero as a slacker. McCloskey turned slowly, expecting a challenge. It was a
suit. The man filling it out was not as tall as McCloskey, but broader. His nose was pressed against his face and a scar intersected his left eyebrow. His jaw resembled a truck fender. McCloskey figured the guy had to have been a fighter, probably twenty years and as many pounds ago.

  “You’re Killer McCloskey, aren’t you?”

  “I might be.”

  The man smiled and under the brim of his hat his squinty, deep-set eyes twinkled like diamonds at the bottom of a mineshaft.

  “That was something the other night,” he said. “I mean the floor shook when that dago hit the mat.”

  McCloskey wondered what he was after. Judging by the reaction of the boys in the pool hall, it wasn’t an autograph. McCloskey played it down.

  “It was no big deal.”

  Actually, it was a big deal. Little did McCloskey know, but his win had made the man in the suit a tidy sum of money and had nearly ruined a number of his rival bookies in Detroit.

  “C’mon. I’ll buy you a drink. Not here — I’ve got a little place around the corner.”

  Apparently, the man had come to talk business. He said his name was Green. Later on McCloskey heard some other fellows refer to him as the Lieutenant.

  — Chapter 3 —

  THE LIEUTENANT

  It was getting late and the stragglers were heading home to flop. Green walked McCloskey around the corner to a diner on Pitt Street next to the Department of Soldiers’ Civil Re-establishment. Green picked through his key ring while McCloskey pressed his nose against the window. What he saw didn’t look like much.

  “No — over here.”

  Green was unlocking a plain-looking door to the right of the diner entrance. On the door was a small plaque that said “International Billiards — MEMBERS ONLY.”

  The door opened to a narrow stairwell lit by a bare bulb hanging over the landing. McCloskey walked in Green’s shadow all the way up. On the landing and to the right they were confronted with an even heavier door that had a covered peephole the height and width of a pair of eyes. Green jangled his keys again, poked the locks, and swung it open.

  The room was pitch black except for a bit of light in the windows overlooking the street below. Before stepping inside, Green reached around the doorframe and finger-punched a couple switches on the wall.

  From the copper ceiling hung globe lights that illuminated a bunch of tables and cane chairs arranged haphazardly between the entrance and the bar. To the right were five billiard tables standing side by side. A big skylight punctured the ceiling above the centre table. Blinds covered every window except the ones along back that faced a brick wall in the alleyway.

  It was first-class but not fancy, all oak and polished brass with spittoons on the floor instead of sawdust. Green could tell McCloskey was impressed. He let McCloskey take it all in and then pointed with his chin towards a room jutting out from the far corner.

  “My office,” said Green.

  He went in ahead of McCloskey and pulled the chain on a desk lamp. He shuffled some papers into a pile, removed his bowler hat and set it on top.

  “Take a load off.”

  McCloskey lowered himself into one of the matching wooden armchairs that faced the desk. Green offered him a cigar from a humidor that looked like a small treasure chest.

  “Thanks.”

  On a little table that stood between the two chairs was a metal contraption for snipping off one end of a cigar and lighting the other. It looked like it had been made in a machine shop out of spare engine parts. McCloskey put it to work and got the tip of the Cuban glowing. It was nice. Green poured some brown liquid into tumblers while McCloskey surveyed the room. Trophies lined a mantle and photos of boxers in their fighting stance hung on the wall. One of the pugilists was unmistakably Green.

  “That was a long time ago.”

  He handed McCloskey one of the tumblers and then settled into his chair. The leather groaned beneath him and he stole a puff from his cigar.

  “If you don’t mind my asking, how much money you make last year dropping palookas like the Volcano?”

  McCloskey told him.

  Green gave a gravelly laugh then paused for dramatic effect. “How’d you like to make that in one fight?”

  McCloskey nearly swallowed his cigar.

  “Seriously — I’ve got money and connections. As far as I can tell that’s all you need to take a fighter to the next level.”

  “You a promoter?” asked McCloskey.

  Green leaned forward. “Not exactly. But I got what it takes, and so do you.”

  He was trying to grab the wheel from McCloskey, and it made McCloskey a little uncomfortable.

  “Whoa, I like money just as much as the next guy, but let’s be honest here — I’m no boxer. I’m just a fighter, and if you’re looking for someone to go the long haul with you’re a few years too late with me.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-six.”

  Green waved a dismissive hand. “Forget about that.”

  He got up and perched on the edge of his desk. His movements were always slow and deliberate. He was a man that didn’t hurry for anyone.

  “You got fire in you,” he said, pointing at McCloskey with his cigar. “I can see that. All it needs is a little refinement.”

  What Green also saw in McCloskey was his second, albeit vicarious, chance at achieving boxing greatness. He had missed his first opportunity after getting shot up in the Transvaal. He had come limping home from South Africa with no prospects and ended up doing time in the streets or the jails of Montreal. Another war came along, but this time the army wouldn’t have him, so he started looking for the big payoff, a caper that would set him up really nice. As luck would have it Prohibition arrived in the States and created a world of opportunities. He signed on with a smuggling syndicate and got shipped down to Windsor to secure a territory along the border opposite Detroit. Green was the Montreal boss’s first lieutenant. He’d done well for himself but his heart was still in the ring. Seeing McCloskey drop the Volcano was like rekindling an old flame.

  He got down to brass tacks. More chit-chat followed, but before long Green was through talking and there was one last dramatic pause.

  “So what do you say?” He extended a meaty paw. “We got a deal?”

  Okay, McCloskey thought, okay: I make some money, he gets his thrill, and then right before I get crippled by the next big thing to come along, we both go back to our day jobs.

  “And if it doesn’t work out,” said McCloskey, “we both walk away with no hard feelings?”

  Green rested his hand on his knee. “You telling me you won’t be committed, Killer? A fighter’s got to be committed.”

  “I’ll be committed, all right. But I got my limits, just like any man. I know that now.”

  Green shifted his cigar from one corner of his mouth to the other and studied McCloskey through the smoky cloud that hung between them.

  “Don’t think I’m not grateful for the opportunity,” continued McCloskey. “It’s just that I’ve had a bit of a rough time since I got back from overseas. I found my feet but I still need to set a few things right.”

  Green squinted at him, like squeezing his eyes would squeeze the truth out of McCloskey. “You in any kind of trouble, Killer?”

  McCloskey straightened in his chair and, thinking of his father and brother, said, “I have some debts to pay.”

  “Well, what better way to do it? So, do we have ourselves a deal?”

  Green extended his hand again and the expression on his face told McCloskey that this time he had better take it. Green was a compelling figure and the slightest change in his body language or tone of voice would convince anyone he meant business.

  “Yes, sir — deal.”

  “Good. Now let’s drink a toast.”

  — Chapter 4 —

  REDEPLOYMENT

  McCloskey got himself a room in a boarding house on Cadillac Street, a couple blocks up from the Drive, behind Our Lady of
the Lake church. His landlady was a tough old bird who lost both her sons in the war and so doted on McCloskey, keeping him well fed and under strict curfew. It wasn’t necessary, but Green slipped her a few notes every now and then as a token of his appreciation.

  When he wasn’t loading engine blocks into vehicles on the assembly line, McCloskey was training in the local gym or running laps alongside the Lieutenant’s Packard around the park on Belle Isle. It was a cobalt blue, twin-six roadster and its every line was ingrained in McCloskey’s mind. It was a beautiful car and McCloskey often thought the Lieutenant was baiting him with it.

  One day, son, you could own a car like this.

  Needless to say, McCloskey never made it to Jersey City for the Dempsey fight. He remained in the Border Cities all summer long, making good money going the distance with middleweight, sometimes heavyweight, contenders from up and down both sides of the Detroit River.

  All of this activity and all of these distractions made it easy for him to ignore the fact that he still hadn’t made contact with his father or brother. What was the compromise he had made with himself? He would get a job and settle in, then play the prodigal son. They had to know by now that he was back in the Border Cities. Was he making things worse for himself by putting it off? Probably. But whenever it weighed heavily on his mind, he noticed how he worked that much harder, ran that much faster, and threw a punch that much more forcefully.

  On Labour Day weekend he fought in a match downriver in a warehouse adjacent to where Ford was building another blast furnace for his River Rouge plant. The street felt hotter than the surface of Mercury that day, but McCloskey was as ready as ever. And so was his opponent. “Eagle” Eckhardt got his nickname building Eagle Boats at Rouge during the war. The patrol boats were steel-plated with a cement-filled bow made for ramming and sinking vessels, and Eckhardt had since sunk more than his share of enemy craft.