Riverside Drive: Border City Blues

by Michael Januska

  McCloskey looked down at the stinking pool of filth and human remains they were standing in. Cold, wet death seeped into the cracks of his boots and chilled him to the bone.

  ‘We get the fuck out of here.’

  ‘What about the reinforcements?’

  ‘There won’t be any. We’re going find out who’s left and we’re going head back to where we blew up that bridge.’

  ‘You gotta be kidding,’ said the medic.

  ‘We’ll wade across the river at sundown.’

  Monday, 4:50 a.m.

  McCloskey was lying on his bed thinking, remembering, and blowing smoke rings at the ceiling when a set of knuckles came rapping on his door. He grabbed his revolver and pressed himself against the adjacent wall.

  “Jack? Jack McCloskey — you in there?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Telephone.”

  He eased the door open. One of the porters was standing outside.

  “I didn’t know you was back in town, Jack.”

  “Then you’re not reading the society columns.”

  McCloskey tucked his revolver in his belt, threw on his jacket, and walked with the porter down the stairs. The desk clerk was holding out the telephone.

  “Hello?”

  “It’s Fields.”

  “You got anything?”

  “A little while ago we brought in a drunk that was found staggering down Tecumseh near Crawford.”

  “And?”

  “To make a long story short, he was the driver.”

  “What?”

  “He drove the car to Ojibway last night.”

  “I’ll be right over.”

  “Don’t bother. He’s speaking Italian with a thick Scotch accent. So far all we’ve been able to get out of him is that his gangland friends are hanging out at the Elliott and they owe him money.”

  “That’s it? That’s all you’ve got?”

  “Calm down, McCloskey. There are a couple uniforms and a detective at the Elliott right now. I’ll let you know if —”

  Fields heard the line disconnect. “Damn.”

  After he hung up a call came into the station. The police at the Elliott needed reinforcements. One of the constables was down and the detective was being taken to hospital. Fields immediately headed out with another officer.

  Meanwhile McCloskey ran out into the street and spotted a Yellow Cab turning around at the ferry dock. He jumped in before the driver came to a full stop.

  “Elliott Hotel — fast.”

  They climbed the hill then turned right onto Riverside Drive. When McCloskey looked over and saw the Detroit skyline in the pre-dawn light, it made him think of Montreal. He imagined Sophie asleep in her own bed, her cheek pressed against her pillow. Was she thinking of him? Part of him hoped that he was the furthest thing from her mind right now, or at most a bit player in a bad dream. Her life was hers again, uncomplicated with guys like him or Brown. He on the other hand had just spent a sleepless night in a hotel room, and while he may have been unencumbered, he still didn’t feel his life belonged to him. Maybe today would be the day he’d finally win it back.

  As they approached Crawford, the cabbie slowed for the left-hand turn.

  “No,” said McCloskey, “not the front door. I’d like to keep a low profile.”

  “Gotcha.”

  The cabbie continued past Crawford and the railway ferry terminal, turning up McKay instead. A few minutes later they were pulling into the Michigan Central station, where gunshots could be heard coming from the direction of the hotel, which was just on the other side of the tracks.

  “Thanks.”

  McCloskey got out and tossed a note through the passenger window. As soon it touched the front seat the cabbie mashed the pedal and tore through the parking lot. This was obviously more excitement than he was looking for this morning.

  McCloskey started towards the hotel. Boxcars were passing back and forth between him and the hotel, and he used them for cover as he made his way across the tracks. He could see police shooting from behind a vehicle parked to the left up on Wellington Street, and to the right, near Tecumseh Road, two motorcycles were parked.

  A metal fire escape zigzagged down the back of the hotel. McCloskey pulled down the ladder and climbed up to the second-storey window, where he saw a man in a suit sitting with his back against a blood-splattered wall and a constable face-down on the floor. As soon as he stepped through the window a shot echoed through the building. It sounded like it came from the stairwell at the front of the hall. McCloskey wasn’t anticipating a shoot-out. He checked the Webley; it held six rounds.

  He heard more shots upstairs as he crept along the hall. McCloskey paused for a moment to think about not just what side he was on, but what side everyone else might think he was on. And then he stopped thinking. He sprinted down the hall and slid shoulder-first across the floor. A gunman positioned on the landing below turned and fired where he expected someone would be standing while McCloskey buried a round in his shoulder, sending him tumbling backwards down the stairs and into the lobby. Maybe now the way was clear for the cops.

  McCloskey ran up to the next floor. The door to the corner room was slightly ajar. He was easing it open further when he heard the clatter of the fire escape.

  Shit.

  He ran down the hall to the window and spotted what had to be the second gunman now hoofing it towards the tracks. McCloskey went bounding down the fire escape and made his way back among the boxcars.

  Finding himself standing between trains moving in opposite directions, he spotted the gunman running towards the river. McCloskey chased after him until he vanished between the cars on the left, which were moving in the same direction. McCloskey grabbed the ladder on the next car and climbed over the hitch. The gunman was still running towards the river, but he was even further away now.

  McCloskey had heard stories of fugitives clinging to the underside of boxcars through the tunnel to Detroit. He paused to take a wasted shot with his Webley and then resumed his sprint. When he caught up, the gunman switched to the opposite track.

  The two men exchanged shots every time there was a gap between the moving cars. Pretty soon McCloskey was out of ammo. He climbed over the next hitch and quickly caught up. He finally got a good look at the gunman’s face. Now he imagined him at Ojibway.

  It was you.

  The gunman jumped at the ladder on the back of the boxcar he was chasing. His feet dragged over a several railroad ties before he managed to pull himself up.

  McCloskey made a leap for the same ladder and got his hands stomped on. He was regaining his grip when he looked up and saw the gunman reach into his jacket. McCloskey yanked one of the gunman’s feet off the ladder, and while he struggled to regain his balance, McCloskey hoisted himself up. They were face to face on the ladder now. With his free right hand, McCloskey delivered a lightning-quick blow to the gunman’s ribs.

  The gunman fumbled his pistol and while he looked down in disbelief McCloskey delivered another blow. This time the man let go and rolled into the shallow gully between the tracks.

  McCloskey followed. When he got to his feet he saw the man disappear behind a row of boxcars standing back near the road. Crouching down he could see the man’s legs running in the direction of the tunnel again.

  There was one track in the tunnel and a string of boxcars presently moving along it. McCloskey threw some coal on his own fire. He caught up with the train but still couldn’t see the gunman. He heard a whistle. Two cops and a railway worker were running towards him. The cops were brandishing Colts.

  “Hold it! Hold it right there, mister!”

  McCloskey kept running. Then he saw the gunman way up ahead, cradled under a boxcar, waving at him — going, going, gone.

  The cops started firing shots in the air so McCloskey stopped running. He looked up and saw the sun peeking over the trees at the edge of the yard. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky.

  “I’ll take that piece,” said one
of the cops.

  McCloskey handed it over.

  “You Jack McCloskey?” asked the other.

  McCloskey was bent over now, trying to catch his breath. “Yeah.”

  The older cop waved his Colt up the tracks towards the hotel. “That way.”

  McCloskey started walking and the cops followed. Rail workers were appearing on the scene and residents from Wellington Road were gathering on the grassy slope, trying to get a good look. A couple boys held their hands like guns and made “bang bang” noises until a young woman in a faded housecoat gave them each the back of her hand.

  McCloskey felt like he was being escorted to the gallows. He listened to the gravel underfoot and the gulls overhead and tried to imagine he was somewhere, anywhere else. When they reached the hotel the tracks were level with the road again and they walked around to the front entrance. Cops were standing at the curb holding back a small crowd.

  Inside, McCloskey gauged the hotel guests assembled in the bar. They looked like the type always looking for stories to tell, other people’s stories. He stepped over the bloodstain on the floor at the bottom of the stairs and wondered if the guy was dead. The cops didn’t say a word and neither did McCloskey; they just continued silently all the way up to the third floor.

  At the end of the hall was a cop loaded with attitude standing outside a guestroom. The room was empty except for a single wooden chair. The older of the two cops gestured McCloskey to go in and sit down, and then closed the door behind him.

  Even with his back turned McCloskey recognized Detective Samuel Morrison. He was a big man, fat with bribes and secrets. Light filled the room when he moved away from the window that overlooked the rail yard. A few uncomfortable minutes passed while he stared down McCloskey. He had the look of a man tired of manoeuvring through the political minefield that was the Border Cities. Murder is easy, he often said; Prohibition’s the devil.

  Morrison started off by repeating what Fields had told him earlier, that the guy they already had in custody, Gears Gabrese, was the driver last night. The rest went something like this: the two mugs that were killed in the hotel — the one McCloskey found dead in the hall and the one he shot in the stairwell — were Ace McTavish and Red Williams. Witnesses put these two at a card game in the hotel bar at the time of the events in Ojibway. These same witnesses said Gabrese and Mutt Melvin — the guy McCloskey was chasing down in the rail yard — joined the card game around 10 p.m. A few hands and several whiskies later Gabrese was ranting about Mutt being a cheat. Everything degenerated after that and Gabrese said if he couldn’t claim the pot, he at least wanted his fee for driving to Ojibway. He was hammered. He tried to start something with Mutt but then the bartender finally threw him out. Good thing, too. Mutt Melvin, having already tasted blood once that night, was looking for more. Morrison told McCloskey it was Mutt that killed his father and brother and he suspected a certain bootlegger in Detroit was behind it all. And that was all Morrison had to say. The cops were still waiting for Gabrese to come to his senses so they could question him proper.

  Morrison took a puff from his cigar and blew smoke at the window. McCloskey wondered how Morrison could possibly know what truth was any more, he carried around so many versions of it in his head.

  “You need anything else from me?”

  “No. We’re through here.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Yeah, that’s it. Sorry, no door prizes today.”

  His speech was very nice but something told McCloskey that he was either dead wrong or lying. If he was wrong, that was one thing, but if he was lying it was for a reason. McCloskey could only guess it was to get him to stop nosing around. But why would Morrison want him to drop it? Could the Lieutenant be behind this? He had to be. It was interesting that Morrison didn’t even mention him. Maybe Gabrese could provide some clues. McCloskey felt he had to talk to him. The best way to get to Gabrese was through Fields, and the only way to get to Fields was through Clara.

  “You can have your piece back,” said Morrison. “If I take it from you, you’d just go get yourself another one. Now beat it.”

  — Chapter 14 —

  THE LIBRARIAN, THE LODGER, AND THE LANDLADY

  Vera Maude was peeking through the curtains in the vestibule. “Well, well, well,” she muttered to herself, “you’re running a little early today.”

  She watched him trot down the front steps and waited until he advanced a little up the block before following him down Tecumseh Road.

  The man’s name was Braverman. He had moved into the spare room at Mrs. Cousineau’s back in May and he’d been a source of curiosity to Vera Maude ever since. At first it was the garb, sort of rustbelt bohemian. Then it was the paint-splattered briefcase: it always appeared to be heavier when he was leaving than when he was arriving. She thought about asking her own landlady if she knew anything about him but was afraid of getting tangled up in the Clothesline — Mrs. Richardson’s network of neighbourhood gossips.

  As the commuters converged on the waiting streetcar Vera Maude stuck close to Braverman. He sat himself street-side near the exit. Vera Maude sat on the bench at the rear and examined the homes along the tree-lined Avenue as they sprung to life. People were taking in the milk and the paper, pushing their kids out the door, and generally cranking their piston-driven lives into action.

  “Ha-a-a-NUH.”

  The conductor hollered street names like he was calling plays at a ball game. Two chatty, smartly dressed women boarded at Hanna Street. Vera Maude recognized them from Smith’s department store, the ladies’ undergarments to be exact, or the girls’ bait & tackle counter.

  She had considered bringing up the subject of Mrs. Cousineau’s mystery man with her in the course of conversation by saying something like “oh, and I happened to notice” or “I haven’t seen your lodger lately,” but Vera Maude nixed that idea because she didn’t want to appear to be looking for an introduction. The Misses Cousineau and Richardson were always asking if there was a special man in Vera Maude’s life, and Vera Maude was always saying yes, even if that wasn’t the case. The absolute last thing she needed was the Clothesline playing matchmaker. She’d wind up with somebody’s idiot nephew, or worse, some yolk with a face like an elevated railway.

  “SHE-E-E-P-herd.”

  When Vera Maude found out that Braverman actually lived in Detroit, she became even more suspicious. It made her wonder if Mrs. Cousineau’s lodger wasn’t a bootlegger. That was when she decided to turn detective and try to gather some more facts.

  Traffic was light and the streetcar continued to make good time. Half the city seemed to be on vacation. Vera Maude once considered going on one of those weekend excursions to Colchester Beach, but she needed someone to go with and couldn’t bear the thought of tripping with any of her co-workers getting paired with some loathsome, giggling girl who had a crush on her cousin and wore a nightgown to bed.

  Wait — why hasn’t Mrs. Cousineau tried to set me up with Braverman? Does she know something?

  “E-e-e-llis.”

  The streetcar was starting to fill up. Vera Maude watched the long faces pile aboard, the folks that already used up their vacation time, the folks without an electric fan, the folks that couldn’t stand the heat and were staring down the short end of what was going to be a long week. In a few months these same people would be complaining about the cold. Last winter, when Mrs. Cousineau took ill and was practically bed-ridden, Vera Maude brought her magazines from the library. It became a habit, and now Mrs. Cousineau was used to her regular rotation of American Cookery, Ladies’ Home Journal, House Beautiful, and Chatterbox.

  A few weeks ago Vera Maude decided to use one of these visits to try and learn more about her lodger. She found Mrs. Cousineau turning soil in the flowerbed. She was wearing her enormous, straw sunhat and oversized garden gloves, and they made her look like a little girl playing in the dirt. Vera Maude was feeling reckless. She asked her if there was anything she might bring the gentle
man in her next parcel.

  Do you know what sorts of things he likes to read?

  I couldn’t say, dear. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him with a book.

  His work probably keeps him very busy. What line did you say he was in?

  Well, that got Mrs. Cousineau’s gums flapping, and that’s how Vera Maude learned that the man’s name was Braverman, worked as a commercial artist somewhere downtown, and though he resided in Detroit, he had taken this room in Windsor in case he worked late or felt like spending the weekend.

  Why doesn’t he just move here?

  He says his situation is only temporary. He’s planning to move abroad.

  How interesting. Did he say where?

  No, but if I were to guess I would have to say Paris.

  Paris!

  Mm-hm. A few days after he took the room he got a giant carton from Paris. Had to be delivered by truck. Supplies for work, he said. And he gets letters all the time.

  Supplies?

  That’s right. Paints and varnishes. It looked heavy. Nice fellow. Always pays his rent on time.

  Does he ever —

  Have any plans for the long weekend, Maudie? I know a young man who —

  Oh — got to run, Mrs. Cousineau. I hear Mrs. Richardson calling me for supper.

  Since then Vera Maude had made several attempts at trying to find out where Braverman works. All she knew for certain was that his office was nearer the river than the library because she always got off the streetcar before he did. Today, however, with the extra time she was determined to go through with her investigation and see where it took her.

  “Gi-i-i-i-iles.”

  Some professional-types got on, the new midtown crowd. They kept their noses wedged in their morning papers, counting the days until they saved up enough for this year’s Cadillac and they could be rescued from public transit.

  Cadillac: What a Wealth of Satisfaction.

  A milk wagon halted on the tracks. The horse was either harbouring a grudge against the modern age or coping with a belly full of bad grass. People were pulling at both ends of the horse. Vera Maude suddenly imagined the word “Vexed!” on a movie dialogue card in her head. If her plans were foiled by this old nag, she would have to start advocating a prohibition on milk.