Riverside Drive: Border City Blues

by Michael Januska

  “That’s not true.”

  Daphne lived somewhere just this side of Deep Denial. She also had a big mouth. It was time to change the subject.

  “Come on, let’s finish before Miss Lancefield gets back.”

  After two minutes of pencil pushing Vera Maude lifted hers and started drumming her cheek with it.

  “Daphne?”

  “Hm?”

  “Are you familiar with Ulysses?”

  “The Tennyson poem?”

  “No, the novel, Joyce’s Irish novel.”

  “I’ve heard of it. Why? Was someone looking for it?”

  “Not exactly.”

  Vera Maude let her mind wander over some rocky terrain inhabited by bootleggers, Greek gods, and Irish poets. She imagined Braverman slaying the Cyclops with a giant corkscrew then he and Joyce pouring libations of whisky over Tennyson’s grave. Yeats fired a lightning bolt at them from the heavens and Vera Maude knocked over her Vernor’s.

  “Futz!”

  She tipped it up before it spilled onto her file cards.

  “Oh, Maudie, you’re hopeless.”

  — Chapter 21 —

  KENILWORTH

  The first event is for Canadian foals at seven furlongs. Azrael looked the best on one race that he ran with American breeds. War Tank, always there or thereabouts, should prove the contender. Somme a morning glory that has worked well, but seems to fade away in real contests for money may take a notion on this outing to shake the glory off.

  Sword ran a remarkably good race only a day or so ago, and may be a little better than rated. Dorius’ last race was a real good one, and should be tabbed. Ultimata is going to step to the front when the starter says come on, and will set a dizzy pace for the first three quarters of a mile, and might want to curl up the last eighth of a mile.

  “Don’t believe everything you read in the papers, especially if it involves horses.”

  Clara folded the Star back up and tucked it under her seat. “You would know.”

  People were arriving at Kenilworth from every direction and by every mode of transportation imaginable. McCloskey parked the Light Six on the shoulder of the road, under the big wall behind the grandstand.

  “Hang on — slide over and come out my side before you land yourself in the ditch.”

  McCloskey helped her out while cars were whizzing by. They joined a group walking single file along the shoulder towards the gate.

  The track was still buzzing from the events of the past weekend. Things hadn’t looked this lively since Man O’ War ran his last race here two years ago.

  “C’mon,” said McCloskey, “business first.”

  He led her up to the deck. The Lieutenant always had a table in one of the corners overlooking the track. McCloskey let his eyes wander but he saw no one from the outfit.

  “Jack?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Isn’t that your neighbour from Ojibway?”

  When Billy and Clara were courting, Billy used to borrow Lesperance’s car to pick her up so she could come swimming in the river. McCloskey caught a glimpse of the old man through the bodies milling about.

  “Yeah, it is.”

  It was unusual for Lesperance to be upstairs. Whenever McCloskey saw him he was at the front of the grandstands or hanging over the guardrail, shouting at the horses.

  “Let’s go see what he’s up to.”

  Lesperance was heading towards a table near the front.

  “Whoa.” McCloskey grabbed Clara’s arm.

  “What? Oh.” She moved closer to McCloskey. “Is that your old outfit?”

  He surveyed the table. “Some of it.”

  “Is the Lieutenant there?”

  McCloskey barely recognized him. He was a shadow of his former self, gaunt, pale, and worn-out looking. McCloskey just stared at him. He was having trouble reconciling this image with his memory of the burly gangster that had propositioned him in the pool hall over a year ago.

  “Yeah.”

  Clara could easily imagine McCloskey seated with these men. At the same time it made her think it was a miracle Billy managed to survive as long as he did. These men looked seasoned, hard, and fearless. It gave her a chill to see them gathered like this. She noticed others looking at them and wondered if her face held the same expression theirs did, a combination of anger, unease, and morbid curiosity. Who were they and how did they come to own the Border Cities the way they did?

  One of them got up to intercept Lesperance, and Lesperance started shouting. The Lieutenant looked embarrassed and appeared to be making excuses to a distinguished-looking man seated next to him.

  McCloskey had been focusing on the Lieutenant so he hadn’t noticed the other man until now. McCloskey realized it was this man holding court and not the Lieutenant. He wore a white linen suit and a matching wide-brimmed hat. He had thick ginger moustaches and moved with grace and precision. He ignored the Lieutenant and looked away, casually puffing at his cigar.

  “What’s going on, Jack?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  The Lieutenant got up and went over to Lesperance, presumably to tell him to get the fuck back home to his pigs and chickens. Then, right out of the blue, Lesperance swung his fist into the Lieutenant’s gut and doubled him over.

  McCloskey was shocked. The old farmer from Ojibway had just creased the man that was supposedly running the Border Cities. While the Lieutenant tried to recover some of his dignity, Lesperance made for the table. A wall of thugs went up instantly and two of them dragged him away.

  “Do you recognize him?”

  “Who — the guy in the suit? No.”

  A minute later it was like nothing happened; the man in the white linen suit went back to telling his story and the boys at the table hung on his every word.

  “Maybe he’s an owner.”

  “Maybe.”

  McCloskey looked around for someone that might be on the same footing as this man. A gentleman with his nose buried in the racing form walked by.

  “Pardon me,” said McCloskey, “do you know who that guy is over there?”

  “Where?”

  “The fellow in the corner with the hairy lip who looks like a plantation owner.”

  The man squinted at the table and then made a face. “That’s Davies, Richard Davies.”

  “Should I know him?”

  “You may have seen his face in the papers.”

  “What’s he into?”

  “Everything,” the man snorted and walked away.

  McCloskey turned to Clara. She was fanning herself with her hat.

  “Ever heard of Richard Davies?”

  “Yeah, rumours mostly.”

  “What have you heard?”

  “Well, when the Prince Edward opened I heard his name a lot. And he’s always being linked with business types from Detroit. What do you suppose Lesperance wanted with a guy like Davies?”

  “I was asking myself the same question. Maybe his horse didn’t come in and he wanted to lodge a complaint.”

  “C’mon, Jack, they’ve got lemonade over there.”

  Clara was pointing to the concession stands along the back of the deck.

  “We’re leaving.”

  “But we just got here!”

  McCloskey tugged his hat further down over his brow and the two went arm in arm down the stairs.

  “Where we going?” asked Clara.

  “To find Lesperance. He was at Ojibway last night and he knows something.”

  McCloskey stopped a couple of steps from the bottom to take a look over the crowds. Lesperance was nowhere in sight.

  “What now?” Clara asked.

  “I’ll drop you off at Henry’s and catch Lesperance at home.”

  “You at least owe me a drink.”

  There were a lot of cars parked along the road now. He manoeuvred out of his space then did a U-turn and took the county road back into the city. Clara slung her arm across the seat behind McCloskey.

  “Is a
nything wrong, Jack?”

  “The Lieutenant didn’t kill Billy and pa.”

  “Did you ever think he did?”

  “Not really, but seeing him like this …”

  It got quiet in the car. Clara watched McCloskey’s expression. He had a faraway look in his eyes and he was twisting the steering wheel in his grip. He cruised right through an intersection without slowing down.

  “You should have seen him before. He was a force to be reckoned with. I’ll wager he tried to save Billy and Pa.”

  Clara put her hand on McCloskey’s thigh. “Slow down, Jack. You’re making me nervous.”

  Jack remembered the expression of fear in the Lieutenant’s eyes when he sent him off to Hamilton.

  “He knew something was going to happen in the Border Cities, something bad.”

  “You’re not going to do anything crazy, are you, Jack?”

  “No. I’m through with all that stuff. Trust me.”

  “I want to, Jack. I really do.”

  It fell quiet in the car again and McCloskey could feel the tension building. There was nothing he could say to Clara right now that wouldn’t sound like so much bullshit.

  “If you want I’ll buy you that drink after you check on Henry.”

  “Sure,” said Clara. “Whatever.”

  She slumped down in her seat. It suddenly occurred to McCloskey why he’d wanted so much to remove Sophie from that scene in Hamilton. It was because he didn’t want her to end up like Clara.

  — Chapter 22 —

  FLAPPERS

  Hazel Short was wearing a red waist, black shirt, and yellow stockings. She thought people were staring at her because her outfit was daring and modern. Actually, they were staring because she looked like she was wrapped in the German flag. Her sister Lillian was wearing the same kind of attire but in a different colour scheme: white, pink, and brown. With her ample proportions she resembled a scoop of Neapolitan ice cream.

  Vera Maude was sitting across from her cousins in a booth at Lanspeary’s. They had caught Vera Maude as she was heading out the door for her afternoon break and asked if she wanted to go for a soda. Vera Maude was suspicious but went along anyway.

  Daughters don’t always like to open up to their fathers, even in these modern times, so Robert Maguire had asked his sister to ask Vera Maude out for lunch so they might find out why she’d been acting so peculiar lately. Aunt Gertie said the job was better suited to her daughters. She said she didn’t understand young people today. In her words, they were “an altogether different animal.”

  By the time they were finished their first Vernor’s, Hazel and Lillian had exhausted their favorite subjects — boys, clothes, movie stars, dance music — and were starting to make attempts at a heart-to-heart. This took Vera Maude by surprise; it wasn’t like Hazel and Lillian at all. But rather than fight it, she thought she’d take advantage of the opportunity to pick their brains about a few things.

  The first thing she had to do was gain control of the conversation. She started with flattery.

  “You’re liberated, women of the world....”

  And finished with intrigue.

  “…can I tell you something in confidence?”

  And when she knew she had them she outlined the scenario. It had to do with a good-looking bootlegger, his curious adventures, and whether or not to get involved.

  Hazel jumped in first. “You mean romantically?”

  “Well, no. I mean —”

  “You thinking of ratting him out, then?” said Lillian.

  “No,” said Vera Maude, “of course not.”

  The sisters were confused. Then a dim light went on in Hazel’s head.

  “Aah — you want in!” she said.

  “Whisky, right?” asked Lillian.

  “I can’t blame you.”

  “And if there’s a cutie in the mix, all the better.”

  Whoa, thought Vera Maude, shallow waters. Maybe try a different tack. She started working up the courage to ask.

  “Tell me, girls,” she said, “are you both happy?”

  The sisters looked at each other. This seemed to them like a stupid question.

  “Well … of course,” Lillian chimed. “Sure.”

  Vera Maude continued to struggle to find the words.

  “So much has changed, you know, since we were kids. It’s funny, I mean, sometimes I feel overwhelmed at all the possibilities and other times I ask myself is this it? Is this all there is? War is over. Women get the vote. We all move out of the house, go to business college, and get jobs. I know it’s not perfect but compared to what our mothers had, well, it’s pretty good, isn’t it?”

  What she wanted was someone to tell her that yes, she should be happy; that she was lucky to be a young person in this day and age, and that everything was going to be all right.

  “Yeah, sure, Maudie,” said Hazel.

  She was just thinking out loud, throwing these words out, feeling them roll off her tongue, seeing what kind of reaction they got. She decided to go for broke.

  “Then how come I feel so … empty?”

  Now there was a question. Hazel had the answer.

  “Maudie, honey, you need a man.”

  Her sister agreed. “A man’ll cure what ails you,” said Lillian.

  “Yeah, that’s all it is,” said Hazel, looking as if she had just solved the mystery of Vera Maude Maguire.

  No one could understand why Vera Maude didn’t have a steady boyfriend. Aunt Gertie said she was too wild and unrefined. Hazel said Vera Maude was too smart for her own good. Her sister Lillian agreed. “Boys,” she said, “don’t go for those intellectual types. I should know.”

  Vera Maude still thought of herself as that gangly, awkward schoolgirl holed up in her bedroom with her books and daydreams, wondering when adulthood, and freedom, would come. And as for being smart, she thought the smart folks were the ones travelling the world, writing books, starting revolutions, and challenging our perceptions through art. They weren’t working as assistant librarians in factory towns.

  “Look at us,” said Hazel.

  “We’ve each got a steady boyfriend,” said Lillian. “We go dancing and to the track, to clubs in Detroit, speakeasies....”

  “All the stuff our moms wanted to do,” said Hazel, nodding to her sister.

  “But couldn’t,” said Lillian.

  “Like you said.”

  Vera Maude wanted to scream. She fended off the urge with an image of her Aunt Gertie dancing on a table at a speakeasy.

  “See? We got plenty to be happy about,” said Hazel.

  I’ve embarrassed myself enough for one day, thought Vera Maude. Time to end the discussion.

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

  “Now, about this bootlegger,” said Hazel.

  “Does he have a friend?” asked Lillian.

  “Lillian,” gasped Hazel, “what about Andy?”

  “A girl should keep her options open.”

  When the sisters stopped giggling Hazel asked Vera Maude if her bootlegger had reasonable terms.

  “Maybe we could come to some sort of an arrangement.”

  “Well, I’m not sure — I mean I’ve never actually —”

  Vera Maude glanced out the window at the people walking up and down the street. “Sure, I’ll talk to him,” she said.

  “Great. Let’s plan something for Friday night then. It’ll do you a world of good. And if your bootlegger doesn’t want to come along, then I’ll set you up with someone.”

  “Sure,” said Vera Maude. “It sounds like a plan.”

  “See, I knew we could sort this out,” said Lillian.

  “Say, you won’t…”

  “Don’t worry, Maudie. You’re secret’s safe with us.”

  “Girl stuff, Maudie, just girl stuff,” said Lillian.

  “Well, I have to get back to the library.”

  Vera Maude slipped out of the booth.

  “We’ll talk soon,” said Haz
el.

  “Yeah,” said Lillian, “your boyfriend will probably want a deposit.”

  “Uh, right.”

  “See ya.”

  “Bye.”

  Vera Maude forced a smile and waved as she walked past the drugstore window. She prayed the earth would open up sometime real soon and swallow the Dreaded Sisters Short. A falling piano would be too good for them.

  The streets were quieter now. Anyone who wasn’t working was probably looking for a cool spot to while away the rest of the afternoon.

  She waited for a break in the traffic along Park Street. Engine exhaust sputtered out of automobile tail pipes and hung heavy in the air, mingling with the heat and humidity. She looked up and noticed that the sky was buried under a thick, colourless haze.

  Rain, rain come today.

  A little girl was perched at the top corner of the steps into the library, reading. She reminded Vera Maude of herself way back when the biggest decisions she had to make were which book to sign out and whether to have her ice cream straight up or in a float.

  — Chapter 23 —

  TWO COPS: ONE FAT, ONE THIN

  A shadow swept across the yard. McCloskey looked up in time to see a turkey vulture light upon a branch in the black oak. The sight of it made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. He picked up a charred piece of wood frame from the burned cabin and hurled it at the creature. It hissed and flew off, wobbling through the haze like a falling angel.

  The trap door in the floor was open and there were footprints everywhere. On top of the footprints were tracks where the coroner had pulled up his wagon to collect the bodies. The shadows were dull but McCloskey could still feel the sun beating down hard. He slowly made his way across the little radish field that divided the two properties.

  There were no signs of life outside Lesperance’s house and not a sound came from within. He opened the screen door and let it slam shut behind him.

  “Well, well, well,” said Jigsaw. “I knew if I stayed in one place long enough, et cetera, et cetera.”

  He was sitting at the kitchen table, tipping a bottle into a tumbler. Off to the side were two cops, one fat, one thin. They were standing shoulder to shoulder with stupid grins on their faces. The thin one looked drunk. The fat one was eating sliced peaches out of a jar.