Riverside Drive: Border City Blues

by Michael Januska

  “If it ishn’t young McCloshkey,” said the thin one.

  “Spitting image, isn’t he?”

  “Na. His da was better lookin’.”

  McCloskey could feel his blood beginning to boil. “Where’s Lesperance?”

  Jigsaw gave the two cops a look and they each took a single step in opposite directions. Behind them in a chair was Lesperance, or what was left of him. With his beaten and bloodied head thrown back, McCloskey figured he had to be either dead or very nearly so. The two cops then took up strategic positions in the room, one back at the screen door and the other at the way to the front of the house.

  “Have a seat,” said Jigsaw and McCloskey parked himself. “I saw you at the track. You should have stopped by and said hello.”

  “I got a good look at the Lieutenant.”

  “So you did.”

  “And you’re trying to tell me he’s still running things? He couldn’t run a hot dog stand.”

  Jigsaw pushed the tumbler of whisky towards McCloskey. McCloskey ignored it.

  “Suit yourself.” Jigsaw downed the whisky and then refilled the tumbler. “Where’s your friend, Killer? You two make a cute couple.”

  “Let’s get to the point.”

  “All right, this is it: Jack McCloskey’s brother and their old man were spoiling his bootlegging career and making his bosses very angry, and so he came home and dealt with it. He iced them both and as compensation he helped himself to their working capital and liquor stash.”

  Jigsaw took a sip from his glass before he continued.

  “Then there’s Jack’s sister-in-law, a real hottie and awful lonely these days. Jack’s always been sweet on her but that pesky brother of his kept getting in the way. Now Jack can move right in.”

  Jigsaw filled the tumbler again and once more pushed it towards McCloskey. McCloskey took it this time and poured the amber liquid down his throat. It was homemade. It burned.

  “And here’s the topper: the shootout at the Elliott. Jack then assessed the situation in the Border Cities and felt things were in a state of flux. An opportunity for a power play comes up at the Elliott where he takes out a couple of pretenders, retires a few of cops, and sends a Yankee home with the message that Killer McCloskey is back in town.

  “The way I see it, you got three choices: spend the rest of your life behind bars, on the run, or dead. And no matter what you choose out of that hand, your sweetheart and her do-good brother are left, shall we say, vulnerable.”

  McCloskey pushed the tumbler back towards Jigsaw. Jigsaw refilled it and McCloskey drained it.

  “As bad as it looks, Killer, there are steps you can take.”

  “Like what?”

  “For starters you can off the Lieutenant.”

  McCloskey blinked. “What?”

  “He hasn’t got it anymore. He let the good life dull his edge. I shared my concerns with the boss. The incident at the track was the last straw. That pathetic display will cost him his life.”

  “Why don’t you do it?”

  “Two reasons. First: the Lieutenant still has allies and we don’t want to start a war. We’re trying to stay the course in the day-to-day. Second: I’ve consulted with local law enforcement and, not to put too fine a point on it, they prefer it this way. You’ve got to admit there’s a certain symmetry to you offing the man that pushed the button on your father and brother.”

  Jigsaw sat back and delivered his summation. “It’s your life or Green’s.”

  “You’re singing a different tune than you were this morning.”

  “It’s all about survival.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “There’s nothing to think about. I’ve got a bead on your girlfriend, Killer, so you better not disappoint me.”

  The room fell silent except for the sound of the flies buzzing around Lesperance.

  “What is it you want me to do?”

  “Be at the pool hall at midnight. Green will be there, alone. I told him there were some things he and I needed to discuss.”

  “Only it won’t be you — it’ll be me.”

  “I shouldn’t have to tell you he’ll be expecting the worst. He’s been a bit jittery lately.”

  “I’ll bet. And what’ll you be doing?”

  “I got other more pressing matters. I’ll meet you at the British-American shortly after midnight. You can deliver me the good news and we can say our goodbyes.”

  “Was that the boss at the table at Kenilworth?”

  “Yep.”

  “He looks like he knows his way around the playground.”

  “Ex-British Army. Blue blood. Very connected. His type knows how to get things done. If anyone can bring an end to the coal strike and get things back on track, it’s him.”

  Jigsaw stood up. “Now scram. We gotta perform a burial at sea.”

  “He’s the one that gave the order, isn’t he?”

  Jigsaw grinned. “His clean-up crew is rolling across the Border Cities right now. It was one of his boys that hired those three goons to take care of you, your father, and your brother. They were supposed to wait until you got home but somebody jumped the gun. When the Lieutenant found out you were still alive he bought you some time. Now he’s out of time.”

  This was a lot for McCloskey to think about. He got up and made for the screen door. The thin cop stepped aside.

  “Take care o’ yourshelf, Jack.”

  McCloskey hauled off and belted him one, right on the chops. It felt good. The cop staggered backed and bounced off the wall, coughing up blood and broken teeth.

  “Take care of yourself, pig.”

  Jigsaw let out a laugh that brought the temperature in the room down several degrees. “You got off lucky, copper. Killer just tickled your jaw.”

  The turkey vulture was picking through the rubble of the cabin. McCloskey climbed into his car.

  The steering wheel was too hot to touch and the seat was too hot to lean back on. For a moment he considered returning to the house with his revolver and doing what really needed to be done. Instead he started the engine and took it in reverse all the way up the path.

  — Chapter 24 —

  “HOW ROTTEN THEY WERE UNDERNEATH”

  Vera Maude took one look at the streetcar packed with elbows, long faces, and crying babies and decided it would be a good day to walk home. She watched it pull away.

  Standing alone on the curb she suddenly felt cut loose, set adrift. She became anxious and was overcome by a powerful urge to smoke.

  The impulse passed through her like an electrical charge. She looked around before taking the pack out of her purse. When she popped it open the odour of the tobacco wafted out. She breathed it in.

  Here goes nothing.

  The filter was hard and dry on her lips. She struck a match on the side of the box and held the flame to the tip.

  She had to yank the cigarette out of her mouth so she could cough without swallowing it or spitting it onto the sidewalk. When she caught her breath she replaced it and continued walking up Dougall Road.

  She held it the way she had seen men hold it. The first time she exhaled she walked into her own cloud of smoke and started coughing again. The second time she turned her head and made like she was blowing out birthday candles — not particularly graceful, but very effective.

  When she finished it she took a moment to gauge its side effects.

  Dizziness: only slightly more than usual.

  Shortness of breath: no worse than the experience of riding in a hot, cramped streetcar.

  Lingering tobacco odour: a little perfume can fix that.

  Dry mouth: So? It’s a hot day.

  She pulled a fresh cigarette from the pack and got it going without missing a beat. She was developing a rhythm. Now she could call herself a modern woman.

  Yeah, like that’s all it took: a pack of Macdonald’s.

  She was reminded of the first truly modern woman she ever met. It was at a Club meeting.
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br />   Following a dinner in her honour at the Elmcourt Country Club at which 32 members and friends of the Music, Literature, and Art Club were entertained, Miss Grace Blackburn, assistant editor of the London Free Press, London, Ont., and a Canadian writer of merit, gave a program at the Y.W.C.A., last evening.

  Vera Maude felt that it probably took more courage to be a modern woman than it did to be a soldier in the Great War. Where the doughboy ran away with his buddies to take pot shots at strangers huddled in trenches, women were facing violence and injustice on a daily basis, oftentimes in their own homes.

  Maudie, honey, you need a man.

  Vera Maude hated hearing that all the time, especially from Hazel and Lillian. She’d met some of the boys they went out with and in her humble opinion they were all duds.

  At Erie Street she dropped the butt and mashed it under her heel. So far there was nothing about this smoking business she didn’t like. She drew another cigarette out of the pack and got it going. She stood there with it sticking straight out of her mouth, waiting for a break in the traffic. A few heads turned, particularly among the men folk.

  They were noticing how her body forced that demure library attire down some dangerous curves; how her wild and wavy hair was struggling to break free from a battery of clips and pins; and how her dark-rimmed cheaters barely hid her wide, girlish eyes.

  “Zowie,” exclaimed a fellow in a passing car.

  Euh.

  There were two kinds of guys, according to Vera Maude: guys that were all talk and guys that were all hands.

  And never the twain shall meet. Oh to meet a guy that can woo me with fine words while groping me in his roadster.

  Vera Maude’s mind was like a needle skipping across a gramophone record.

  Miss Blackburn, who is a most interesting and vivid personality, as well as the composer of many delightful poems and plays, was introduced by Miss Hazel Scott, president of the M., L., and A Club, who presided for the evening.

  Each of Miss Blackburn’s contributions was made even more delightful by a short preface. Her first number was a charming little play, entitled “The Little Grey,” given with a wealth of dramatic expression and atmospheric charm.

  Vera Maude regretted opening up to Hazel and Lillian the way she had. She let her guard down. And it was such a stupid thing to say.

  Then how come I feel so … empty?

  Her angst probably didn’t even register with them. She hoped that was the case; the last thing she wanted was for them to report the whole thing to her father.

  She froze for a moment on the sidewalk.

  Shit — that’s what it was all about.

  The other day her father asked her why she was acting so peculiar. She got defensive. Was she acting peculiar? She wasn’t sure. At any rate, she should have let it go, or told him something so personal, so girlie it would have scared him and sent him running. He would probably have gone straight to the family doctor.

  Is there anything you can prescribe for her modern ills?

  A woman glared at Vera Maude and her cigarette, and Vera Maude glared right back. She was getting herself worked up. She thought about taking a break and counting to ten, like her father always told her to do.

  “Futz that.” She dropped another shell and reloaded. “I got me some butts to smoke.”

  Miss Blackburn also gave a stirring war poem, and another play, this a tragedy of a French murder, depicting dramatically the self renunciation of a simple old French priest, who, absolving his servant and housekeeper from the murder of her lover, receives with silent lips her accusation of the crime, and goes wordless to his doom on the scaffold. Miss Blackburn here presented a charming picture of the lovely Breton country, its continual sunshine, gorgeous vegetation, and charm of landscape. Not long ago she spent considerable time among the French peasants there.

  Vera Maude wondered if romance was restricted to people who lived in lovely places like Brittany. Was there no possibility of romance among the automobile factories and distilleries along the Detroit River? Her mind skipped over to Braverman.

  Nice girls who fall for bad boys fall for nice girls like me. I’ve never fallen, not really.

  She added nausea to her list of side effects from tobacco-smoking.

  She has a very forceful and interesting personality, and a keen appreciation of the dramatic and the ideal. Asked her opinion on the flapper, and the so-called outrages on convention perpetrated by modern young people, Miss Blackburn asserted her admiration of today’s girl. “She is more sincere, more honest, infinitely more capable than her grandmother,” said she. “Whenever I think of all this commotion in regard to the manners of the young people of today, I conjure up a vision of the lovely court ladies of the Louis periods, I see them pirouetting gracefully, bowing charmingly, curtseying, their manners, perfection, yet, ah! their morals. How rotten they were underneath. Do manners mean morals after all? If the young people of today have discarded this superficiality of mannerism, they are at least honest. I think if they haven’t manners, they have the morals. Indeed, I love them.”

  To top it all off, or bottom it all out, Vera Maude’s feet were getting worse. She took off her shoes and walked in her stocking feet for a while.

  We have met too late for you to be influenced by me.

  So what was with Braverman and the Book Review? She would have to look for that article in her scrapbook and check it again for clues. She was on her block now.

  Not a moment too soon.

  She dropped her butt in the gutter and pinched her feet back into her shoes.

  Sweat was rolling down her back and behind her knees. She managed to get in the house before vomiting all over the front steps. Inside it was quiet and relatively cool. She used the handrail to pull herself up the stairs. Once in her room she unhooked her dress, let it fall to the floor, and collapsed on her bed.

  Miss Blackburn composed the following poem especially for the club:

  A scowling softly scudding sky

  Green as the mist on the lagged sward

  Grey boughs the brave buds glorify

  Brown earth the tulip’s lance has bored.

  A waft of wings and a shiver of song,

  Rain, and at heart, lain of the sun

  For you who have wearied and waited long,

  April is won.

  “Maudie? Is that you?”

  Futz.

  Vera Maude lifted her head and hollered back. “Yes, Mrs. Richardson.”

  “I was wondering about you, dear.”

  Vera Maude groaned.

  “Better wash up; your supper’s ready.”

  Vera Maude let out another groan and rolled over onto her back. She could smell the cigarettes in her hair.

  — Chapter 25 —

  THE PRINCE EDWARD HOTEL

  At sunrise one morning earlier in the summer, Hiram H. Walker, president of the Border Cities Hotel Company and heir to the Walker distillery empire, christened the Prince Edward Hotel with a bottle of champagne on the roof mast. Walker, with the assistance of the hotel manager and a Royal Navy officer, then raised the Union Jack.

  Later that day the hotel was open to the public for inspection. The city had never seen anything like it. People marvelled at the size of the pile and the richness of its décor: a lower lobby with a barbershop, tailoring department, and a bar room; a main lobby with a clerk’s desk in marble and a dining room done all in white with marble flooring; a mezzanine with a beauty parlor, flappers’ barbershop, miniature balconies overlooking the lobby, and a ballroom with a ceiling dripping with chandeliers. The townsfolk were mightily impressed.

  Evening ceremonies began with dinner in the main banquet hall. Afterwards, everyone congregated in the ballroom to hear the speeches.

  The answer, no doubt, to those who may marvel at the fact that so little difficulty was experienced in raising the one and three-quarters of a million dollars that was necessary for the construction of the hotel may be in the Board of Directors. Th
e most conservative businessmen in the Border Cities and in the city of Detroit have purchased preferred stock in this company, and the influence of all-important local business and social organizations has been behind the enterprise and assures its success. I have the distinct pleasure of introducing one of these businessmen. Ladies and gentleman, please welcome Mr. Richard Bathgate Davies….

  The tailor, holding the jacket by its hanger, woke the bellhop from his reverie with a gentle squeeze of the elbow.

  “Oh — looks good. I’ll grab his shoes.”

  When they got to the elevator the bellhop poked the button. One of the cars started making its way down from the third floor. It paused for a moment before a slender, gloved hand pulled the doors back.

  “Hey, Olive.”

  “Gerry, Horace. Where to?”

  “Can’t you guess?”

  The elevator lurched, Olive jiggled, and the car began its ascent. The three stared at the numbers on the dial above the door. The bell went and Olive stopped at the seventh floor. A chambermaid walked in with an armful of linen.

  “Ten please, honey.”

  When Olive pulled the doors open again the chambermaid got out and led the way. By the time the others caught up she was already knocking. Nobody one wanted to be late.

  “Housekeeping.”

  Charlie Baxter checked the peephole then swung the door open and stepped aside. Richard Davies was standing at the window, talking on the telephone and gazing at the street below. Pearl Shipley was sitting in a big, winged-back chair with her legs hanging over the side, reading a movie magazine. Davies finished his conversation then set the telephone back on his desk.

  “Emma, after you’ve put those things away I need you to tidy up the place. Charlie had some friends over for poker this afternoon and they’re still learning to pick up after themselves.”