by Allan Levine
“I want the good stuff, Roter,” barked Taylor. “None of that watered down shit the Sugarmans have been selling. No one was happy about the last shipment I sent them.”
“You mean, Rosen?” asked Max.
“You know that’s exactly who I am talking about. Now stop talking and let’s load up the car so I can get the hell out of this fucking town.”
Within twenty minutes, Max and Taylor had stocked twenty crates of booze into the back of Taylor’s Packard. The rear seat had been removed so that there was more space for the precious liquid cargo.
“That should do it,” said Max, carefully placing the last crate inside the car.
Taylor surveyed the haul. “Looks good. They’ll be pleased.”
“Assuming you get across into Hampton, of course.”
Taylor flipped his hand. “When have I ever not been able to do that? Besides, this time of the night no cops or feds will be around. But just to be safe, give me a hand with these chains.”
Max grabbed the two thirty-foot steel chains and helped Taylor fasten them to back of the spare tire. The chains, as he knew, stirred up a heavy cloud of dust so that even if some nosy federal agents were monitoring the border, they wouldn’t be able to see him as Taylor sped away.
With the chains on, Max cleared his throat.
“Yeah, I know what you’re waiting for, Roter. Always the Jew, right?” Taylor snickered.
Max ignored the taunt. “It’s business, that’s all.”
Taylor pulled an envelope filled with cash from his inside jacket pocket and handed it to Max. “You gonna count it?”
“I trust you,” he said, taking the envelope.
With that, Taylor was back in his car. He slowly eased his way back to Main Street and then accelerated. As he did so, a whirling dust storm flew back towards Max who ran for cover inside the store.
Max opened the envelope and shuffled through the bills. There was $7000 in total; Lou and Saul would be pleased. He placed the money back in the envelope, grabbed the bank sack with that night’s take from the store, and moved to his small office at the rear where he kept a safe. He began to turn the combination dial when he heard a knock at the front door. Who the hell was that at this hour, he wondered.
He left the money on a table and began moving towards the door. He was nearly there when there was a crash and then flying glass shards. Max looked up to see a sawed-off shotgun through the broken window. “What the…”
The person holding the gun fired. The shell struck Max in his chest. He crumbled to the floor in a pool of blood. Calmly, the perpetrator reached through the window and opened the door.
The person touched Max’s neck, ensuring that he was dead. He was. Max’s tie clip and ring were removed. The murderer then walked to the rear office, snatched the envelope of cash and the bank bag, turned around, and quietly left the store.
1
Wednesday, June 14, 1922
Winnipeg, Manitoba
The distinct aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafted through the small, two-storey house on Cathedral Avenue. The bitter yet appealing smell roused Sam Klein from a deep sleep. He gradually opened his eyes, only to find his three children standing quietly at the foot of the parlour couch staring at him.
“Yes,” he said softly. “Want something?”
The youngest, three-year-old Mel, smiled and waved at his father. His two older sisters, Freda, eight, and Bernice, five, were more glum.
Klein sat up and as he did so, little Mel jumped into his outstretched arms. He gave his father a big hug. “Why so sad, girls?” asked Klein tossing Mel around. The three-year-old let out a loud giggle. “Freda, don’t you have to get ready for school?”
Bernice fidgeted but said nothing. She deferred to Freda, as she usually did.
With her angular face and long nose, Bernice, or Niecee to the family, was the spitting image of Klein. Freda, taller, with long, reddish-brown hair was definitely Sarah Klein’s daughter. She had her mother’s high cheekbones, long legs, soft look, and unmatchable style that his wife still had at the age of thirty-four. Sarah was a “looker,” as Klein liked to say. She had that something that made most men stop and gaze at her, whether it was at the grocery store or the park—which was exactly the reason he was sleeping on the chesterfield again, and had been for the past two weeks.
Freda cleared her throat. “Why are you in here, Daddy? Don’t you love Mommy anymore?”
From the mouths of babes, thought Klein. “Of course I love Mommy, bubeleh. I just wanted to sleep by myself last night. You shouldn’t worry about such things.”
Freda raised her eyebrows. “Estelle’s father was sleeping on the chesterfield and now he doesn’t live with Estelle and her mother anymore.”
Klein shook his head. “Where do you get such ideas? No one is going anywhere. Now go get ready for school and take your sister and brother with you.”
“Is Mommy going bye-bye again?” Bernice piped in.
“Yeah,” said Freda. “Mommy isn’t leaving on another holiday, is she? We missed her. She was gone a long time.”
“Mel, give me those cigarettes.” The little boy did as he was told. Klein took one out, removed a match from the Eddy box beside him, and lit it. Mel’s eyes widened as he watched his father’s every move with great interest. Klein inhaled sharply. “Mommy isn’t going anywhere, and neither am I. Freda, upstairs. That goes for you too, Niecee, and Mel. Now, or we’ll ship you off to the orphanage. Then you’ll learn what life’s all about.”
“Oh, Daddy,” said Freda, giggling. “You’ll never do that. But I’m glad you still want to live with us.” She took Mel by the hand and led him up the stairs to the second floor of the house. Bernice trailed behind them.
Klein stood up and straightened out his suspenders. He was still wearing his black pants from the night before and a white undershirt. He took another strong drag on the cigarette, pulled out his gold pocket watch, and checked the time. It was seven thirty. He had an hour and a half before he was meeting downtown with Lou Sugarman at Dolly’s Café.
He had not lied to his children, though he may not have told them the entire truth either. He had had another restless night of sleep. The fact was, he had not slept well in more than a month, ever since his and Sarah’s bitter argument. But he wasn’t going anywhere. Hell, they had only moved into this house at 411 Cathedral Avenue six months ago.
The white stucco two-storey with the iron banister, electricity, and gas stove was about two blocks from Salter Street. He and Sarah had saved the fifty-dollar down payment so all that they owed was another $3,450. Klein thought his connection to his friend Alfred Powers, a respected lawyer, would get him in the door at the downtown banks. Then Alfred had dropped dead a few months ago from a heart attack and the bankers didn’t consider a Jewish immigrant—and a self-employed private detective at that—as a particularly sound risk. Alfred’s son Graham, a crown lawyer who had treated his sister Rivka so abysmally during the big strike a few years back, was of no help either. He didn’t care much for Klein’s “kind,” as he wasn’t hesitant about telling him.
With no other options open to them, Klein listened to Sarah and spoke to Lou Sugarman. Lou, in turn, sent him to see his brother Saul. The Sugarmans gave the Kleins the mortgage they needed. The interest was fair and the twenty-five-dollars-a-month payments doable. It would probably take twelve to fifteen years, but they would pay it off eventually.
On the other hand, dealing with Saul Sugarman left Klein uneasy; there was something about him that rubbed Klein the wrong way—and now, with what had transpired between Sarah and Sugarman, even more so. Maybe it was his expensive, custom-made suits or his monogrammed, pristine white shirts that he had shipped in from Maurice Rothschild’s in Minneapolis? Or the thick roll of cash he always had in his pocket? Or, maybe, it was the way he eyed Sarah, like a hungry wolf stalking its next meal?
Whatever it was, Klein detested the man. If it wasn’t for the fact that Klein was genuinely fond of Lou Sugarman, the polar opposite of his brother, and that he and Sarah genuinely required financial help, he would have told Saul to take his money and shove it up his arse.
Klein made a decent living, averaging about a thousand dollars a year, but month-to-month his cash flow fluctuated. There were times recently when he had more clients and cases than he could handle—husbands and wives checking up on each other, businesses investigating their employees, missing persons, and a handful of suspicious deaths which he investigated, usually much to the annoyance of the police—but the work did slow down as well. In those months, he was thankful Sarah had her dress and cosmetics shop. Yet she, too, had her good and bad months. Since early 1920, there had been a noticeable downturn in the economy. Prices had increased; the grey suit, from Scotland no less, which Klein had recently purchased at Ralph’s for $24.70 would have cost about fifteen dollars in 1916. To make matters worse, the rise in prices was not matched by a corresponding increase in wages. So, of late, there seemed to be a lot more bad months for both of them than good ones. In Sarah’s case, many of her regular customers simply delayed buying new dresses and hats and purchased only the absolute minimum supply of cosmetics. On top of this, she was being outsold by Eaton’s, the Hudson’s Bay Company store, as well as Holt Renfrew.
This was the main reason some months ago Sarah had reluctantly accepted Saul Sugarman’s offer to invest in her shop. She and Klein had discussed and argued about it; did they really want to be further indebted to the Sugarmans? Wasn’t the loan from them on their house sufficient? But they also could not stand by and watch the dress shop go under. Klein knew the shop meant a lot to Sarah; it had given her the respectability she had craved and, in his view, deserved. And they needed any money it brought in. In the end, they both agreed that there was no other choice but to hold their noses and accept Saul Sugarman’s money. What Klein did not expect, however, was how this transaction was to so seriously impact their marriage.
Klein sauntered into the main floor kitchen, helped himself to a mug of hot coffee, and lit another cigarette.
“You don’t look so rested, Shailek,” said Sarah, using Klein’s Yiddish name. “I don’t know why you felt you had to sleep on the chesterfield again.” She was standing at the stove, stirring a pot of porridge for the children.
He stared at her, but said nothing. Her long, dark hair dangled on her shoulders while the thin straps of her white, lace nightgown slightly protruded from the top of the red, flowery housecoat she wore. Though Klein hated to admit it, she was as beautiful and alluring as ever. There was no denying it.
“What, you’re not talking to me again, Shailek? How many times do I have to apologize?”
Klein took a drag on his cigarette and slowly exhaled it. He pushed his way past Sarah, cut a slice of bread, and spooned on some strawberry jam.
“You’re an asshole, Shailek. Do you know that?”
“I’m an asshole,” said Klein. “I’m an asshole. That’s funny, Sarah. Who’s the one who ran away? Not me. I was here alone with the kids. Where the hell were you?”
Sarah shook her head. “I’ve told you a thousand times, but I’ll say it again. I just needed a few days to be alone. That’s all. I know it was wrong. I regret it more than you can imagine. I have explained what I did to the children. I have apologized to them. I think Freda, at least, understands that I was not abandoning her or Niecee or Mel. My God, I never would leave them or you. You must know that in your heart.”
Klein pursed his lips. “All I know for certain is that you stayed at Melinda’s, for Christ’s sake. At a whorehouse. Aren’t you past that yet?” As soon as the words came out of his mouth, he realized he shouldn’t have said them. He was being deliberately mean and he knew it.
Sarah’s eyes widened and she touched her forehead with her right hand. “How can you ask me that? I just needed a place to sleep and there weren’t many other places to go. Melinda’s always been good to me, and to you, too, by the way.”
“What if someone we knew or one of your customers saw you there or heard about it?” asked Klein, raising his voice slightly.
Sarah’s body stiffened. “I don’t know when you got so high and mighty. But as I recall, you used to sleep with a lot of the women at Melinda’s in the old days.”
“Exactly: old days. I don’t make apologies for anything I’ve done to get ahead. And I’ve thanked Melinda many times for helping me when I needed it. And I still do. But to my mind, I’ve moved on. I’m not sure you have.”
Sarah sighed. “That’s ridiculous and you know it.”
“Is it? What about that damn Sugarman?”
“You’re kidding. We’ve been over this again and again. I told you how sorry I was. It didn’t mean anything. Can’t we move on? Please, Shailek, if not for me then for the children?” Sarah’s eyes welled up. “I love you…”
“You kissed another man!” yelled Klein, slapping his hand hard on the kitchen table. “And then you lied about it. How am I supposed to ever trust you again? Can you tell me that, Sarah?”
“It didn’t mean anything. It was a stupid, stupid mistake. I don’t know why I did it…”
“I have an idea…” muttered Klein.
“What does that mean?” asked Sarah, her voice louder. Tears ran down her face. “What, because I used to work at Melinda’s? Is that what you mean?”
Klein said nothing.
“God damn you, Shailek. You’re impossible. Go to hell. Just go to hell.” She stormed out of the kitchen. As she did so, she nearly ran over the three children who appeared. Bernice was in tears and Freda looked like she was about to cry as well. Only Mel, who was dragging his raggedy stuffed bear in his right hand, was oblivious to the commotion. Sarah put her arms around the trio.
“Mommy, Daddy, what’s happening?” Freda asked, her voice breaking. “Please stop yelling at each other.”
“We were just having an argument,” said Sarah softly. She picked Mel up. “It’s nothing. You go to school, Freda.”
Freda eyed her mother suspiciously and then looked at Klein.
“Listen to your mother,” he said. “I have to be somewhere.” He pushed his way past his family and climbed briskly up the stairs.
Ever so carefully, Saul Sugarman brushed the lint off the jacket of his new suit. It was navy, pinstripe wool and double-breasted. Abe Palay, his personal tailor, had done another superb job on the jacket, vest, and pants.
Sugarman was of medium-height with a slight paunch and dark, greased-back hair tinged with grey. He had deep-set eyes, a thin nose, and a European charm that some women found attractive. He also made no apologies for his wealth and expensive taste.
Taking a step back, he surveyed his fifth-floor Boyd Building office. There was his solid, hand-crafted oak desk, a swivel, high-back leather chair, deep mahogany shelves filled with books he admittedly had never read, and a hand-stitched carpet he had shipped in from the Orient. And outside on the street, in front of the building in his reserved parking spot, was his brand new, cream-coloured Rolls-Royce. The automobile cost him $12,000—pocket change really, and seeing the look in Sarah’s eyes when she rode in it was worth every penny.
That was what life was all about, Sugarman thought; the finer things that money could buy—and at the moment he could pretty much buy anything his heart desired. Except, that is, the one thing that he coveted above all else: Sarah Klein. The thought of her close by, in her shop on the main floor of the building, excited him. Lovely, sensuous, desirable; the memory of her soft lips touching his was as powerful as any he had ever had. That she was the wife of another man and the mother of three children was beside the point. Saul wanted her and he aimed to have her—a fine trophy to add to his catalogue of fine possessions, and there would be little her self-important husband Sam Klein could do about it. They
didn’t call Saul Sugarman the “Rockefeller of Winnipeg” for nothing.
Sugarman spun his chair around and slid open a panel directly behind him revealing a hidden wall safe. He deftly turned the combination, lifted the lever, and pulled open the safe. Inside were neatly stacked bills of all types: piles of one hundred dollar bills from the US, an assortment from the Northern Crown Bank, mostly twenties and fifties, and several wads of $500 and $1000 Dominion of Canada bills. And this was merely a tiny portion of the month’s take so far.
The Sugarmans truly could not keep up with the demand for booze. Saul and Lou had hired even more agents to man their warehouses along the Turtle Mountain hill. In the city alone, they now had on staff three chemists and four tinsmiths to construct the gallon cans they required for their homemade brands. They also had contracts with several bakeries in the city as well as in Edmonton and Vancouver for their sugar supplies. In fact, Lou had just purchased another warehouse on Logan Avenue near McPhillips. Business, as they say, was booming.
Problems, of course, arose from time to time. Nosy cops and customs officers had to be paid off and placating the likes of Rosen required patience that Saul did not always have. And now, admittedly, there was this mess with Max Roter, his late pain-in-the-ass brother-in-law. He felt terrible for his sister Rae and her children. Yet, if anyone was the architect of his own fate, it was Max. He had a big mouth and was greedy. There were some people you just did not cross. Max, unfortunately, either did not understand this, or, more likely, merely ignored it. Sugarman had warned him more than once that his actions would have consequences. But Max was as stubborn as a mule.
