by Allan Levine
“I get it. Let’s leave it at that.”
“I had to see her before I left and she’s busy this evening,” Geller smiled.
“Christ, Alec. You’ll be gone for two days at the most. It’s not like you’re going back to the Promised Land.”
Geller chuckled. “So what’s the plan?”
“Head for the platform and stay out of sight,” said Klein, glancing again at the clock. “I want you to watch the other passengers on the train with the Roters. And anyone else you see. If anyone doesn’t look right, let me know immediately.”
“What are you expecting, Sam?”
“Maybe nothing. Maybe something,” said Klein, looking off into the distance.
Geller knew better than to question Klein’s sixth sense. “Whatever you say, sir.”
“This isn’t the army or the orphanage, Alec. Just go now. You’re worse than my kids,” he said with a slight grin.
Geller raised his hand to his forehead in a mock salute and did as he was instructed.
A few minutes later, Klein heard a familiar voice. “Shailek, over here.” He turned to see his sister Rivka accompanied by Lou Sugarman.
The spectacle of the two as a couple was still fresh and still peculiar. Lou reminded Klein of an affable old uncle, the type who showed up each Friday night with treats for the kids, while Rivka at thirty-eight had matured into a handsome woman with both style and intelligence. Still as radical and stubborn as ever, she had improved her life. A year and a half ago, she quit her job as a seamstress at Moses Asner’s garment factory, where the days were twelve to sixteen hours and the pay was barely five dollars for a six-day week. She was now teaching at the IL Peretz School, which was in the process of moving into its new home on the corner of Salter Street and Aberdeen Avenue. Pertez School offered a Yiddish-based and more secular curriculum than the mainstream Talmud Torah. “The Jewish child for the Jewish people,” as Rivka put it. To this end, she was also spearheading a fundraising campaign for the Kulture Kreiz’s Jewish Public Library—the Yiddishe Folk Bibliotik—that was to be located in the basement of the Peretz School. It was all very exciting in Rivka’s sheltered world. That Rabbi Israel Kahanovitch, the esteemed Chief Rabbi of Western Canada, had publicly denounced radicals like Rivka as “Godless” merely reinforced her commitment to work towards a Jewish socialist utopia.
All Klein had to do in order to get a rise out of his sister was to hint that the Talmud Torah’s Hebrew education was more beneficial for Jews in Canada than that offered by the Peretz School. Then, he sat back while Rivka embarked on a tirade about the socialists’ noble cause and the curse of capitalism. She liked to spout her philosophy about the “struggle of the proletariat” to Freda and Bernice, even Mel, though Klein attempted to keep such indoctrinating of his children to a minimum. He could not understand how Lou Sugarman, a capitalist if there ever was one, could tolerate such propaganda. But as Klein also knew from his many experiences, love sometimes could truly trump all. This was one of those times.
Rivka gave Klein a light peck on the cheek. “I’m glad you came, Shailek. It’s just terrible what has happened. Poor Rae. How will she manage?”
Lou lightly touched her shoulder. “She’ll be taken care of. Don’t you worry, my dear.”
“I’m sure she will,” said Klein. Rivka noticed his sarcasm, yet said nothing.
The clock struck one and the sound of the arriving train on the outside platform echoed through the station. Lou led the way and Rivka and Klein fell in behind. As soon as they did so, Klein spotted Geller through the billowing smoke from the steam engine. He was sitting reading a newspaper on a bench and far enough away that Rivka and Lou would not see him.
Rae and her children were in the third car from the engine. Gone was her usual jovial spirit. Dressed in black, her eyes were red and hollow. As soon as she saw her brother Lou, she crumbled. He grabbed and held her tightly. Rivka took hold of the children, Mira and Isaac, and gave them both a hug. Klein watched the other passengers climb down. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, only that he felt uneasy.
“It was the liquor, wasn’t it, Lou,” said Rae, her voice shaking. “This is because of that damn booze.” She looked around her. “I see that Saul’s not here.”
“He had a meeting,” Lou mumbled. “I know he wanted to…”
“Stop, Lou, please. You and I both know that the only thing that matters to Saul is money, money, and more money. That mattered to Max as well. And now look what happened to him.” She glanced at Klein. “Mr. Klein, isn’t it?”
Klein nodded.
“Lou’s told me that you’ve agreed to help us. You’ll find out who did this horrible thing to my Max, won’t you?”
“I’ll do my best,” said Klein. “Can we talk soon?”
“Of course, but after the funeral. I can’t speak of it until then.”
A porter walked up to them. “Ma’am, if you’ll come with me we can unload the casket.”
Rae, with tears in her eyes, and her children walked towards the rear of the train. Lou and Rivka followed them. Klein held back for a moment and noticed Geller standing, pointing in the direction of the train on the track directly across from them that had just pulled in from Minneapolis.
Disembarking from the first passenger car were two burly men in dark pinstripe suits. Both wore white fedoras. The shorter of the two men had a black patch over his right eye and the taller one carried a small case. Neither of them looked especially friendly or happy to be arriving in the city. Klein watched them and for a split second his eyes made contact with the taller man. A cold chill rippled through his body. Dangerous thugs, thought Klein, like the ones he had seen with Rosen in New York. The man quickly looked away. He whispered to his partner. The two men stopped. They crossed the dusty platform and started walking slowly towards where Rae and her children and Lou and Rivka were standing.
Klein immediately moved in their direction. The two men were about ten paces in front of him. Klein could see four porters lifting the casket off one of the cargo cars. Lou had arranged for a flatbed Ford truck to take the casket to Simpson’s mortuary on Main and Redwood, which often prepared Jewish bodies before burial. Lou, among other Jews in the community, found this situation unacceptable and efforts were underway to raise funds for a Jewish community funeral chapel that would assume responsibility for this. The truck was parked at the end of the train, accessible from Higgins.
The porters carefully carried the casket to the truck. Rae held Mira and Isaac’s hands and walked behind them. The two thugs began to move more quickly. The man with the eyepatch reached into his suit pocket. Klein froze for a moment. What the hell, he thought. Then the man pulled out a black object that looked like a pistol.
“Everyone down,” Klein shouted.
Lou and Rivka looked back at Klein. “What is it, Shailek?” Rivka asked loudly.
“Get down, all of you…”
The words were barely out of his mouth, when there was the distinct sound of a gun firing. The shot came from behind where Geller was standing. Alec dropped to the ground. Then, another shot. Klein also ducked for cover behind a wooden bench. His eyes scanned the area and it seemed to him that the hidden gunman, who was perched on top of a nearby shed, was not firing at Rae, Rivka, or Lou, but at the two men. The thugs kneeled and the man with the patch, who indeed had a pistol in his hand as Klein had suspected, began firing in the direction of the shooter.
“Stay down, Alec,” yelled Klein.
Abruptly, the gunfire stopped. Klein slowly stood up. The two thugs were gone. When he was certain that the danger had ended, he ran towards his sister and the others.
5
Within thirty minutes, the CPR station was filled with Winnipeg police constables, all properly attired in their dark blue uniforms adorned with gold buttons. On their heads they wore tall bobby-style helmets held in place by a blac
k chinstrap. Several officers were swarming around Rae Roter and her children as well as Lou Sugarman and Rivka, firing questions at them.
Klein stood back and watched quietly, puffing on a cigarette. From the frustrated look on the constables’ faces they were not getting the answers they wanted.
Before the brigade of police had arrived from the Central Police Station on Rupert Avenue a few blocks away, Klein had ensured that no one was hurt. The Roter children were naturally upset, as was everyone else.
“I think that was meant for me,” said Lou, shaking. Rivka held his hand tightly.
“I don’t know what to think,” said Klein. In his mind, the shooter had aimed and fired at the two thugs, who were nowhere to be seen. Klein wasn’t one to second-guess himself, but maybe Lou was right. On the way up the business ladder, Lou and Saul had made a few enemies—not the least of whom was the high-minded preacher, Reverend John Vivian, a moral crusader whose declared life’s purpose was to single-handedly shut down the liquor trade in Canada.
As Klein was aware, Vivian had about ten to twenty young, devoted followers who heeded his every word and did his bidding. The reverend, dubbed “the battling preacher” by Winnipeg journalists, and his men frequently carried clubs as well as guns. Despite repeated warnings from the police, they had wielded their revolvers on more than one occasion. Just last month, Vivian and his “gang,” as the Free Press called them, had literally carried out a military-style assault on a notorious illegal saloon on Jarvis Avenue, whose greedy operator had been selling homemade brew to the neighbourhood children. It was possible that Vivian was behind today’s attack, thought Klein. The reverend had been quoted as denouncing the Sugarman brothers as the “devil’s sinners who were destined for Hell.”
“Klein, what a surprise to find you in the middle of this,” said a familiar voice. There was no disguising the mocking tone.
Klein turned and came face-to-face with Detective Bill McCreary, decked out in his trademark three-piece, grey, loose-fitting sack suit and derby. Klein liked to kid McCreary that he hadn’t purchased a new suit since the blood libel-Rabbi Davidovich murder trial from 1911—Klein’s first official case. “Why spend the money when you don’t have to,” was McCreary’s standard explanation.
Another taller plain-clothes detective stood silently beside him. Klein did not know him, but he did look familiar. Like McCreary, the detective sported a thick moustache. Except while McCreary’s moustache was flecked with lots of grey, this officer’s thick whiskers were as dark as his deep, penetrating eyes.
“McCreary, you still on the job? I heard you retired,” said Klein with a wisp of a smirk.
“Interim Commissioner of the Provincial Police, if you haven’t heard,” said McCreary, puffing his chest forward.
“Yeah, I’ve heard,” said Klein. “So if that’s the case, what brings you down here? Isn’t this a matter for the city police?”
McCreary motioned in the direction of Lou Sugarman. “Anything involving those two Jew liquor traders, the Sugarman brothers, I’m involved in. Those were my orders from up high.”
Klein was used to McCreary’s rough language and ignored the taunt. “So who’s your new partner?”
“Name is Thomas Allard,” the detective said, extending his right hand to Klein. “McCreary’s told me all about you.”
Klein stared at him for a moment. He seemed friendly enough for a cop, Klein thought, but was as rigid as a slab of wood. “Allard. Aren’t you that sniper who won all those medals during the war?” he asked, shaking his hand.
“That’s him,” McCreary said before Allard could reply. “He’s also the first half-breed on the force.”
The stoic expression on Allard’s face was firm. “I am Métis, grew up in Fort Rouge,” he said. “But, yes, Mr. Klein, you’re correct about me.”
Klein had read the feature story about Allard in the Tribune. His father, Joseph, was a fireman on the Canadian Northern Railway and the family was much better off than many of the Métis in Winnipeg, some of whom lived in abject poverty in tar-paper shanties in Rooster Town, the bush slum located south of Corydon Avenue and Wilton Street. Allard had attended St. Ignatius Catholic School and eventually joined the Canadian Expeditionary Force. The marksman was credited with killing close to 389 enemy soldiers at Passchendaele, Ypres, the Somme, and the other bloody battlefields of Europe where he served. For his bravery, he was awarded the Military Medal with two bars, the highest honour awarded to a Métis or Indian soldier.
“Honestly, I didn’t think it would work, hiring a half-breed, but Allard has skills,” said McCreary, speaking as if Allard was not standing beside him. “When I got my promotion a while ago, Chief Newton thought it would be a good idea to see how Allard works as a detective. Said it was a progressive move, whatever the hell that means. Next thing you know they’ll be hiring Hebes like you, Klein.”
“You’ll have to excuse Commissioner McCreary,” said Klein. His tone was sarcastic, yet mixed with a tinge of anger. “But once a boor, always a boor.”
Allard waved his hand. “Never mind it. I’ve grown up with it. Like water off a duck’s back, for me.”
“I understand,” said Klein.
Like most Winnipeggers, if Klein thought about Métis or Indians at all—and to his mind there wasn’t much difference—it was not in a positive way. “Drunken Indian,” was the common refrain whenever an Indian from a nearby reserve ventured into the city—and it hardly mattered that some of the more industrious ones set up berry stands in the summer. The prevailing attitude among Winnipeg citizens, whether they were “old stock” Canadians or newcomers from Europe, was that the Indians were indolent beggars who needed to adapt and conform to a “Canadian” way of life. The Métis of St. Boniface who had more or less assimilated into the French community were tolerated. The same went for the Métis in Fort Rouge like the Allards who had decently paying jobs and owned or rented houses. But those who resided in Rooster Town without electricity or running water or who were squatting on other land beyond the city limits were reviled as immoral and condemned for living in squalor. Still, casting a glance at Allard, Klein could see right away that he carried himself with a professional dignity generally lacking in many of the city’s cops he had encounted.
“If you two are finished,” said McCreary, “can you tell me what the hell happened here, Klein?”
Klein proceeded to relate what had transpired, but left out a few details. He decided that he would omit any mention of the two thugs and whether they were the intended targets of the shooter. He wanted to investigate further and figure out who these two men were and why they were in the city. For the moment, there was no point involving the police; they would merely complicate things.
Seeing Klein speaking with the detectives, Lou Sugarman walked over to where they were standing. “You need to find out who did this.”
“Easy, Sugarman. The last thing I need is advice from the likes of you,” said McCreary.
“My brother and I are honest businessmen trying to make a living…”
“Yeah, by selling booze to American bootleggers.”
“It’s not illegal,” said Sugarman.
“Maybe so, but the province is not going to turn a blind eye to this profiteering forever,” said McCreary.
“And when did you ever concern yourself about such things, McCreary?” asked Klein.
“You implying something, Klein?” McCreary’s voice rose.
“You’ve stayed dry during prohibition in the province, McCreary? That’s not what I heard, or saw, for that matter. Didn’t you and I have a drink at a blind pig on Magnus Avenue a few months back?”
McCreary waved the back of his hand. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re saying, Klein. Like always.”
“Mr. Sugarman, who do you think shot at you today?” asked Allard. “If, in fact, you were the intended target.”
“Of course I was. Who else could it have been? My sister and her children? Klein’s sister, Rivka? Trust me, I could’ve been killed and I know who it was.”
“Is that so?” said Allard.
“What’s your thinking, Lou?” asked Klein.
“That crazed preacher, John Vivian. It had to be him.”
“That’s bullshit,” said McCreary.
“Did you see him here?” Allard asked Sugarman.
Lou shook his head. “In the past few months he’s sent at least a dozen threatening letters to me and my brother about how he’s going to put us out of business permanently. Refers to us as the ‘evil sinners’ and ‘the manufacturers of immorality and depravity.’ Don’t you think that’s enough?”
“Maybe,” replied Allard. “Seems hard to believe that the reverend would go as far as to hire someone to try to kill you and in such a public place.”
“Yeah, well, I disagree,” said Sugarman. “That man’s the real menace, not us.”
“I think you should talk to him, McCreary. It makes sense,” said Klein.
“Well, you’re not a cop, are you, Klein? If I had to make a guess, I’d say this has to do with the murder of your brother-in-law in Vera, Sugarman. And I intend to get to the bottom of that very shortly. However, don’t let it ever be said that Bill McCreary does not investigate every angle carefully…”
“No, of course not,” said Klein, shaking his head slightly.
“As I was saying. Allard will question Reverend Vivian and we’ll see if he knows anything about this.”
“Good,” said Lou. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to help my sister-in-law with the funeral arrangements.”
“I thought you and Saul Sugarman were on good terms, McCreary,” said Klein after Lou had rejoined his family and Rivka.
The detective glared at Klein for a moment. “You ask too many questions, Klein. You always have.”
