The Bootlegger's Confession

by Allan Levine

  Geller spent an hour having dinner at Mrs. Tillsdale’s; the roast beef and potatoes were as delicious as she had promised. He had to endure her stories about Vera in the years before it became a bootlegger depot, and he heard more, much more, about the day her husband Cecil lost control of a tractor, crashed into their barn, and ultimately died from his injuries.

  Around ten o’clock, after his second serving of blueberry pie, Geller excused himself. It was nearly dark. “Just need to stretch my legs for a few minutes,” he said.

  “Not one for walking around this late myself. But I guess with you city folk, it’s different. Just make certain that you watch out for foxes and coyotes,” Mrs. Tillsdale cautioned him. “They like to lurk around the garbage.”

  He assured her that he would take precautions. It wasn’t foxes and coyotes he was concerned about, however, but Sergeant Sundell and his men. Leaving Mrs. Tillsdale’s house, Geller checked in every direction to ensure he was not being followed. He quickly reached Main Street, glanced around again, and did not see a soul. He proceeded to Roter’s General Store, not certain what he was searching for but hoping that perhaps there was something the police missed.

  Reaching the front door, he used the key Jack Smythe had given him to open it. The dwindling light outside coming in the repaired front window was sufficient for him to make his way around the store. He could make out a patch of dry blood on the floor where Roter had been shot. Everything else seemed to be in its place. He sidestepped a barrel filled with straw brooms and some wooden boxes of canned goods.

  As he moved towards the rear, the light faded and he gingerly groped his way through the dark. He reached Roter’s small office. There was a kerosene lamp hanging nearby. Figuring he was far enough inside that no one would be able to see the light, he lit it. The office was quickly illuminated. There were files and order forms scattered around the desk. A can of tobacco was half-open and beside it was a half-empty bottle of Shea’s Irish Whisky. Alec was certain that the bottle was full before Sundell’s men started guzzling it. He was about to take a swig, but thought it might be best to leave it alone.

  Geller planted himself in Max Roter’s office chair. Other than the sound outside of chirping crickets, it was eerily silent. He saw Roter’s safe. It was open and empty. There was nothing here, he thought, nothing unusual. And he doubted he’d find anything in the liquor warehouse as well. He wasn’t sure why Klein had sent him here.

  Pushing the chair back slightly, he saw that the desk had two drawers on its right side. He opened the bottom one. There were black, leather-bound accounts books stacked on their sides, marked for 1920, 1921, and 1922. Geller leafed through one, but all he found were columns and numbers. He placed the ledger back, shut the bottom drawer, and opened the top one. Inside was an assortment of pencils, paperclips, and bottle caps. He was about to shut the drawer when he noticed a small piece of paper jutting out from a back corner. He reached in and immediately felt a small wooden handle. He pulled it and eased it open. Inside the compartment was a small bundle of paper tied together with twine.

  His heart raced slightly. Maybe he had indeed found something significant that the police had missed. He pulled the papers out and placed them on the desk when he heard the distinct creak of a floorboard.

  He stood up and looked into the store, but the light from the lamp made it difficult to see much. He stepped around the chair and moved forward. At that moment, a figure lunged at him, striking him hard on the head with a wooden club. Before Alec could say another word, his knees buckled and he fell hard to the ground.

  7

  Klein slept on the parlour chesterfield again Wednesday and Thursday nights and Friday morning he once more opened his eyes to find his three children staring at him. Freda looked more distraught at this situation than she had two mornings ago. But before Klein could offer a word of explanation or reassurance, Sarah appeared and quickly took charge of the situation. She ushered the children into the kitchen for breakfast and then did something quite unexpected: she kissed Klein’s cheek.

  “Good morning, Shailek. Sleep well?”

  Taken aback, Klein did not know what to say.

  “Mommy kissed Daddy,” shouted Bernice gleefully. Freda smiled and little Mel started running around the house like an excited puppy.

  “In the kitchen, now, you three,” ordered Sarah. “There’s coffee when you want it, Shailek.”

  Klein feigned a smile. He knew how his wife operated. She was trying to wear him down and win him back. And it was working, though not for the reason she might have imagined. Even with Wednesday’s events at the railway station, Klein’s guilty conscience in recalling his encounter with Hannah Nash had been on his mind. How could he punish Sarah for committing precisely the same mistake he had? Deep down, he knew that he had to forgive her. The alternative was to break up his marriage and his family over this transgression and that he could not do. He had to find it in his heart to forgive Sarah and move forward.

  He shaved and dressed and made his way into the kitchen. Sarah handed him a cup of steaming coffee.

  “Thanks,” he mumbled, taking a sip. He sat down at the table in the chair beside Freda. His daughter smiled warmly at him.

  Sarah smiled too, but said nothing. She knew then that all would soon be well.

  Klein lit a cigarette just as the telephone rang, as exciting an event as there was for the children. Only listening to the radio eclipsed the elation of answering the telephone from the children’s perspective. And that was recent. Klein had only purchased a crystal radio set and headphones for sixteen dollars a few months earlier after the Free Press inaugurated radio broadcasts.

  The black rotary candle-stick phone, on the other hand, was more functional. The phone stood on a small half-desk with an attached chair outside the entrance to the kitchen. Beside it was a bound telephone book with local numbers. And above the telephone was a torn piece of paper Sarah had affixed to the wall. It was entitled “Winnipeg Automatic Service at Your Finger Tips!” and had instructions on “How to Operate the Automatic Telephone.” It was a reminder that if the number started with the letter prefix A or N, you could dial the number directly without the assistance of the operator—the city’s “Hello Girls.” Sarah found the new telephone somewhat challenging but as long as she remembered to pull the dial to the right until her finger struck the finger stop and then release it before she dialed the next number, she was miraculously connected. “What will they think of next?” she usually said.

  As Klein walked briskly to answer it, he had to be careful not to step on Bernice and Mel who raced ahead of him.

  “My turn,” said Bernice.

  “I haven’t got time for this, Niecee,” said Klein.

  “My turn,” she repeated.

  “Okay, okay, quickly, pick up the receiver.”

  Carefully, Bernice jumped up on the chair and lifted the receiver. She handed it to her father with the same care she had cradled Mel in her arms with a few years earlier.

  Klein took it from her and picked up the phone by its long stem. He held the receiver to his left ear and spoke into the mouthpiece.

  “Hello … Yes, this is Klein … Detective Allard, what can I do for you?… All right, I will be there within the hour.”

  Klein replaced the receiver and put the telephone back on the table. He was surprised. He had only met Allard, yet the detective had decided for some reason to keep him informed on developments. In Klein’s experience, that was rare for members of the Winnipeg Police Department. He had learned many times in his dealings with McCreary that sharing information was not something the city’s cops did willingly—especially with him.

  “Anything important?” asked Sarah.

  “I have to go down to the police station before the Roter funeral.”

  “I would like to be there with you and to pay my respects to Lou, at least. And a wife should
be with her husband at such a sombre occasion. I’ll close the shop and meet you there.”

  Klein shook his head. The last thing he wanted at the moment was to be at the synagogue when Sarah would likely encounter Saul Sugarman. “It’s really not necessary,” he said, trying to be as polite as possible. “But thanks for the offer. Can you manage with the kids?”

  “I always do,” said Sarah, who was also trying hard to be as agreeable as she could. “Shailek…”

  Klein interrupted her. “Let’s talk later,” he said, lightly touching her hand.

  “I would like that.” She reached for his forehead and gently pushed his hair from his eyes. He took her hand and kissed it. Ten minutes later he was out the door.

  As Klein approached the three-storey Central Police Station on Rupert Avenue and Martha Street, he could see that at the main entrance two constables were struggling to control a man wearing a flat, grey cap and a torn jacket. This particular individual was twisting and turning in a futile attempt to free himself from their grip.

  “I’m going to tell you one last time, Novak, stop jumping around,” said one of the constables.

  “I’ve done nothing. You must let me go,” the man pleaded.

  “That would be for the judge to decide,” the second constable said. “Now, you’ll only make this more difficult on yourself.”

  “What’s wrong, I ask you? A man is entitled to make a living.”

  “Not by being a thief, you shit,” said the first constable.

  “I do nothing wrong,” said Novak. He stopped fast in his tracks, dropped to his knees, and with all the power he could muster, threw both constables forward. They went crashing to the steps and their bobby hats went flying. Novak stood up, turned around, and began running towards where Klein was standing.

  “Stop, you Bohunk, so help me…” yelled one of the constables, wildly waving his billy club.

  Novak attempted to push Klein aside, but as he did so, Klein moved to his left and stuck out his foot. Novak tripped and went tumbling to the sidewalk. That was all the time both constables needed to recover and grab him. They whacked him several times with their clubs, further incapacitating him.

  “Get the hell to the station,” one of them ordered.

  “Klein, isn’t it?” the other constable asked.

  “It is, yes…”

  “Michaelson … Thanks for your assistance.”

  “I’m always ready to help the Winnipeg Police Department.”

  “Interfering again in police business, Klein?” McCreary was standing at the station entrance with a bemused look on his face.

  “Sir, Mr. Klein helped stop this man,” said Constable Michaelson.

  “Well, Michaelson, he wouldn’t have to if you and James knew how to handle a suspect,” barked McCreary.

  “Of course, sir,” said Michaelson. “We should’ve done a better job. Won’t happen again, sir.” He tipped his helmet to Klein and he and his partner dragged Novak into the station.

  “You’re being a little hard on them, McCreary,” said Klein. “As I recall, you’ve lost a few suspects in your day.”

  “You’re full of shit, Klein. So what the hell are you doing here? I told you that I’d let you know if I found anything about the shooting,”

  “And I thought you were running the provincial police. So why are you involved in a city crime?”

  McCreary waved the back of his hand at Klein. “If it involves the Sugarmans and booze, it involves me.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “You still didn’t answer my question.”

  “What am I doing here?” asked Klein. “I’m here for the same reason you are, to hear what Reverend John Vivian has to say.”

  “How do you know about him coming in this morning?”

  “You’re really asking me that?”

  A wry smile crossed McCreary’s face, though just for a moment. “Newton will never allow you to be in the room.”

  “Actually, I’ve cleared it with the chief,” said Detective Allard, who appeared behind McCreary. “I invited Mr. Klein. I thought he might be useful in speaking with Reverend Vivian and the chief agreed.”

  “Is that so?” asked McCreary, narrowing his eyes.

  “That’s so,” said Klein, pushing past him.

  “The reverend is in a room on the second floor, Mr. Klein. Follow me,” said Allard.

  At ten in the morning, the station’s second floor was as noisy and bustling as usual. Klein found himself in a cacophony of ringing telephones, clattering typewriter keys, and the general mayhem of a squad room before a weekend. He noticed the suspect Novak, now with a small trickle of blood on his forehead, slumped in a chair in the corner. He was handcuffed to a steel pole and still yelling that he had done nothing wrong.

  Klein doubted that very much. He had seen too many like him: newcomers just off the boat and looking for any way to make money quickly. Perhaps he was merely hungry and desperate? He certainly wasn’t the first immigrant to resort to stealing to sustain himself.

  At the back of the squad room, Allard was standing by a door leading into an interrogation area. The detective made eye contact with Klein, beckoning him. Beside Allard, Klein could see two more cops: McCreary, who had a scowling look on his face, and Edward “Big Ed” Franks, the morality inspector. Franks, as his nickname implied, was a broad-shouldered and robust man. Everything about him was “big”: his hands, feet, ears. The little hair he had left on his head and his full, round face made him seem even more imposing. He was one of the first detectives Klein had met when he was working as a minder and bouncer at Melinda’s. And he knew from his past dealings with him that he was as solid as a brick wall and a cop not to be taken lightly.

  As Klein reached the trio, only Allard offered a friendly nod. “As I told you, Klein, I’m happy to have you sit in on our meeting with Vivian. And it’s only a meeting for now. He hasn’t been arrested. But I’d appreciate it if you would stay quiet. We can talk privately when the questioning is over. Agreed?” said the detective.

  “Agreed,” said Klein.

  “Ha. Sam Klein keeping his mouth shut,” snorted McCreary. “That’ll be a first.”

  Klein ignored the jibe. “Inspector Franks,” he said, extending his hand. “Always a pleasure to see you.”

  “I doubt that,” said Franks, firmly shaking Klein’s hand but only for a moment. “You’re still the snot-nosed punk who got in my way at Melinda’s. I don’t care how famous you’ve become. You and your kind are the reason I have to do what I do: uplift the morality in this community.”

  “My kind?” said Klein. His voice dripped with sarcasm, though he knew what Franks was implying.

  “Yeah, your kind. From what I hear, you still associate with that troublemaking whore, Melinda. For more than ten years, she’s done nothing but pull this city down into the depths of depravity. And then there are the Sugarmans, flouting the law and distributing booze far and wide. Whatever happens to the Sugarmans, it’s their own damn fault.”

  “Even more so I imagine because they’re Jews like me. Isn’t that what you mean, Inspector?”

  “You said it, Klein, I didn’t. But if the shoe fits…”

  “Gentlemen, please,” implored Allard. “Inspector, I realize anything to do with the liquor trade is your jurisdiction. And Klein, I asked you here and Chief Newton agreed to my request because we both felt you might have some insight into this case. But let’s keep this dignified, please.”

  “Fine by me,” said Klein.

  Franks nodded. “Let’s get this over with. I got work to do.”

  McCreary chuckled. “Everywhere you go Klein, you’re trouble.”

  Klein was about to reply to that taunt, but stopped himself. Allard opened the door of the interrogation room and entered. Klein followed him in as did McCreary and Franks.

&nb
sp; Seated at a chair, straight and erect, at the table in the middle of the room was Reverend John Vivian. Sizing him up, Klein figured that in any boxing match he would be a difficult opponent even for someone as tough as Franks.

  There were three wooden chairs on the opposite side of the table. Allard immediately sat down in the middle one and McCreary and Franks in the other two. Klein stood back against the wall. He stared at Vivian’s face and as he did so, his eyes momentarily locked with those of the reverend. Try as he might, Vivian could not disguise his moral superiority or disgust for everyone else in the room. A chill went down Klein’s spine.

  “Reverend, I want to thank you for voluntarily coming to the station to answer our questions,” said Allard.

  “I didn’t really have a choice, did I? I know Detective McCreary and Franks, of course. Detective Franks and I have much in common in fighting the devil that will bring ruination to this city. ‘Uplift’ is your motto, sir, is it not?” asked Vivian, looking directly at Franks. “Do you and the members of your morality division not keep watch on persons of good character and admonish them if you believe they have strayed off the path of righteousness? You do everything possible for them so that they will continue to be useful members of society?”

  Franks nodded. “That’s so, Reverend, yes. But, of course, I do my work as the law permits. I don’t arm a gang of vigilantes with clubs and decide when and how justice should be meted out.”

  “‘And the disciples, everyone as he was able, made a decision to send help to the brothers living in Judaea.’ Acts, chapter eleven, verse nine. In short, each of us must do what he can, in the way that is open to him.”