The Bootlegger's Confession

by Allan Levine

  Richie nodded. “I say that as soon as we see what they’re up to today, we drive over to Rachel Street. There’s a place run by a Madam Melinda that’s supposed to have the most beautiful whores in this city.”

  Paulie laughed. “This is Winnipeg, for fuck sakes, Richie. You think you’re going to find some baby vamps here like back in the City?”

  “Maybe not, but it’ll still while away the evening.”

  The mood in the synagogue was sombre. “We are here to remember the soul of Max Roter,” declared Rabbi Herbert Samuel in his thick Oxford accent. He stood on the bimah or dais in the middle front section of the sanctuary. Close by, on the synagogue’s eastern wall, stood the ark where the Torah scrolls were kept. Above the ark was a large white rendering of the Ten Commandments with black Hebrew lettering.

  Samuel, who came from a long line of distinguished British rabbis, often spoke fervently about a Jewish homeland in Palestine, and was committed to introducing as many progressive rituals as his opinionated congregation would tolerate. He had been the synagogue’s rabbi since 1914. Like usual, he was wearing a turned collar similar to the type worn by Anglican priests. He also sported a fashionable van dyke beard, which made him look a lot like Theodore Herzl, one of the founders of modern Zionism.

  “Max was the loving husband of ten years to Rae and the beloved father of Mira and Isaac, a brother-in-law to Saul and Lou Sugarman, and a friend to many. In the town of Vera, no one was more respected and admired.” Sitting in the front row of the balcony, Rae Roter let out a painful cry, as Rivka and Joannie Smythe comforted her.

  “He has been taken from us far too young,” continued the rabbi. “Max was a decent and hard-working man who was led astray.” Saul Sugarman, who was barely paying attention to the eulogy, immediately raised his head, as a murmur of restrained voices echoed through the synagogue. “Had Max been content to operate his general store, things might have turned out differently for him,” said Rabbi Samuel.

  Now everyone in the sanctuary was hanging on his every word. Klein noticed Saul gesturing to Lou and neither brother looked especially pleased with the tone of the rabbi’s remarks. “Instead, Max was led astray by the promises of riches that could be found in a bottle of whisky. And the consequences have been tragic.”

  Sitting in the front pew, Lou Sugarman stood up. “Rabbi, please, that’s quite enough. You are upsetting my sister and her family and me as well.” No one in the synagogue said a word. Saul Sugarman also had had enough of the rabbi’s insults. Clenching his fists and clearly ready to explode with rage, he rose, stared at the rabbi, and marched out of the sanctuary. Only the sound of Rae’s sobbing broke the uncomfortable silence.

  Klein was stunned as well. He had attended many funerals and synagogue services and heard an array of eulogies and sermons, but he had never heard anything so pointed as the comments delivered by Rabbi Samuel.

  Sensing the unease in the synagogue, the rabbi quickly finished the service with a chanting of “El malei rachamim,” the prayer for Max’s soul. That seemed to bring everyone, except possibly Lou Sugarman, back to the reality of the moment. This was followed with everyone reciting the mourner’s Kaddish, the prayer sanctifying God’s name. Once that was completed, the pall bearers, Lou among them, left the synagogue first, stopping by Max’s casket. Everyone else in the sanctuary, men and women, followed. The rabbi requested for two lines to be formed that extended out the front doors of the synagogue and the six pall bearers lifted the casket and carried it outside to the waiting hearse, a Reo Funeral Coach, which Lou had arranged for. Max’s casket was to be taken to the Shaarey Zedek Cemetery, down Main Street, located in rural Kildonan, a mile past the city limits. Rae Roter and her children got into the Model-T directly behind the funeral coach. Both cars started moving towards William Avenue.

  “Lou, what the hell was that?” shouted Saul Sugarman, as he stepped towards his brother. “How dare Rabbi Samuel be so disrespectful?”

  “I know, Saul. I’m angry too, but not here. Think about Rae.”

  “I’m going to have him fired. Do you know how much money we’ve given to this synagogue?”

  Hearing the commotion, Rivka approached them. “Lou, Saul, please, not here. Rae’s car has already left. We have to get to the cemetery. Your sister…”

  “Don’t tell me what to do,” said Saul, inching closer to Rivka. “Not ever.”

  “Or what, Sugarman? What will you do?” said Klein. He touched Rivka on the shoulder and gently moved her to his left.

  “It’s fine, Shailek. No trouble, not here,” Rivka pleaded.

  “Leave it, Sam. Let me handle this, please,” said Lou.

  How Klein wanted to pop his fist into Saul’s face. Yet, he knew that all he would accomplish would be humiliating himself and Rivka. Keeping his eyes riveted on Saul, he slowly backed away.

  “I have no idea why I let my brother hire you to do anything, Klein,” said Saul. “The only good thing about you is your wife.”

  Klein’s face reddened and his fists tightened. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could restrain himself. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the Buick parked on the street. The driver looked familiar. It was the thug from the railway station. Looking more closely, he could also see the passenger; it was his partner, the man with the eyepatch.

  Saul Sugarman, who clearly enjoyed taunting Klein, moved closer to him. Klein shoved him, moving past him. He took a few paces and then stopped, turning back around. The impulse to go after Saul was overwhelming.

  “Shailek, stop, please,” said Rivka, her voice shaking.

  Her cry brought a group of people to where she was standing, as Lou put himself between Klein and his brother. “Saul, you had to start up with this meshugas? Here, now?” he said loudly enough for Saul to hear.

  Saul Sugarman waved the back of his hand. “I’m not paying another cent to that bastard. Do you hear me, Lou?”

  Lou walked to towards Klein and gently reached for his arm. “Sam, over here, please. I need to speak with you.”

  But Klein wasn’t listening. He freed himself from Lou’s grasp and began walking purposefully towards the men in the car.

  “Shit, I think we’ve been made,” said Paulie. He reached for his pistol inside Richie’s shoulder holster.

  “Easy,” advised Richie. “Don’t do anything stupid. We’re just going to talk to him.”

  As Klein reached the vehicle, he scoured the area, looking in every direction. His first thought was that they might have brought more men with them. However, apart from a small group of neighbourhood children playing stick ball, Dagmar was quiet.

  Klein cautiously approached the open driver’s side window. He looked at Paulie and immediately saw that he was holding a gun. “I just want to talk to you. I’m not looking for any trouble and I don’t have a weapon,” said Klein.

  “We don’t want any trouble, either, at least not here, Klein,” said Richie, leaning forward. He took the gun from Paulie and tossed it in the backseat. “See, we just want to talk, too.”

  “You have me at a disadvantage. You know my name, but I don’t know yours.”

  Richie sneered. “Don’t worry about it, Klein. It’s not important.”

  “Okay. So I saw you at the railway station but you disappeared after the shooting. And now you’re here again.”

  “You’re observant, Klein. We’re just visiting the city. Seeing the sites,” said Richie.

  “Is that so?”

  “That’s right,” said Paulie. “We like Winnipeg.”

  Klein looked around again and then back at the two men. “What is it you want?”

  “What we want is this, Sam. You don’t mind if I call you Sam, do you?” asked Richie.

  “Call me whatever the hell you want.”

  “As I was saying,” continued Richie. “What we want is for you to stop poking around
the Sugarmans’ business. No more questions about what happened in Vera. No searching for Frankie Taylor. Just stop before someone gets really hurt.”

  “Do you know something about what happened in Vera? To Alec?”

  “Klein, you have a nice family. A wife and a few kids. Why don’t you worry about them? Stay out of the booze business. You’ve been warned. Let’s go, Paulie.”

  From the second-storey window of a secluded corner of the library, George Dickens watched Klein’s encounter with the two men. To their right, he could see the Sugarman brothers. Perfect, he thought. He untied the rope on the long sack and pulled out his shotgun. He cranked open the window enough for the barrel to poke through.

  Reverend Vivian had been quite clear in his instructions: Do not hit or hurt anyone. Merely scare them, he ordered Dickens. This was the object of the exercise. It was unfortunate that this warning had to take place at a funeral, Vivian had conceded. But he pointed out that this way the Sugarmans would realize that they could never be safe as long as they continued to peddle liquor and defy God’s will.

  Paulie started the car and as he did so a shot rang out. He slammed the brake. Klein dropped to his knees and yelled at everyone behind him to get down. Several women screamed.

  From the window of the library, Dickens’s face turned white. He had not pulled the trigger. A second shot rang out and he saw Lou Sugarman grab his shoulder, falling to the ground and hitting his head. He scanned the area. The shots seemed to be coming from the attic of the house next to the synagogue.

  “Shailek, Lou’s been shot,” cried Rivka. “There’s blood…”

  Klein looked to his right and then left. A third shot whizzed over his head narrowly missing the driver of the car.

  “Go, now,” shouted Richie. “Get the fuck out of here.”

  Paulie hit the clutch, shifted gears, and accelerated forward. As he did so, two figures stood in front of him with their guns pointed at him and Richie.

  “Stop or we’ll fire,” said Detective Allard, his pistol out. Beside him, Hannah Nash had her revolver aimed at Paulie’s head. She had special permission to carry a firearm and was one of only a handful of policewomen in Canada permitted to do so.

  “Sam, are you hit?” asked Nash.

  “No, not me, but Lou Sugarman has been. The gunfire is coming from beside us. That house, the third floor window. I’m sure of it.”

  Nash turned to look and as she did so, Paulie shifted into reverse and hit the gas. The Buick jerked backward down Dagmar, barely missing the children on the street, who screamed. Allard fired one shot that grazed the front of car, but did not slow it down. Paulie backed up all the way to Bannatyne Avenue, stopped, shifted the gears again, turned right, and sped away.

  Several more shots were fired at the crowd near the Sugarmans. By this time four other constables had arrived. Allard ordered them to the house where the shots seemed to be coming from. The officers could hardly hear from the screams and shouting in front of the synagogue. They stormed the house and ran up the stairs to the attic. But no one was there.

  In the library, a thick bead of sweat ran down Dickens’s face. He quickly put his shotgun back in the sack and pushed his way through the crowd of patrons who had now gathered near the library’s main door. Damn, he thought. Between him and the main door was Mary Turner. He froze for a second. Then, there was another shout from the synagogue and everyone, including Mary, moved en masse towards a window in the main hall. Not wasting another second, he pushed open the door and exited the building. Just before he did so, Mary Turner, momentarily distracted, glanced at the main door. She saw Dickens leave and found it curious that he was carrying a sack used to hold rifles.

  On the walkway, Dickens looked one more time at the chaos near the synagogue. Turning left, he walked as quickly as he could down William Avenue towards Isabel Street until the noise from the synagogue shooting faded. When a streetcar happened along, he boarded it. He took a seat at the back, still reeling from what he had witnessed.

  10

  An ambulance arrived to take Lou Sugarman to the Winnipeg General Hospital ten blocks away. Rivka, whose white blouse was soaked in Lou’s blood, accompanied him. She was upset, but as solid as a rock—as she usually was in times of crisis. Klein always acknowledged that this was a trait that she had inherited from their mother, Freda. He, on the other hand, had to work hard at keeping his emotions in check, though not always successfully. The ambulance attendants had bound Lou’s wound to stop the bleeding and reassured Rivka that Lou, who was slipping in and out of consciousness, would recover. Allard ordered two of his men to stand guard over Lou at the hospital in case the shooter returned to finish the job.

  Klein stared at the astonishing scene in front of the Shaarey Zedek. There were distraught men and women, several of whom were sobbing. Dozens of police constables and plain-clothes detectives wielded guns and batons. Competing newspaper reporters methodically tried to elicit answers from mourners and police officers. And across the street, patrons from the library and neighbourhood stood watching the horrific scene unfold as if it was a rugby match. It wasn’t quite the turmoil of “Bloody Saturday” during the 1919 strike, but at that moment, that’s what it seemed like to Klein.

  In his head, he analyzed recent events, trying to make sense of it all. Two shootings in three days; someone was after the Sugarmans. Of that, he had no further doubt. Yet questions abounded. Who were these two thugs who had arrived from Minneapolis? What were they doing in the city? And why was the mystery shooter seemingly after them as well? The gunman had deliberately aimed at their car as well, which meant that their lives were in danger. Klein needed to speak with them, and fast. He had an idea where he might be able to find them later in the evening.

  The shooter, who Klein had to admit, was not the best of marksmen since he now had seemingly missed his targets on two occasions, was probably not going to stop until these men and the Sugarmans were dead. Once Lou recovered, he would need to speak with him again and determine if he knew more about this than he had told him. If that was the case, Klein was puzzled why Lou, a smart man, would have held back information that put his life and the lives of his family members in jeopardy. As for Saul Sugarman, Klein realized that he would have to leave questioning him to the police; the palpable hostility between him and Sugarman was too deep and bitter.

  Close to the entrance to the synagogue, Klein saw Saul Sugarman having what appeared to be a heated discussion with McCreary. Two provincial officers stood guard around them. In the midst of the confusion, Klein hadn’t noticed when McCreary had arrived.

  There was far too much noise for Klein to hear what Sugarman, who was doing most of the talking, was saying. All McCreary seemed to be doing was uncharacteristically nodding his head in agreement. After another minute or so, Sugarman angrily pushed McCreary out of the way and headed towards his car which happened to be in Klein’s direction. Again, McCreary uncharacteristically did nothing.

  “You know what’s going on here, don’t you, Sugarman?” Klein called out to him. “Who’s trying to kill you and your brother?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Klein. Nor do I have time to answer any of your questions. As of now, you’re off the case.”

  “Well, your brother hired me and until such time as he tells me differently, I’m still working for him.”

  Sugarman stopped and moved closer to Klein. “You have no idea what’s going on here. And I can assure you that this will only lead to trouble for you and your lovely, lovely wife and children. Now get out of my way.”

  As Saul began walking, Klein grabbed him by his arm. “What does that mean, exactly? What does this have to do with my family?”

  Sugarman said nothing; he only sneered at Klein, who tightened his grip on Saul’s arm.

  “Let go of me, now, Klein,” Sugarman barked.

  Klein looked straight at Sugarman;
his eyes were focused and his lips pursed. Without saying another word, he released his grasp and Saul stepped towards his car.

  “Hold on, Mr. Sugarman, we have a few questions for you.” Detective Allard and Hannah Nash blocked his path to his automobile.

  “I’ve nothing to say to you, either. Other than I have no idea who’s shooting at my brother or me. But I do know that I’ve had enough of all of this for today.”

  “You understand, sir, you are likely in danger. That the shooter will strike again,” said Allard.

  “That’s my concern. You need not bother yourself with this.”

  “We’d like you to come down to the station. We believe you do know more than you are willing to admit.” Nash’s tone was firm, though somewhat friendlier and more respectful than Allard’s.

  “Look, miss. I don’t know who you are, nor do I particularly care. I am not answering to any woman or anyone else for that matter. If you want anything further from me, then speak to my lawyer, Graham Powers. Now get out of my way … please.”

  As Sugarman attempted to walk forward, Allard stood his ground. Klein could see Sugarman’s face redden and his body stiffen. Had he been speaking with anyone else, Klein was certain that he would have exploded into one of his infamous rages.

  “Let him go,” said McCreary, who was now standing beside Sugarman.

  “But he must be questioned,” Allard insisted.

  “You deaf, Allard? I said let him go.”

  Allard and Nash stared at each other and then McCreary for a long moment.

  “What’s going on, McCreary?” asked Klein.

  “I don’t have to explain myself to you or anyone else here for that matter,” McCreary said, clenching his fist.

  Klein’s eyes widened. “You’re on Sugarman’s payroll, aren’t you McCreary? That’s it, isn’t it?” said Klein.

  “Watch it, Klein. You’re asking for trouble.”