by Allan Levine
Asner waved the back of his hand. “I don’t need any steam bath operator telling me what to do.”
“You think that Saul’s in danger, Sam?” asked Morroznik.
Klein shrugged. “Can’t say, Manny.”
“Can’t say or won’t say,” said Asner.
“Gentlemen, always a pleasure, but I’m going to say hello to Mrs. Roter,” said Klein.
In fact, after being briefed by Hannah Nash earlier in the day about her cryptic yet revealing conversation with Dr. Lewis in Vera, he was more certain than ever that the Sugarmans were in grave danger from two separate assailants. The first, as he initially suspected, was related to a bootlegging war that they were caught up in; the second was being orchestrated by the admittedly clever Reverend Vivian and almost certainly involved George Dickens. The two thugs, once he found them, could provide the answers to the former problem, and Joannie Smythe, who he assumed would be at the shiva, was the key to figuring out what Vivian and Dickens were planning. How Max Roter’s murder fit into either of these, if at all, remained to be determined, but Klein had a theory.
Leaving the men, Klein entered the house. He saw that according to Jewish custom, the hallway mirror had been covered with a black cloth; during mourning, those who had lost a loved one were not to be concerned with their appearances. About twenty people, mainly women, were sitting in the parlour chatting loudly. In the adjacent dining room, the mahogany table had plates of honey cake, cinnamon rugelach, and strudel. There was also a half-empty bottle of Canadian Club whisky, Max’s favourite, and a row of shot glasses. Klein approached Rae Roter who was sitting on a low chair, minus the cushion, surrounded by several women, one of whom he was pleased to see was Joannie Smythe.
“Mr. Klein, it’s nice of you to come by,” said Rae.
Klein nodded at her and at Joannie. “My condolences again. As Lou has asked of me, I’m doing my best to find the person who was responsible.”
“I know you are,” said Rae, patting Klein’s hand. “You remember my friend from Vera, Mrs. Smythe?”
“Yes. It was nice of you to stay in the city, Mrs. Smythe. I’m sure Mrs. Roter appreciates your support.” Klein studied her face for a trace of fear, doubt, or insincerity, yet she revealed nothing of what she was thinking or feeling. She merely glanced at him and offered a polite smile.
“I hear that Lou awoke for a moment.”
Rae shrugged. “The doctors don’t know what it means. He was very groggy and then went unconscious again. Clearly, he isn’t out of the woods yet and I’m worried.”
“I completely understand. Are the police still there?”
“Yes, as far as I know. Why? Do you think he’s still in danger?”
“I don’t know. Possibly,” said Klein, looking at Joannie for a reaction. But, again, there was nothing. “I don’t see Saul here.”
The question annoyed Rae. “I have no idea where he is or when he might be here. As I’m sure I don’t have to tell you, Mr. Klein, my brother Saul’s a difficult man.”
Klein politely smiled. “True enough. Mrs. Roter, may we speak somewhere privately?”
“Rabbi Samuel will be here shortly to lead the prayer service.”
“I’ll be brief … I promise you.”
Rae stood up and led Klein up the stairs into Lou’s office. She shut the door and looked into Klein’s eyes. “What would you like to know?”
“Was your husband having any problems or involved in a dispute of some sort with someone other than possibly Frankie Taylor?”
“The police already asked me this and as I told them, Max was a friend to everyone in Vera. Whatever happened must be connected to the liquor business, don’t you think?”
“That would seem the most likely answer, yes.”
“But you don’t believe that, do you, Mr. Klein?”
“Honestly, I don’t know. Though, I’ll admit, it makes the most sense given what’s happened in the city. Your husband may well have been an unfortunate casualty of a bootlegging war. If the police could find Taylor and I could hear what he has to say, then we might get the information we need to unravel this. Or…”
“Or what?”
“Or the robbery and shooting at your store were related to something else entirely. Let me ask you: did you ever see your husband with a bundle of papers tied with a string?”
“Max was always busy with business reports and correspondence. What papers are you referring to exactly?”
“Last week, my associate Alec Geller visited Vera and your store. Jack Smythe gave him the keys. He found a small pack of papers hidden in the compartment of a desk drawer in your husband’s office. But before he could examine them, he was attacked. He’s fine and is back in the city. I’ve been wondering what was in those documents that someone did not want him to see.”
Rae’s face flushed slightly. “I … I’ve no idea. I can assure you, though, Max was not doing anything illegal or corrupt, if that’s what you’re implying.”
“I never thought that.” He paused for a moment. “What was Mr. Roter’s relationship with the Smythes?”
Rae stared awkwardly at him. “That’s a strange question. Joannie’s my friend, but Max liked her. He tolerated Mr. Smythe. I wouldn’t call them friends.”
“What can you tell me about their marriage?”
Rae shifted in her chair. “I don’t feel especially comfortable speaking about this.”
“It may be important. Please, go ahead.”
“Their marriage is like that of everyone else. It has its good moments as well as its bad. Joannie wanted to have children, but could not. I think that has strained things between them. And then there is…”
“Mr. Smythe’s drinking.”
Rae nodded. “Yes. Joannie’s a very private person, yet I know for a fact that he has hurt her, and more than once. I’ve seen the bruises on her arms and I know she has been punched in the stomach at least once. I’ve tried to speak with her about it many times, but she refuses to talk about it. She only says that she is handling it. I asked what she meant by that, but she wouldn’t say. I’d add that she’s seemed more at peace with herself recently. I can only assume that the situation with Jack has improved.”
“Would she ever leave him?”
Rae shook her head. “Never. Joannie’s much too proud and divorce is just out of the question, especially in a town like Vera. I think the shame would be worse, in her view. That’s obviously not true, yet I believe that’s how she sees it.”
“I assume Mr. Roter knew of this?”
“He did, yes. We spoke of it. Max heard the gossip. But his view, most of the time, at least—Max could change his mind on things—was that what happened between a husband and wife was their own private business. I don’t know, I think he had a soft spot for Joannie. He always doted on her in the store and ensured that she found everything she was looking for. I teased him about it once and he denied it.”
“Rae, the rabbi is here. He is about to lead the prayers,” someone shouted from downstairs.
“Mrs. Roter, one last question. Have you ever heard Mrs. Smythe mention Reverend John Vivian?”
“I heard Max talk and yell about him plenty. He has a real goyishe kop and is meshuggina about the liquor business. Max said he was trying to ruin the family. But Joannie talk of him? No, never.”
In the dining room, Klein joined Rabbi Samuel and the other men who had crowded around the table for the afternoon and evening prayer services. The davening was mostly silent reading along with the usual loud mumbling as the men recited the prayers to themselves as quickly as their lips could move. About the only aberration was the rabbi’s invitation to Rae to stand beside him for the recitation of the Mourner’s Kaddish. There was immediately an uncomfortable murmur from several of the men, including Hymie Plotzer and Norman Lunger, traditionalists who believed strongly that me
n and women should pray separately.
Klein hardly paid attention to this brief and ancient dispute. As he stared at the Hebrew words in the siddur, his mind could only focus on recent events. He reviewed his conversation with Rae and decided that it was imperative for him to also speak with Joannie Smythe. He would offer to escort her back to her hotel. As the last words of the Kaddish were being said, Klein looked for Joannie among the women in the parlour. Then he checked the kitchen. But she was gone.
With Paulie the Plumber at the wheel, the Buick sped north down Main Street. At the corner of Sutherland Avenue, Paulie turned sharply to the right, drove a few more blocks, and then steered left onto Annabella Street. As he did so, a young boy darted out from behind a wagon.
“Watch out for the damn kid,” shouted Richie.
Paulie slammed the brake and the car jerked to a stop inches from the startled boy. “Kid, you tryin’ to get killed?” Paulie screamed. “For Christ’s sake, watch where you’re going.”
The stunned boy ran back to his house and was greeted by his distraught mother. She eyed Paulie and Richie, but had the good sense not to say anything to them.
“Move,” ordered Richie. “Number 118, down the street on the left.”
He easily found the address and parked the car a short distance from their destination. Madam Melinda’s brothel, a red, two-storey, wood-frame house, was in a state of disrepair. The front gate was broken and one of the second floor windows was smashed.
Paulie looked at Richie. “You sure this is the place? It’s awfully quiet.” Richie took out a piece of paper from this pocket. “118 Annabella. This is it.”
Two decades earlier, during the heyday of the semi-legal Point Douglas brothels, the horse-drawn wagons and taxis were lined up and down Annabella Street (called Rachel Street until 1913) and nearby MacFarlane Street. Men from all walks of life, respectable and otherwise, found their way to Madam Melinda’s and about twenty other busy brothels in the neighbourhood, which were open for business all day, every day.
That was in the past, however. Eventually, the nightly carousing, half-clad harlots parading throughout the neighbourhood, and crime forced the police to heed the moralists and close the establishments down—or at least try to. Some of the madams sold their homes for rock-bottom prices and relocated to out-of-the-way streets in St. Boniface and Transcona.
Melinda was one of the few exceptions. She made a side deal with the police—$200 a month that she paid to McCreary until recently—that kept them happy. And she ensured that the women who worked for her did not cause her neighbours any undue problems. They kept her many clients happy and contented and life in Melinda’s self-contained world went on without a hitch.
Standing near the car, Paulie and Richie, as was their habit, scoured the area. Not seeing anything unusual or anyone suspicious, they proceeded up the short walkway and knocked on the door. A young woman with short blonde hair wearing a flimsy red satin negligee answered.
“Gentlemen, welcome,” she said with a broad smile. “I’m Martha. Come in, please.”
She led Paulie and Richie into the parlour. The windows were covered with gaudy tapestries, the same ones that had hung there for years. In the dimly lit room, the two men were greeted cheerfully by two other women, also dressed in negligees, lounging and smoking on the turquoise sofas. They were in their early- to mid-twenties and were attractive, though both, like Martha, had ruby red lips, heavy eye shadow, black mascara, and abundant rouge on their cheeks. One of the women had shorter hair and a flapper appeal. Richie judged her to be Creole, or possibly Spanish. The other woman was lily white with long, dark hair. She had a slightly rougher look and had a more fulsome figure.
“Don’t just stand there, Martha. Get these gents some whisky,” said the woman with the dark hair.
“Of course, Miss Nell.”
“My name is Nell. And that’s Lulu. She doesn’t speak much English, but then, she doesn’t have to, does she? Tell me, how can we serve you today? The Lord’s Day, no less,” she said, chuckling. “By the look of your fine suits and fancy fedoras, I’d say you two aren’t from around here, are you?”
“We’re just visiting,” said Paulie.
“Thought so,” said Nell.
“Madam Melinda here?” asked Richie.
“You know her?”
“No. Just heard of her like everyone else in the city.”
“She’s working in her office in the back of the kitchen. I can fetch her if you like.”
“How about in about two hours?”
Martha returned with a bottle of whisky and two glasses. She poured two shots and handed one each to the men.
“So what’s your pleasure?” asked Nell. “No, let me guess.” She sized up Paulie. “You’re a handsome one. I’d say that Martha here would be right for you.”
Paulie smiled and nodded.
“And you, sir,” Nell said, glancing at Richie, “you have a more discerning taste. And since you’ve walked in, you haven’t taken your eye, the one without the patch, off of Lulu.”
Richie laughed as he swigged down the whisky. He put the glass on the table near the sofa and grabbed Lulu’s hand. He motioned to her. She stood up, drew her finger over his face, and led him down the hallway. Martha took Paulie’s hand and led him up the stairs.
“Come on, honey pie, my room’s up here.”
As soon as the women and their clients had vanished, Madam Melinda appeared.
She was wearing her usual evening attire: a black lace and chiffon dress that was cut low in the front, revealing her ample cleavage. Her dark hair was shorter and greyer than it once was, yet at 51, Melinda remained a beautiful and lively woman. She was also business-savvy. She had prospered and survived as the most celebrated madam in Winnipeg for more than two decades by being both fair and tough. She didn’t tolerate excessive drinking or the heavy use of opium or Indian hemp, easily available from nefarious dealers in Chinatown and several Main Street saloons. A girl who couldn’t handle her liquor or her clients did not last long in Melinda’s employ. For those who excelled, there was room, board, and 40 percent of the money they earned.
“Did I hear some happy customers?” asked Melinda.
“You did, Melinda,” replied Nell, sitting up. “Two out-of-towners, I think.”
“That so? They tell you that or you just guessing?”
“They said they were visiting. But from the look of their fine suits and hats, they got some cash to spend. One’s with Martha; the other’s with Lulu. That one is a little scarier-looking.”
“Scarier? In what way?”
“Has a black patch covering his right eye. Kind of fellow you wouldn’t want to meet in a dark alley late at night.”
Melinda’s eyes widened. Klein had asked her to be on the lookout for a gangster with a black eyepatch who had a partner.
“I have to make a call. Nell, don’t let those two men leave before I speak with them.”
“I wouldn’t worry about it. They’ll be busy for a little while.”
Outside on the street, a black Model-T slowly passed Paulie and Richie’s Buick. The driver made a mental note of the address. He also glanced at the shotgun lying on the passenger seat.
He could not quite believe that he had missed his mark on two occasions. To say that his boss was unhappy was an understatement. He could not afford to screw this up again or he’d be a dead man. That was a certainty. So he had to get this right. He knew he could eliminate one problem immediately. But he had his plan set and decided to stick with it. Wait, he told himself and be patient. Soon, Paulie the Plumber, One-eye Richie, and the damn Sugarmans would be ancient history.
17
Early Monday morning, the Royal Alexandra Hotel’s stylish café, illuminated in a sea of sunshine from the skylights, was still quiet. Klein requested a table in the corner where he could keep an eye o
n the entrance, but not be immediately noticed. At this hour, only a handful of businessmen were dispersed throughout the room. Most were having breakfast served on elegant white tablecloths. Some chatted quietly about pending meetings; others were immersed in the morning newspaper reading about the ongoing conflict in Ireland between the Republicans and the pro-British forces as well as the sports news that on Saturday the New York Yankees had lost to the lowly Detroit Tigers by a score of nine to two. No one bothered to look at Klein as he sat down, which suited him just fine. He ordered coffee and toast and then lit a cigarette.
He still regretted not being home when Melinda had telephoned him. By the time he had returned the call, Paulie and Richie had left her house. She had introduced herself to them, trying to elicit as much information as possible. Paulie began to chat with her about travelling to the city from Minneapolis, but Richie immediately cut him off. Melinda had told Klein that they were both satisfied customers and that she was certain that they would return in the near future. As Melinda pointed out, once a man like Richie has a sensuous woman such as Lulu, he will always come back for more. Klein said that he would be there around eight o’clock in case they showed up.
He sipped his coffee and had to admit that it tasted a lot better than the black swill served at Dolly’s. Not having a lot of money never really bothered Klein. Ever since he was young, he had hustled to eke out a living, yet he was more or less content with what he had. At the same time, on those rare occasions when he dined at the hotel or visited a mansion on Wellington Crescent or Roslyn Road, he could understand the attraction of wealth and the privileges it bestowed. Who didn’t want their every whim met?
As he contemplated a life with a palatial house, servants, high-priced automobiles, and a stable of horses, the hotel waiter brought his toast with a side of the café’s strawberry jelly. He was about to sample it when he saw Joannie Smythe enter. He stood up and approached her.
“Mrs. Smythe, if you’re here alone, please join me.”
“Mr. Klein, I’m surprised to see you here.”
