by Allan Levine
Geller stood up and was about to follow her when Sid Sharp appeared. Alec inched closer to them and positioned himself behind one of the columns, close enough so that he could hear their conversation.
“I’m sorry, Sid, I have to go out,” said Smythe.
“What do you mean, you have to go out?” said Sharp.
“Just what I said. We’ll have to do this another time. I promise I’ll call you as soon as I get back.”
“That’s not good enough, Joannie.”
“It’ll have to be, Sid. Now, I have to go.”
She turned and as she did so, he grabbed her arm.
“You’re hurting me. Let go of my arm or I’ll scream, so help me God.”
Sharp noticed that they had attracted the attention of other guests and the bellman, who looked like he was about to approach them.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you, Joannie,” said Sharp, releasing his grip. “You know I’m not like that. Not like that son-of-a-bitch husband of yours.”
“I know you’re not Sid, but don’t ever do that again. Or it will be the last time I’ll ever have anything to do with you. Do you understand?”
He nodded dutifully and she patted his cheek softly. Her power over him was total. It still surprised her, despite her many charms and sexual prowess. Here was Saul Sugarman’s tough fixer, the man he called upon to solve sticky problems in any way necessary, and she had him behaving like a newly trained puppy. Men might rule the world, she thought, but never underestimate the ability of a skilled woman to compel any man to do her bidding.
“There’s one more thing, Sid. I want you to tell Mr. Sugarman I have to get back to Vera on Friday morning. We can finalize our arrangement for managing the warehouse at a later date.”
Smythe waited until Sharp was out of the hotel and out of sight before she also exited. Geller followed behind her, though kept his distance. She walked briskly to Main Street and boarded a streetcar. Geller sprinted and caught it in time. Breathing heavily, he took a seat at the back. Smythe was sitting slightly ahead of him. When the streetcar reached Portage Avenue, she darted out and began walking west. Geller trailed her, fearing that he was about to waste another day watching her shop.
At Smith Street, the number of pedestrians swelled and he lost sight of her. He turned and looked in every direction, but still could not see her in the crowd. He crossed Smith, kept walking, and then saw her half a block ahead, heading towards Donald Street. She was coming out of Andrew’s Jewellery beside the Capitol Theatre. She walked to a westbound Portage Avenue streetcar that was boarding and he trailed her onto the car.
Twenty minutes later, she disembarked at Arlington Avenue and began walking north towards St. Matthews. Geller followed her off the streetcar, paused for a few moments, but kept his eye on her. She had to be going to see George Dickens, he figured. A few houses from the end of the block, she turned right into the walkway of a small bungalow. The awning over the living room window was broken and the house’s dull, blue paint was peeling badly in spots. A black Labrador was snoozing in the morning sun on the porch. Smythe stepped over the dog, which paid no attention to her, and entered the house without knocking. Geller stopped and made a mental note of the address: 387 Arlington Street.
Though he was excited by his success and wanted to share the news of his discovery with Klein, he thought it might be best to watch the house for a while to see if Smythe or Dickens left. Surveying the quiet, working-class neighbourhood, he decided that his best vantage point was closer to St. Matthews. He walked nonchalantly past the house, trying his best to not draw any undue attention from the elderly woman across the street tending to her flowers, when he felt the sharp point of a revolver in his back.
“Stop moving,” said the person holding the gun. “Now walk slowly into the house, and no sudden movements if you know what’s good for you.”
Geller did as he was instructed. “Just take it easy. No need to do anything foolish, George,” he said.
“Good guess, kid. Now move,” said Dickens.
As soon as Geller reached the front steps, the door opened and standing before him was Joannie Smythe.
“Won’t you come in, Mr. Geller,” she said.
“It would be my pleasure. Not that I have a choice in the matter. When did you figure out I was following you?”
Smythe smiled. “Almost as soon as I left the hotel. Then when I was walking on Portage Avenue, I was certain. I’m afraid you weren’t as inconspicuous as you thought. And you were concentrating so hard on me when I got off the streetcar on Arlington, you failed to notice George, who was watching out for me at safe distance, of course. He caught sight of you trailing me immediately. We always take such precautions, you understand.”
Geller nodded and followed Smythe into the house. “Now what?”
She closed the door and turned to George. “Put that gun away. There’s no need to frighten Mr. Geller any more than you already have.”
Dickens did what she asked. “Sorry, kid. I just didn’t want you to run.”
“What the hell’s going on?” asked Geller.
“Please, sit down for a moment. We just want to talk to you and then you’re free to go. You might be interested in what we have to say.”
“Like how you’re plotting to murder Saul Sugarman.”
Smythe dropped her head. “We were, that’s true, but not anymore. The reverend has deceived us.”
“Okay, you have my attention,” said Geller, sitting down on a chair.
“And there’s something else, too,” said Smythe, glancing at Dickens.
“What?” asked Geller.
She cleared her throat. “I think I know where Sam Klein’s little girl is.”
Acting on the information provided by Klein, Detective Allard assembled six constables to accompany him to the King Street address, along with McCreary and Nash. McCreary had objected to Nash being included, since it was not general policy for the handful of female constables on the Winnipeg force, who rarely, if ever, left the station without a male escort, to participate in anything as dangerous as apprehending a suspect. But Allard, who was in charge of the operation, had insisted—as had Nash. As for Klein, Allard had told him he could come with them as long as he stayed back near the vehicles while Taylor was being arrested. McCreary didn’t like that decision either.
The final member of the team was a diminutive, middle-aged Chinese man with short, black hair named Charlie Kwang who frequently acted as an interpreter for the Winnipeg police in any matters dealing with the 900 or so members of the city’s Chinese community. Many of them—and the vast majority were men—regarded Kwang as a pariah for helping the white authorities crack down on gambling and opium use. Neither vice, as morality inspector “Big Ed” Franks was forced to concede recently, was that much of a problem. Yet that did not stop the police from pursuing Chinese men engaged in either practice as much as possible.
In any event, Kwang may been a small man, but when challenged, he knew how to handle himself in a fight, as a gang of toughs had learned a few weeks ago when they had come after him following a raid by the police on their regular mah-jong game. Klein had once seen Kwang defend himself in a bar brawl on Main Street and was amazed at his quickness and the strange yet graceful manner he moved almost every part of his body. At times like that, it was as if his abilities transformed him into a human weapon, in Klein’s view.
Everyone had gathered inside the main entrance to the station. The constables were checking their revolvers.
“We want to take Taylor alive if at all possible,” said Allard. “The suspect is hiding out in a Chinatown laundry at 247 King Street that belongs to a proprietor named Lee. That means there’ll be workers who likely won’t speak English, but Mr. Kwang is here to help us with that. I want this done quickly, quietly, and efficiently. We have the element of surprise. Taylor is armed and danger
ous so let’s be careful. Any questions?”
“And if we accidentally shoot a Chinaman, who’s going to notice? One less ‘chink’ in the city,” whispered Constable Michaelson.
“Damn right. Why are they in this country? There’s talk that the government might ban any more of them from trying to get in, even if they can afford the $500 head tax,” said Constable James.
“Michaelson, James, you got something constructive to add?” asked Allard.
“No, sir, we were just chatting about things,” said Michaelson.
“Yeah, well, no one gives a damn about what you think. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir,” both of them said in unison.
“Wonderful. Now let’s go arrest this bastard. If you’ll pardon my language, Mrs. Nash,” said Allard.
“No problem. I’m just thankful the commissioner didn’t offer his opinion on immigration. We’d be here all day.”
“Enjoy your fun all you want at my expense,” said McCreary, lighting a cigar. “But I honestly care about the future of this country.”
“We know you do,” said Klein, rolling his eyes.
Allard, McCreary, Kwang, and four constables pulled up in two cars close to the King Street laundry. Two other police vehicles with Nash, Klein, and Constables Michaelson and James stopped in the alley behind the shop. The agreed-upon plan was for both groups to proceed inside at precisely eleven o’clock.
Allard checked his pocket watch and then pulled out his revolver. “Everyone clear. It’s the store with the red and white sign board. Now, I’ve been in these laundries before. The door will have a chain of small bells on it so once we go inside, we can’t hesitate. The odds are, Taylor will be in the back room. So even if he hears us, we can flush him out towards the back door where the other men and Mrs. Nash are.”
As soon as Allard’s team stepped out of their cars with their guns drawn, they were noticed by pedestrians on King Street, who stopped to watch. Other laundry, grocery, and shop owners in the vicinity opened their doors so that they and their curious customers could peer out. Everyone in Chinatown knew what a raid looked like.
Allard and McCreary led the way. Kwang and the constables were right behind them. The front window of Lee’s laundry was covered in newspapers, preventing them from seeing inside. At exactly eleven o’clock, Allard charged in first and, sure enough ,the bells on the door began to ring. Lee was behind the front counter and immediately held up his hands.
“Where’s the white man called Taylor?” Kwang asked him in Taishanese.
Shaking, Lee pointed to the back room.
“Get down and stay down,” Kwang ordered. Lee did as he was told.
Entering the back part of the laundry, Allard and his group were hit by a cloud of billowing steam. Two of Lee’s workers were standing by vats of boiling water, while one man was ironing clothes. Kwang held his finger to his lips and told them to lie down on the floor. They did as they were instructed.
“Taylor, this is Detective Allard. We have the shop surrounded. No one has to get hurt. Come out slowly with your hands in the air.”
There was only silence.
“Taylor, there’s nowhere for you to go.”
Again, there was no reply.
Allard motioned for McCreary, Kwang, and two constables to stay put while he and two of the men moved forward. They slowly entered the room where Taylor had been hiding, but he was nowhere to be seen. Using the back door of the shop, Constables Michaelson and James appeared with their guns at the ready.
“Lower your weapons. He’s not here. Check the rest of the area,” Allard ordered.
Outside in the alley, Klein and Nash waited in an uneasy silence.
“How are you holding up, Sam?”
“I try not to think of the worst, but it’s difficult not to.”
“I can’t even begin to imagine. I pray she’ll be returned safely.”
“Thanks, I appreciate that. I’ve never been a big believer in the power of God and all that, but since Bernice has disappeared, I’ve been praying a lot, myself.”
Their conversation was interrupted by the distinct sound of a boot cracking a twig. They both turned in the direction of the noise but it was too late. Frankie Taylor had grabbed Nash from behind and was holding a knife to her throat.
“Take one more step and I’ll slice her,” said Taylor.
“Take it easy. Don’t do anything stupid. You know there’re police inside the laundry. They’re not going to let you go,” said Klein, inching forward.
“Not another movement.”
Nash looked at Klein for support and a glimpse of a smile crossed her mouth. Then, in a deft move that caught Taylor and Klein by surprise, she threw her left elbow into Taylor’s midsection as hard as she could. He grimaced slightly and the knife dropped from his hand. Klein quickly grabbed it. Nash turned so that she was facing Taylor and before he could react, she kicked him hard in the groin area. He dropped to his knees in agony.
Allard, McCreary, Kwang, and the constables stormed out of the shop into the alley. With their guns at the ready, they surrounded Taylor, who was still on the ground wincing in pain.
“I don’t think he’ll be any trouble, now,” said Klein, smiling at Nash.
“What happened?” asked Allard.
“Nothing. I just hit him where it hurts,” said Nash.
“Most impressive, Mrs. Nash,” said Kwang.
“Yeah, I’ve always said that she knows how to handle men,” McCreary joked.
“Get that hood on his feet and bring him to the station. Take the Chinaman too,” Allard ordered his constables.
Wheezing, Taylor was hoisted to his feet. “I’ll tell you anything you want to know. I’ll confess, but you have to protect me.”
“Protect you from who?” asked Allard.
“Rosen. Irv Rosen. He’s going to send someone to bump me off. I guarantee it.”
Half a block away, Reverend John Vivian sat in his black Oldsmobile dumbfounded. The spectacle of Taylor in handcuffs being led away by the police was disconcerting to say the least. In his view, Taylor was weak and not to be trusted. Vivian knew that Taylor would do anything to save himself, including implicate him in this mess. A report to the boss was required and it wasn’t a chore he particularly relished. Vivian had to hand it to Taylor, he had accomplished the near impossible: he was now the enemy of two of the most powerful and feared gangsters in the world: Irv Rosen and Vinny Piccolo.
22
Once Taylor’s mugshot was snapped by the police photographer, his height and the size of his ears and nose measured, and his fingerprints taken, he was handcuffed and escorted to the second floor interrogation room. The constable shoved him into a chair. Allard, McCreary, and Nash were already in the room. Klein was standing to the side but growing increasingly impatient. He had no idea whether or not Taylor had been involved in Bernice’s kidnapping. At that moment, glaring at this nefarious bootlegger who had murdered two men and probably also killed Max Roter, he didn’t care. Nor was he thinking clearly.
“Where’s my daughter, you son of a bitch? What have you done with her?” Klein blurted out. It took every ounce of strength he had not to lunge across the room and wring Taylor’s neck.
“Klein, I’m doing the talking here,” said Allard.
“Then do it … please.”
“I’m going to ask you this question only once, Taylor, so you’d better answer truthfully. Do you know anything about the kidnapping of Klein’s daughter, Bernice? She was abducted the other day in front of Eaton’s.”
“No, I don’t,” said Taylor. His tone was gruff and belligerent. “I might be guilty of a lot of bad things, but I don’t kidnap children. Never. So I have no idea where she is or what you’re talking about.” He looked over at Klein. “I don’t have your daughter, mister, and I don’t know who does. You
gotta believe me.”
Klein slumped against the wall. That was not the answer he wanted to hear, but it was the one he expected. Taylor was a bootlegger and murderer, yet his gut told him that he was probably telling the truth; he didn’t have anything to do with Bernice’s disappearance.
“Detective, you said you were going to protect me,” Taylor said to Allard.
“All right. Why is it that we need to protect you from Irv Rosen?” Allard asked.
“’Cause I double-crossed him for money. Lots of money.”
“Is that why you also killed his two men, Paulie and Richie, at the brothel?”
“If I answer that, are you going to make me a deal?”
“Yeah, a deal that the hangman’ll treat you nice when you’re on the gallows,” said McCreary.
“I don’t know, Taylor,” Allard cut in. “Depends on how honest you are. I don’t speak for the Crown lawyers. So why don’t you pretend that I’m your priest and make a full confession. And then we’ll see what we can do for you.”
“Can I have a butt?” asked Taylor.
Klein took out a cigarette, gave one to Taylor, and offered him a light.
“Okay, you have your butt. Now talk,” said Allard.
“Had I not been so careless with my shooting, this whole operation would’ve been over that day at the train station. And then I missed again at Roter’s funeral. Just bad luck, I suppose.”
“So you went to the brothel to get rid of Paulie and Richie?”
Taylor nodded. “Yeah, I bopped them. They deserved it.”
“So why go after the Sugarman brothers, then? Is it because they supply Rosen with booze?”
Taylor smiled. “That’s part of it, yeah. I wasn’t trying to hit both Hebes. Just the one who’s the boss.”
“You mean Saul Sugarman?”
“Yeah, he’s the one. How’s the other brother, who got shot? He going to make it?”
“We don’t know yet. But why did you want to kill Saul?”
