Riverside Drive. Michael Januska
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had believed in him from the start and helped save McCloskey from himself. And McCloskey not only wanted to pay him back, he wanted to do him proud.
“A guy should take advantage of every opening that presents itself, both in and out of the ring. If there’s a place for me in the outfit, I’ll give it everything I got.”
Green smiled and pulled his best bottle and a couple glasses from a desk drawer. He filled them and then passed one to McCloskey.
“To Wheeler.”
“To Volstead.”
Green explained how business had been building steadily since the referendum.
“I’m telling you, kid, as long as people are drinking we’ll be selling. Dry? What a fucking joke that is. Queen’s Park and the Methodists ought to go into vaudeville together.”
Green leaned back in his chair and took a drag on his cigar. He punctuated every sentence with a big blue smoke ring.
“We’re fortunate to be living here in the Border Cities, Killer. It represents an incredible opportunity for us. All these towns are lined up like kegs behind a bar, just waiting to quench the thirst of each and every American between here and Chicago.” He leaned back in his chair. “And then there are the peripheral activities — gambling, money-lending, women, you name it. We play our cards right and by the end of the year we’ll have turned this place into an oasis — our oasis.”
McCloskey was well aware of how quickly folks were developing a taste for the money, not to mention the thrill that came from bootlegging. Almost overnight the pond had become full of little fish — little fish that were only going to get chewed up by the first big one to come along. Now here was McCloskey, sitting across from that big fish and being asked to be its teeth. An hour and several whiskies later he found himself a sworn member of the outfit, Green’s new Big Six.
Green took McCloskey’s hand and looked into his eyes. “I know you won’t let me down, Killer.”
“Thanks, Green.”
Green held his grip. “I’m your Lieutenant now. You’re one of my soldiers.”
McCloskey stood firm. “Yes, sir.”
He had never met anyone like the Lieutenant. He had encountered street fighters, hardened criminals, mercenaries, and business types before, but never someone who was all of these things put together. The only person who even came close was his father. But his father didn’t have the style and the worldliness. He didn’t have a platoon of soldiers behind him, either.
— Chapter 5 —
COLLISION COURSE
The referendum results had a sobering effect on Billy McCloskey. When at the end of the summer there began to be supply issues at his local roadhouse and his liver finally got a day off, he took the opportunity to ask the proprietor what all the fuss was about.
Pierre explained it to him, and Billy, being fairly lucid, took it pretty hard, like he was just handed a prison sentence. He asked Pierre how he planned to remedy the situation. Pierre told Billy not to worry — everything would be taken care of. He was in good with Windsor’s biggest bootlegger.
This took Billy by surprise. There were plenty of smugglers out here on the Ojibway shores, and lots of folks making moonshine, including his pa. He told Pierre he didn’t have to go to Windsor to get his liquor. Pierre saw it a little differently.
“I didn’t have any choice, Billy.”
The barfly smelled a rat. “Oh yeah? Who was it set you up?”
Pierre hesitated. He should have kept his big mouth shut. He braced himself before uttering the words. “Your brother.”
After Billy climbed back on his barstool he started with the questions. “When did my brother get back? Who is he working for? Why didn’t anyone tell me?”
“We tried,” said Pierre, “but you’ve been drunk since Armistice.”
This news didn’t sit well with Billy. As far as he was concerned, Jack had deserted his friends and family a long time ago and had no right coming back like this only to put the screws on the local citizenry. It just wasn’t right.
“Does my pa know about this?”
There was no point in holding back now.
“Yep.”
Billy gave that one a think while Pierre riffled through the icebox below the bar.
“There’s one legal beer left and it’s got your name on it.”
“Keep it for a souvenir.”
“You feeling okay? Hey — where you going?”
Billy was going to fight fire with fire. The first thing he did was bring a telephone into the house.
“Welcome to the modern age,” he said to his pa, “now you can call ahead to Chappell House so they have your suds ready when you get there.”
“They’ll have the cops ready for me too.”
Then he invested in a better boat for ferrying his product — a 28-footer with 180 horses. It was low-slung and lightweight, making it easy to hide among the bulrushes and manoeuvre through the canals. Billy christened her River Rat with a jar of his pa’s moonshine. Actually, it was weak lemonade; Billy never let a drop go to waste.
Next he developed partnerships that would save him work and buy him a few allies. Some folks in the area had connections in Quebec distilleries, and Billy arranged either to act as their local wholesaler or to broker deals for them into the States.
Lastly he cleared some space for surplus liquor in the old cabin that stood between the house and the shore. Newlyweds Frank and Mary McCloskey had lived here while the house was being built. It later became Frank’s fishing cabin, his “home away from home,” and where he kept his still. More recently it was where Billy spent his lost weekends. And when those weekends turned into weeks, his pa would have to drag him out and leave him in the sun to dry. Now the cabin had a new purpose.
“Yer not getting rid of my still, are you, boy?”
“No, Pa,” said Billy. “We’re gonna need it.”
It was all about supply and demand, and Billy was ideally situated. Several weeks later — by the end of October — Billy became the leader of a smuggling outfit that served a small but potentially lucrative territory just downriver from Detroit, mainly around Ecorse and the Rouge. Part of him thought it was a nice little cottage industry. Another part of him thought it was only the beginning.
It was at a ceremony at the Armouries for Great War Veterans where Jack first heard about his brother’s ambitions.
“I thought he was working for you, Jack,” said an old comrade from the 99th.
McCloskey tried not to look surprised. “No, no he’s not.”
“But you knew about it, right?”
The fellow was goading him on, and he knew it.
“Sure. We have an agreement.”
“Whatever you say, Jack.”
“Goddamnit,” McCloskey muttered under his breath as the soldier walked away. If this yolk knew the score, the Lieutenant probably did too. Life was suddenly very complicated again. It was just like when they were kids; Billy had to have the same as what Jack had, and all the better if it took a little away from Jack in the bargain.
There was that, and then there was the Lieutenant. If he knew that Billy and some ragtag outfit were encroaching on his territory, and by territory that meant everything within a hundred miles outside of Detroit, there would be serious hell to pay.
Once again McCloskey made a compromise. In an effort to save his father from getting tangled