Border City Blues 3-Book Bundle. Michael Januska
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Locke knew the neighbourhood. He parked around the corner from Mrs. Ferguson’s place and made his way silently up the alleyway armed with his trademark baseball bat. No uniform, no badge, and no gun. He recognized the smell right away and honed in on the Monaghan property. In the moonlight he could see that the one window in the shed was recently boarded up and part of the roof was cut away, no doubt for ventilation purposes. He found a shovel in the garden and pried open the flimsy door.
Jacob Monaghan arrived just in time to see a shadowy figure smashing the components to his whisky still, which the assassin had dragged out into the alleyway. The reek of the ferment filled the air and made Monaghan gag.
Locke turned upon hearing his protests. Monaghan was prepared to confront him until he saw the baseball bat and the mad gleam in the swinger’s eye. Monaghan had heard about this fellow, and the word on the street was that he was actually a cop. Locke stopped swinging and pointed his weapon directly at Monaghan. His eyes were blazing and sweat was streaming down his face. To Monaghan, he looked like a man possessed.
“You want some, mister? I’ve got plenty left.”
Monaghan backed off. “No, sir.”
Locke looked around. Lights were coming on in some of the windows facing the alley. There were silhouettes in a few of them. He hoped they all got a good look. Bertie Monaghan sure did. He had his face pressed against his bedroom window, watching. So much for family tradition.
— Chapter 12 —
THE BRITISH-AMERICAN
The British-American Hotel stood at Windsor’s main intersection — the Avenue and Riverside Drive, just a stone’s throw from the ferry dock. It was built on the site originally occupied by Pierre St. Amour’s tavern and ferry. St. Amour was among the first to operate a regular service between the south shore and Detroit. That was in 1820 and the ferry was a dugout canoe.
Hirons House came to occupy the site towards the middle of the century and saw the arrival of the Great Western Railway, completing the link between the Atlantic and the Mississippi. Hirons survived the Great Fire of 1871, was expanded and renamed American House.
A decade later, the mayor of the town persuaded Mrs. Lucetta Medbury of Detroit, owner of the property the hotel was situated on, to allow the block to be opened up to the water’s edge and make possible the construction of a new ferry landing and customs house. The dock quickly became the main junction for people travelling not just between Windsor and Detroit but Canada and the United States. The owners of the hotel, overtaken by a fit of patriotism, soon after renamed it the British-American.
Today, the British-American represented a sort of neutral territory. There was no bootleg liquor behind the bar, no gambling, no needles in the washrooms, and no guns or badges. When parties from opposite sides of the law met here, it was usually for diplomatic reasons.
Fields entered and looked around uncomfortably. He stood out like a sore thumb and he knew it. His blue suit and brown shoes said honest and sensible. His handlebar moustaches said cop. He walked over to the bar where McCloskey was drinking what these days passed for beer. He took up a defensive position, leaving a stool between him and his brother-in-law.
“Thanks for coming, Henry.”
“I’m only here because Clara asked me.”
“Can I get you anything?”
“Let’s get to the point.”
McCloskey swallowed a big piece of his pride and got right to it. “I need your help.”
That seemed to tickle Fields. He let out a snort, the Henry Fields equivalent of a belly laugh. “McCloskey, I only tolerated you and your family because of Clara. Now that Billy is dead, that connection is gone and as far as I’m concerned you’re fair game.”
McCloskey looked at himself in the mirror behind the bar. Part of him was already regretting this. “My pa and Billy were murdered.”
“That’s rich. I made a few telephone calls. There was a fire in the cabin that housed your father’s still. The still exploded, the cabin caught fire, and they were killed trying to save their liquor. End of story.”
“That’s not true, at least not entirely. There were obvious signs of a struggle in the house. They were dragged into the cabin. For all we know they may even have been burned alive.”
“Maybe they had it coming.”
Under normal circumstances McCloskey would have beaten Fields within an inch of his life for a remark like that. He swallowed a bit more of his pride and continued. “If the people who did it think I’m going to take this lying down, they’re wrong.”
McCloskey could sense patrons turning an ear towards the bar. And then the murmuring started. For anyone interested in the social climate in the Border Cities, the British-American was the barometer and right now the barometer was suggesting a storm was on the way.
“Clara said I should cut my losses, but seeing as I’ve got nothing left, I think that puts me at a distinct advantage.”
“I can’t be a party to your vigilantism, McCloskey. Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t just lock you up and throw away the key.”
McCloskey was getting tired of this dance, but he wasn’t going to let go of Fields until he had what he wanted.
“Listen, Henry, this is bigger than a family of bootleggers operating out of a farmhouse at the edge of town and you know it. If you really want to fight the good fight you’ll forget about chumps like me and start going after the crooked cops, gang leaders, and political bagmen because they’re the ones running this burg, not the mayor, not the chief of police, and not the president of Ford or Walker’s. You talk a good talk, Henry, but they’ve got you right where they want you. Can’t you see that? You’re window dressing, a straight and narrow poster boy for a police force that’s as dirty as any whore on Pitt Street. You’ll live and die in the dead end that they’ve steered you into unless you make your move right now.”
It was Fields’ turn to study his reflection in the mirror. McCloskey finished with a twist.
“The Lieutenant was probably told to make an example of my father and Billy. Wouldn’t you like to take the opportunity of making an example out of him?”
There was a barely perceptible slackening in Henry Fields’ shoulders.
“It’s not like it was before you left, Jack.” And the tone of his voice changed. “The Lieutenant’s boss is working out of the Border Cities now.”
“Then all the more reason to strike.” McCloskey lowered his own voice. “Where are you going to be a month from now, Henry? Walking a beat? And who’s going to watch your back when you’re sent alone into those dark alleys?”
Their eyes met in the mirror behind the bar. McCloskey could tell he had him.
“You’ll leave town when it’s all over?” asked Fields.
McCloskey was prepared to say anything at this point. “You won’t have to tell me twice.”
“I’m not just clearing a path for you to take over the Border Cities?”
“I don’t want the job. I want out and I want my freedom.”
It was Fields’ turn to swallow his pride. “All right,” he said, “what are you looking for from me?”
McCloskey shifted over to the stool next to Fields. “I want to know who was involved. Go nosing around Ojibway; talk to the old man next door — Lesperance. I want to know what the cops know and I want to know where the Lieutenant figures in all of this.”
Fields had conditions.
“Okay, but we don’t meet in person again until this thing gets sorted out. We communicate by telephone — and you don’t call me, I call you.”
Everything was