Finding himself standing between trains moving in opposite directions, he spotted the gunman running towards the river. McCloskey chased after him until he vanished between the cars on the left, which were moving in the same direction. McCloskey grabbed the ladder on the next car and climbed over the hitch. The gunman was still running towards the river, but he was even further away now.
McCloskey had heard stories of fugitives clinging to the underside of boxcars through the tunnel to Detroit. He paused to take a wasted shot with his Webley and then resumed his sprint. When he caught up, the gunman switched to the opposite track.
The two men exchanged shots every time there was a gap between the moving cars. Pretty soon McCloskey was out of ammo. He climbed over the next hitch and quickly caught up. He finally got a good look at the gunman’s face. Now he imagined him at Ojibway.
It was you.
The gunman jumped at the ladder on the back of the boxcar he was chasing. His feet dragged over a several railroad ties before he managed to pull himself up.
McCloskey made a leap for the same ladder and got his hands stomped on. He was regaining his grip when he looked up and saw the gunman reach into his jacket. McCloskey yanked one of the gunman’s feet off the ladder, and while he struggled to regain his balance, McCloskey hoisted himself up. They were face to face on the ladder now. With his free right hand, McCloskey delivered a lightning-quick blow to the gunman’s ribs.
The gunman fumbled his pistol and while he looked down in disbelief McCloskey delivered another blow. This time the man let go and rolled into the shallow gully between the tracks.
McCloskey followed. When he got to his feet he saw the man disappear behind a row of boxcars standing back near the road. Crouching down he could see the man’s legs running in the direction of the tunnel again.
There was one track in the tunnel and a string of boxcars presently moving along it. McCloskey threw some coal on his own fire. He caught up with the train but still couldn’t see the gunman. He heard a whistle. Two cops and a railway worker were running towards him. The cops were brandishing Colts.
“Hold it! Hold it right there, mister!”
McCloskey kept running. Then he saw the gunman way up ahead, cradled under a boxcar, waving at him — going, going, gone.
The cops started firing shots in the air so McCloskey stopped running. He looked up and saw the sun peeking over the trees at the edge of the yard. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky.
“I’ll take that piece,” said one of the cops.
McCloskey handed it over.
“You Jack McCloskey?” asked the other.
McCloskey was bent over now, trying to catch his breath. “Yeah.”
The older cop waved his Colt up the tracks towards the hotel. “That way.”
McCloskey started walking and the cops followed. Rail workers were appearing on the scene and residents from Wellington Road were gathering on the grassy slope, trying to get a good look. A couple boys held their hands like guns and made “bang bang” noises until a young woman in a faded housecoat gave them each the back of her hand.
McCloskey felt like he was being escorted to the gallows. He listened to the gravel underfoot and the gulls overhead and tried to imagine he was somewhere, anywhere else. When they reached the hotel the tracks were level with the road again and they walked around to the front entrance. Cops were standing at the curb holding back a small crowd.
Inside, McCloskey gauged the hotel guests assembled in the bar. They looked like the type always looking for stories to tell, other people’s stories. He stepped over the bloodstain on the floor at the bottom of the stairs and wondered if the guy was dead. The cops didn’t say a word and neither did McCloskey; they just continued silently all the way up to the third floor.
At the end of the hall was a cop loaded with attitude standing outside a guestroom. The room was empty except for a single wooden chair. The older of the two cops gestured McCloskey to go in and sit down, and then closed the door behind him.
Even with his back turned McCloskey recognized Detective Samuel Morrison. He was a big man, fat with bribes and secrets. Light filled the room when he moved away from the window that overlooked the rail yard. A few uncomfortable minutes passed while he stared down McCloskey. He had the look of a man tired of manoeuvring through the political minefield that was the Border Cities. Murder is easy, he often said; Prohibition’s the devil.
Morrison started off by repeating what Fields had told him earlier, that the guy they already had in custody, Gears Gabrese, was the driver last night. The rest went something like this: the two mugs that were killed in the hotel — the one McCloskey found dead in the hall and the one he shot in the stairwell — were Ace McTavish and Red Williams. Witnesses put these two at a card game in the hotel bar at the time of the events in Ojibway. These same witnesses said Gabrese and Mutt Melvin — the guy McCloskey was chasing down in the rail yard — joined the card game around 10 p.m. A few hands and several whiskies later Gabrese was ranting about Mutt being a cheat. Everything degenerated after that and Gabrese said if he couldn’t claim the pot, he at least wanted his fee for driving to Ojibway. He was hammered. He tried to start something with Mutt but then the bartender finally threw him out. Good thing, too. Mutt Melvin, having already tasted blood once that night, was looking for more. Morrison told McCloskey it was Mutt that killed his father and brother and he suspected a certain bootlegger in Detroit was behind it all. And that was all Morrison had to say. The cops were still waiting for Gabrese to come to his senses so they could question him proper.
Morrison took a puff from his cigar and blew smoke at the window. McCloskey wondered how Morrison could possibly know what truth was any more, he carried around so many versions of it in his head.
“You need anything else from me?”
“No. We’re through here.”
“That’s it?”
“Yeah, that’s it. Sorry, no door prizes today.”
His speech was very nice but something told McCloskey that he was either dead wrong or lying. If he was wrong, that was one thing, but if he was lying it was for a reason. McCloskey could only guess it was to get him to stop nosing around. But why would Morrison want him to drop it? Could the Lieutenant be behind this? He had to be. It was interesting that Morrison didn’t even mention him. Maybe Gabrese could provide some clues. McCloskey felt he had to talk to him. The best way to get to Gabrese was through Fields, and the only way to get to Fields was through Clara.
“You can have your piece back,” said Morrison. “If I take it from you, you’d just go get yourself another one. Now beat it.”
— Chapter 14 —
THE LIBRARIAN, THE LODGER, AND THE LANDLADY
Vera Maude was peeking through the curtains in the vestibule. “Well, well, well,” she muttered to herself, “you’re running a little early today.”
She watched him trot down the front steps and waited until he advanced a little up the block before following him down Tecumseh Road.
The man’s name was Braverman. He had moved into the spare room at Mrs. Cousineau’s back in May and he’d been a source of curiosity to Vera Maude ever since. At first it was the garb, sort of rustbelt bohemian. Then it was the paint-splattered briefcase: it always appeared to be heavier when he was leaving than when he was arriving. She thought about asking her own landlady if she knew anything about him but was afraid of getting tangled up in the Clothesline — Mrs. Richardson’s network of neighbourhood gossips.
As the commuters converged on the waiting streetcar Vera Maude stuck close to Braverman. He sat himself street-side near the exit. Vera Maude sat on the bench at the rear and examined the homes along the tree-lined Avenue as they sprung to life. People were taking in the milk and the paper, pushing their kids out the