The main hall was done in Italian marble. Staircases curved to the left and right and between them stood the centrepiece to this enormous space: a sculpture of a winged goddess that stood over a shallow reflecting pool that tonight was filled with whisky. At the front of the reflecting pool was an ice dam, already melting, and below the dam was a model of an American city that by midnight would be awash in Canadian Club.
Guests were led to a great ballroom forming the north side of the house’s quadrangle. Rose-coloured walls were complemented by a wooden floor stained a rich amber hue. Sumptuous curtains with a striking Oriental pattern framed the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the garden, and the vaulted ceiling was adorned with a gold-and-turquoise mosaic reminiscent of a sunset over the river.
A band from Detroit had been hired for the party and they played all-out jazz, the real thing, not the fluff that Paul Whiteman was churning out for the masses. There were six musicians and a singer the boys called Queenie. Together they were the Royal Seven, and they got things rolling right away with a hot little number called “Jazzin’ Babies Blues.” Queenie sang about jazz blues causing her to scream and moan and make her think of all the good things that her sweet daddy’s done. It was liberating, frenetic, and fun.
Mesmerized by the performance, the crowd didn’t actually start dancing until the second or third number, and then they hammered away at the Anvil Trot until dawn. Everything glittered; whisky was gold. If 1921 was the test drive for the Lieutenant and his gang, 1922 was going to be the Grand Prix.
Billy McCloskey spent most of the winter sitting in a rocking chair in the back room of the house, watching the river ice over then break up, ice over, and then break up again. Out of the corner of his eye was always the cabin, empty now except for his pa’s old still. It mocked him, as did River Rat, which was dry-docked in the yard.
After their well had finally run dry, Frank McCloskey somehow managed to acquire a crate of English ale. He figured it had been traded a few too many times and finally fell into the hands of someone who simply didn’t have a taste for it. It was packed with pages of newsprint. Frank passed the pages to his son.
Not having anything else to do, Billy read them. They happened to contain articles about the labour movement in Great Britain, and about strikes and political unrest. He wanted to know how the folks in Belle River enjoyed being the Lieutenant’s wage slaves. He was suddenly inspired.
On a spring-like day in February, he went out to Belle River and managed to sell a few yolks on the idea of solidarity among bootleggers and still operators.
Word got back to the Lieutenant, who told McCloskey to resolve the matter once and for all, or he would have to get personally involved.
“This ain’t baseball, Killer. You don’t get three chances. The only reason I let it get this far is because these people are your family.”
Jack found Billy sitting alone at the bar in the Crawford Hotel downtown on Riverside Drive. He grabbed Billy by the shoulders and dragged him back towards the kitchen.
“Let’s you and me have a conversation.”
They interrupted a group standing around a chopping block discussing odds on horses. A fat, sweaty man holding a fistful of betting slips shot Jack a look as he hustled Billy around the corner into the pantry.
“I swear the Hun was the only thing that kept those two from killing each other in France.”
No one laughed. Too much money was on the table. Suddenly there was a commotion out front.
“Jee-zuss!”
Two Mounties brandishing Colts burst into the hotel and ran up the stairs to the rooms. The dozen or so folks drinking liquor at the tables guzzled what was left in their coffee cups while the bartender dropped his bottle under a floorboard and kicked sawdust over the joints.
Assuming there were more police out front and the alley was covered, no one knew which way to run. When the police could be heard making their way back down the stairs, it was decided the alley might be worth the risk. Like rats in a sinking ship, the bar patrons scurried towards the rear exit.
Meanwhile, the bookie was stuffing the slips into his socks and the gamblers were pocketing their folding money. The lookout pulled his face out of the porthole in the kitchen door and went over to the pantry to warn the McCloskeys. What he saw nearly made him choke on his tobacco. Jack had his left arm tight across his brother’s neck and was jabbing a revolver into his ribs. Billy’s face was bloodied but still defiant.
In their haste the gamblers knocked over a stack of dirty pots and pans. The noise startled Jack, and in a split second he had the revolver aimed at the lookout’s face. The lookout grabbed some air.
“Whoa, fella!”
An inebriate came stumbling through the door between the bar and the kitchen area, and a stampede followed. Jack finally snapped out of it and lowered his revolver. The brothers looked around the corner to see what the ruckus was about and got caught in the current of bodies flowing out the back door.
Snow was falling and it was bitterly cold. Two uniforms were making their way up the alley. They had been sent by the Mounties to cover the back door and hadn’t bargained on any of this. They were quickly trying to assess who in the mob would come quietly and who would put up a fight.
“They all look game,” said one, and he blew his whistle.
“Up against the wall!” shouted the other.
The McCloskeys were at it again, rolling around in the trash that was piled up behind the hotel. Then Billy threw his brother off and managed to get to his feet.
A bottle struck the policeman with the whistle. He pulled his revolver out of its holster. The other cop was receiving complaints, blow by blow, from a couple of frustrated old barflies. The gamblers fought with the bookie, bar patrons fought with the bartender, and everyone wanted a crack at the cops, who were overwhelmed.
It was a lethal cocktail of anger, distrust, and 110-proof whisky. Somebody swung a piece of two-by-four and knocked Jack’s revolver out of his hand. When he bent down to pick it up, Billy tried to tackle him. Jack deflected him onto a cop. Billy stood up and tried to take another run at his brother, but the cop grabbed him. Billy freed himself and as he turned to strike, a shot rang out and echoed between the buildings.
All eyes fell on Billy lying on the ground with a red stain blooming on his shoulder, and then on Jack who was standing a short distance away with his revolver. Everything seemed to stop for a moment except for the blowing snow.
Then an arm reached out of nowhere, grabbed Jack, and pulled him down the alleyway. The cops didn’t know which way to turn: chase down Jack McCloskey or try and save his brother’s life? Either way they still had to defend themselves against a drunken mob that needed to be brought to heel.
A vehicle was waiting with its engine running for McCloskey and his rescuer at the end of the alleyway on Ferry Street.
“Get in the car.”
They took a sharp left onto Riverside Drive. McCloskey recognized the driver but didn’t know his name. Sitting in the passenger seat was the fellow that had pulled him out of the alley, Shorty Morand. Seated next to McCloskey was Jigsaw, the Lieutenant’s deadliest soldier.
McCloskey remembered Jigsaw earning his nickname during the war. At first it had to do with his tall, angular frame and jagged yellow teeth. Then, after he had been shot, cut, blown apart, and sewn back together a few times, it became even more a propos. He came home with a scar that undulated around his face, head, and neck. When he passed people in the street they looked away; women’s faces turned white with horror. He played on the name by making a serrated bayonet his weapon of choice.
“That was a close one,” said Shorty.
“Here — let’s get rid of that,” said Jigsaw.