Erie was quiet; most of the dwellings above the shops were dark. McCloskey moved swiftly through the shadows. He darted across the Avenue and when he reached Pelissier Street he ducked in the doorway of the building opposite Clara’s apartment.
On hot, humid nights like this, one could almost hear people sighing in their beds. McCloskey took one last drag on his cigar, walked up to the front door, and found the name on the register. He pushed the buzzer — three times fast then once. The door clicked open.
He slowly climbed the stairs to the second floor and paused in the dim light of the hall before knocking. He heard the clunk of the deadbolt inside the lock and then the door slowly swung open. When she recognized who it was, she threw her weight behind the door. McCloskey stopped it with his foot.
“What do you want?” she hissed.
“It’s about Billy.” He inched closer to the door. “Can I come in?”
She couldn’t see around him into the hall.
“You alone?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
Clara gave McCloskey another once over, relaxed her grip on the door, then stood back. He moved right past her and straight to the window in the front room, turned off a nearby table lamp, and peeked through the curtain.
“So, what’s this about Billy?”
She was standing in the middle of the room, wrapped in a silk robe embroidered with a Chinese design. Her arms were folded across her chest and McCloskey could tell she was trying not to lose her temper. He pulled his eyes away from the street below only long enough to tell her very matter-of-factly that Billy was dead.
Clara closed her eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. When she opened them again the tension was gone from her body. There were no tears; this was the news she had been anticipating for the last six years. A long, sad chapter in her life had finally come to an end.
When the reports from the war were particularly bad, she would lie in bed wondering if he was still alive. When he came home a shattered man and drank until he couldn’t drink anymore, she wondered how long it would take for him to kill himself with booze. When he left her and became a notorious bootlegger, she wondered where she’d find out about his death first: in the newspaper, from an overheard conversation in a streetcar, or from a cop. She thought she would have been more upset about it but she wasn’t. She had mourned the loss of her husband too many times now to be shocked by his actual death.
“What happened?”
McCloskey told her what he came home to in Ojibway, leaving out the gruesome details. Clara was saddened about her father-in-law. She always had a soft spot for him. He was such a larger-than-life character.
“Drink?”
McCloskey was still at the window. “Yeah.”
Clara came back from the kitchen with a couple of ryes, hers with ginger. She handed McCloskey his then dropped into a big, cushioned chair near the window.
McCloskey sat across from her on the chesterfield. He liked how her robe parted over one of her thighs and the small electric fan nearby was tousling her hair. He took a sip from his glass.
“Who were you expecting tonight?”
Clara pushed her eyebrows together.
“Not everyone knows the buzz,” he said, “and you wouldn’t open the door for just anybody, not dressed like that.”
Clara rolled her eyes. “It could only have been you or Billy, and last I heard you were still in Hamilton.”
McCloskey wasn’t entirely satisfied with that but let it drift. They sat silently in the dark for a while. Clara could tell something else was up and McCloskey’s mind felt like a cloud of exploded shell fragments. He had left Hamilton with such purpose and determination. Now where was he? Maybe his journey wasn’t over yet.
And then someone started speaking. It took McCloskey a moment to realize it was himself. “I want you to fix it so I can see Henry tonight.”
Clara sat up. “What for? He’ll arrest you before you say boo, Jack.”
McCloskey finished his drink. “Smooth him out for me first. Tell him what I told you. Tell him anything. But it has to be tonight.”
“You’re serious, aren’t you?”
She got up and, doing away with the gingery pretence, refilled McCloskey’s glass as well as her own. McCloskey poured it down his throat. He could still taste the cedar from the burned-out cabin.
“I want to know who was behind it — before the police have a chance to cover it up or try to hang it on me.”
“Why don’t you cut your losses and just get out of town, Jack? Don’t you realize you’re probably next on their list, whoever it was?”
“Don’t you care who did this?”
“No, Jack, I don’t. As far as I’m concerned it’s over, it’s finally over. Now maybe we can get on with what’s left of our pathetic lives.”
That was harsh. It came straight from the bottle.
“Not until I find out who’s responsible.”
“What’s the mystery, Jack? Wasn’t it the same sons of bitches you work for?”
“Used to work for. I don’t know. Something tells me it’s more complicated than that.”
“It’s never more complicated than that.”
Clara got up, fetched her pack of cigarettes off the windowsill, and got one going with the little Ronson striker she had in her pocket. She took a puff before replying.
“Okay, I’ll talk to Henry. I’ll do it for your father. I always thought he deserved better than you two.”
He let that one drift too. He figured he should probably start getting used to it.
“Tell him to meet me at the British-American in half an hour.”
“You have to promise me one thing.”
He stood up and set his glass down on the coffee table. “What’s that?”
“If you don’t get anywhere with Henry, don’t come running back to me. I never want to see you again.”
“We’ll talk tomorrow.”
“Don’t bet on it,” she said and she pulled her robe tight across her chest. “I’ll take care of the funeral arrangements.”
Jack reached in his pocket and pulled out a roll of bills. He peeled off a couple layers and tossed them onto the table next to his glass.
“This place still got a back door?”
“You know where it is.”
Clara followed McCloskey down the hall past the bedrooms.
“Put the latch on and don’t open the door for anybody,” he said. “I wasn’t here.”
— Chapter 11 —
THE BOILING POINT OF ALCOHOL
Young Bertie Monaghan and his father Jacob were sharing a pitcher of lemonade under the silver maple in their backyard. Mrs. Monaghan was visiting her mother.
‘In the old days we’d hide it in the bush where it wouldn’t draw attention or cause any damage, but in our case,’ Jacob gestured with his thumb, ‘I think the garden shed will do just fine.’
Bertie nodded and tipped his glass to his mouth for another sip. The ice sloshed back and some lemonade dribbled down his chin. He wiped it with the back of his hand. While other boys were getting driving lessons from their dads, Bertie was learning