Jigsaw sat back and delivered his summation. “It’s your life or Green’s.”
“You’re singing a different tune than you were this morning.”
“It’s all about survival.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“There’s nothing to think about. I’ve got a bead on your girlfriend, Killer, so you better not disappoint me.”
The room fell silent except for the sound of the flies buzzing around Lesperance.
“What is it you want me to do?”
“Be at the pool hall at midnight. Green will be there, alone. I told him there were some things he and I needed to discuss.”
“Only it won’t be you — it’ll be me.”
“I shouldn’t have to tell you he’ll be expecting the worst. He’s been a bit jittery lately.”
“I’ll bet. And what’ll you be doing?”
“I got other more pressing matters. I’ll meet you at the British-American shortly after midnight. You can deliver me the good news and we can say our goodbyes.”
“Was that the boss at the table at Kenilworth?”
“Yep.”
“He looks like he knows his way around the playground.”
“Ex-British Army. Blue blood. Very connected. His type knows how to get things done. If anyone can bring an end to the coal strike and get things back on track, it’s him.”
Jigsaw stood up. “Now scram. We gotta perform a burial at sea.”
“He’s the one that gave the order, isn’t he?”
Jigsaw grinned. “His clean-up crew is rolling across the Border Cities right now. It was one of his boys that hired those three goons to take care of you, your father, and your brother. They were supposed to wait until you got home but somebody jumped the gun. When the Lieutenant found out you were still alive he bought you some time. Now he’s out of time.”
This was a lot for McCloskey to think about. He got up and made for the screen door. The thin cop stepped aside.
“Take care o’ yourshelf, Jack.”
McCloskey hauled off and belted him one, right on the chops. It felt good. The cop staggered backed and bounced off the wall, coughing up blood and broken teeth.
“Take care of yourself, pig.”
Jigsaw let out a laugh that brought the temperature in the room down several degrees. “You got off lucky, copper. Killer just tickled your jaw.”
The turkey vulture was picking through the rubble of the cabin. McCloskey climbed into his car.
The steering wheel was too hot to touch and the seat was too hot to lean back on. For a moment he considered returning to the house with his revolver and doing what really needed to be done. Instead he started the engine and took it in reverse all the way up the path.
— Chapter 24 —
“HOW ROTTEN THEY WERE UNDERNEATH”
Vera Maude took one look at the streetcar packed with elbows, long faces, and crying babies and decided it would be a good day to walk home. She watched it pull away.
Standing alone on the curb she suddenly felt cut loose, set adrift. She became anxious and was overcome by a powerful urge to smoke.
The impulse passed through her like an electrical charge. She looked around before taking the pack out of her purse. When she popped it open the odour of the tobacco wafted out. She breathed it in.
Here goes nothing.
The filter was hard and dry on her lips. She struck a match on the side of the box and held the flame to the tip.
She had to yank the cigarette out of her mouth so she could cough without swallowing it or spitting it onto the sidewalk. When she caught her breath she replaced it and continued walking up Dougall Road.
She held it the way she had seen men hold it. The first time she exhaled she walked into her own cloud of smoke and started coughing again. The second time she turned her head and made like she was blowing out birthday candles — not particularly graceful, but very effective.
When she finished it she took a moment to gauge its side effects.
Dizziness: only slightly more than usual.
Shortness of breath: no worse than the experience of riding in a hot, cramped streetcar.
Lingering tobacco odour: a little perfume can fix that.
Dry mouth: So? It’s a hot day.
She pulled a fresh cigarette from the pack and got it going without missing a beat. She was developing a rhythm. Now she could call herself a modern woman.
Yeah, like that’s all it took: a pack of Macdonald’s.
She was reminded of the first truly modern woman she ever met. It was at a Club meeting.
Following a dinner in her honour at the Elmcourt Country Club at which 32 members and friends of the Music, Literature, and Art Club were entertained, Miss Grace Blackburn, assistant editor of the London Free Press, London, Ont., and a Canadian writer of merit, gave a program at the Y.W.C.A., last evening.
Vera Maude felt that it probably took more courage to be a modern woman than it did to be a soldier in the Great War. Where the doughboy ran away with his buddies to take pot shots at strangers huddled in trenches, women were facing violence and injustice on a daily basis, oftentimes in their own homes.
Maudie, honey, you need a man.
Vera Maude hated hearing that all the time, especially from Hazel and Lillian. She’d met some of the boys they went out with and in her humble opinion they were all duds.
At Erie Street she dropped the butt and mashed it under her heel. So far there was nothing about this smoking business she didn’t like. She drew another cigarette out of the pack and got it going. She stood there with it sticking straight out of her mouth, waiting for a break in the traffic. A few heads turned, particularly among the men folk.
They were noticing how her body forced that demure library attire down some dangerous curves; how her wild and wavy hair was struggling to break free from a battery of clips and pins; and how her dark-rimmed cheaters barely hid her wide, girlish eyes.
“Zowie,” exclaimed a fellow in a passing car.
Euh.
There were two kinds of guys, according to Vera Maude: guys that were all talk and guys that were all hands.
And never the twain shall meet. Oh to meet a guy that can woo me with fine words while groping me in his roadster.
Vera Maude’s mind was like a needle skipping across a gramophone record.
Miss Blackburn, who is a most interesting and vivid personality, as well as the composer of many delightful poems and plays, was introduced by Miss Hazel Scott, president of the M., L., and A Club, who presided for the evening.
Each of Miss Blackburn’s contributions was made even more delightful by a short preface. Her first number was a charming little play, entitled “The Little Grey,” given with a wealth of dramatic expression and atmospheric charm.
Vera Maude regretted opening up to Hazel and Lillian the way she had. She let her guard down. And it was such a stupid thing to say.
Then how come I feel so … empty?
Her angst probably didn’t even register with them. She hoped that was the case; the last thing she wanted was for them to report the whole thing to her father.