The Man Who Killed (10 page)

“It didn't seem quite your style,” I said. The Webley was chafing me; I'd need a holster soon.

“Needs must when the devil drives.”

“So you only have what we took last night? Do you want my stake?” I asked.

There was true gratitude in my offer. I'd be up queer street if not for Jack, despite the danger he'd put me in.

“Thanks, boyo, but it's not nearly enough. Hell, I bet on Dempsey to win in Philly last month.”

That was bad. The Manassa Mauler lost his belt to Gene Tunney in a decision. Now the money we'd stolen was to go to work as a grubstake. Jack needed to find out who sang the tune on him, and Loew's would pay our way. Jack said that he'd always worked on the supposition that his higher-ups were the Chicago mob but in Plattsburgh he found out that the money and orders came out of New York.

“Plattsburgh?” I asked. “How'd you wind up there?”

“When the lights hit us my driver stepped on the accelerator and I shot our way through until we plowed into a tree. That did it for him, he was crushed. I got out and ran a circuit and came out behind one of their 'cars with a flunky behind the wheel. Put my iron to his neck and we got out of there. In Plattsburgh I learned who he was working for.”

I knew Jack had been seconded to an English military police unit after being gassed. They'd taught him things, seemingly. Interrogation.

“Did you kill him?” I asked.

“No, but I'd hate to pay his dentist's bill.”

The flunky was working for a New York outfit, competitors of Jack's connection. The rivals had been given a schedule and a map of our route and told to grab the shipment. The trucks and drivers for our convoy had been supplied by a Frenchman here in Montreal who owned a garage. It had to have been either him or our drivers who'd tipped off the opposition.

“Who's this Frenchman?” I asked.

“A lawyer and hustler in tight with the local politicos, a Grit bagman. He plays poker at the St. Denis Club and drops a bundle every weekend on the ponies. The garage isn't far. In Outremont.”

“What's the idea?”

“Charlie mans the place alone every day at lunch. The two of us pose him a few questions. You game?”

Jack's suit was loose on me and I wore his hat. All I needed was to wear his shoes. How far was I willing to go in following him? The money on me wouldn't last forever. If I had more I could take another shot at Laura. Beyond those considerations was something stronger, something I'd nearly forgotten in my purdah. Jack had stood up for me my whole damned life and I owed him something. Moreover, life had become interesting again. I was curious to know what I'd fallen into. Besides, did I have anything better to do? How much of life is decided by that simple realization? I kept walking, which Jack took as my answer.

“It was strange you mentioned the Wolf last night,” Jack said. “I've always wondered what happened to him.”

“He's probably dead.”

“I don't know. The man was one tough bastard. Did you know I saw him? Must have been in '16, just after I got in with the Dukes. Before shipping out I was down in Gastown for a spree and he was rolling around Maple Tree Square, spoiling for a fight. By damn, the man hadn't aged a minute or turned a hair. You remember how he taught us to scrap up in the camps? Where was that again?”

“Alexandria,” I said.

“And hunt. Man, could he run down a deer. Never used a rifle. Caught them with his hands, like how your old man taught us to tickle a salmonbelly.”

“Not us. Just you.”

That set Jack back for a moment. He hitched his step.

“What'd the Wolf say?” I asked eventually.

“He was drunk and laughed at my uniform. Maybe he didn't recognize me. Anyway, he was shipping out himself on one of Dunsmuir's coal barges, to Yokohama.”

“The Pater always had him as a dipsomaniac,” I said.

“You know, I don't think he even knew there was a war on. He'd like this caper, though.”

“The Wolf was crazy,” I said.

“Damned tough, still.”

We stopped and sat on a bench.

“What's the drill with this lawyer?” I asked.

Jack paused and offered me a Turk. Pressure might need to be exerted. We'd have to stay on our toes, as there might be employees about. The last thing either of us wanted was to attract the law.

“Are you off morphine for quits? asked Jack.

“You saw my arms.”

“I need to be sure. We don't want any more surprises.”

“Not from me,” I said.

CONTINUING ON WE walked past the Young Men's Hebrew Association and turned up Park. The garage was a few blocks north and my role, as usual, would be to stand steady and watch Jack's back. It seemed simple enough. We continued until Jack indicated a corner filling station with a garage and house attached, the entire affair a collection of yellowing wood. The sign read “L'Etape Supertest Trudeau, Essence et Mécanicien.” Jack checked his wristwatch. It was noon. I turned to face the sun above the mountain. The yard rested quiet, two trucks parked by a painted fence advertising Ensign oil. Through the glass of the garage door I spied an expensive Chandler sedan with its bonnet open. Jack considered the shop. Its door was locked and a sign read:
“Fermé.”
The wind died and the neighbourhood seemed abandoned, a scene from a drowsy Indian summer afternoon in the country. The garage door had a smaller one set into it, that one ajar. We went through it to the repair bay's rear corner and a formal office. Jack stiff-armed the door to reveal a man standing and eating a sandwich over his desk.

“Assieds-toi, Charlie,”
said Jack.

I stayed in the doorway, my hand now on my gun in my overcoat pocket.

“Jack,” Charlie said.

“Surprised to see me?” asked Jack.

“Non.”

“Why's that now?”

“I hear about what happen Friday.”

“Zut alors,”
said Jack, clucking his tongue.

Charlie was well-built and surprisingly dapper, with Brilliantined hair and a trim dark moustache. He had the narrow eyes and pointed nose of his race, a mixture of
fille du roi
and backcountry Huron. His posture was erect, defiant. Jack's tone remained playful.

“Who told you about it, Charlie?”

“I hear it from Martin,” he said.

“Martin, eh? Let's do the arithmetic. One driver shot dead. That was Pollart. One driver with me died in a crash. That was Gellier. That leaves the one in the middle. Martin. So he got out. Very lucky for him. A little too lucky,
peut-être?
Don't you think so, Charlie?”

“I don't know,” said Charlie. He still held his half-sandwich.

“Continue. You heard from Martin.
Et, comment?”

“He call me. He escape, hitchhike. He demand from me some money.”

“Did you give him any?”

“I don't see him. How can I?” asked Charlie.

“I don't like this story. Somebody told someone something they shouldn't've.
Comprends?”

Charlie furrowed his brow, perhaps translating to himself.

“Oui.”

“I think it was you,” Jack said.

“What?” Charlie threw down his sandwich and pointed. “Why do I do that? I lose my trucks. I have police come here for to ask me questions.”

“Police? What did they want to know?” barked Jack.

“The wife of Gellier, she tell them he work for me, now he depart and does not come home two nights. I pay her, she has three children. Where is my money, Jack? For the trucks, for me,
hein?
Where? I ask.”

Charlie slapped his palm on the desk, eyes blazing.

“I want this Martin, Charlie,” said Jack, unmoved. “You have three days.”

“Why should I help you? You have not paid me!”

“Do you have insurance, Charlie? Smart lawyer like you, you should, in case accidents happen.”

Jack turned and brushed past me out of the office. Charlie followed. In the garage Jack grabbed a long piece of iron like a tamping rod. I was now in the corridor behind Charlie, next to a door that must open into the house we'd seen from the street. I could smell Charlie's hair oil and sweat. Jack turned, the rod in his hands.

“Three days, Charlie.”

He speared the rod through the Chandler's windscreen.

“Hostie,”
cried Charlie. He moved to stop Jack but I pulled out my gun and jammed it into his spine. The Frenchman turned his head and showed me pure hatred. Jack swung and smashed the side windows, beat on the sidings and ruined the metalwork. The door next to me opened inward and I kicked Charlie at Jack. Jack dropped the bar and connected a straight left to the Frenchman's jaw, dropping him. I spun and pointed my gun barrel into the face of a skinny little Indian-looking kid holding the doorknob.

“Papa?”
asked the boy.

Charlie turned from his crouch on the floor.

“Pierre, non!
”

I cuffed the child upside the head into a heap of tires. Jack lifted Charlie up by his shirtfront. Jack's skin was flushed red; he was angry, and when Jack was angry, he got mean.

“Three days, Charlie. I want Martin, I want answers, I want my money. Toot fucking sweet.”

He let Charlie go. I put my gun back in my pocket and looked at the boy on the tires. He blinked tears from hot, angry eyes.

“Three days, Charlie,” Jack repeated.

We backed out of the garage, and the boy ran to his father, Charlie nursing a dripping red mouth. The pair watched us leave with identical glares. This round was Jack's but the match wasn't over. We walked back to Park, where Jack hailed a south-bound 'cab.

“The Ritz,” he said, cracking his knuckles.

JACK SAT NEXT to me in the rear seat and played with a ring he wore on the small finger of his left hand. It was embossed with an emblem: a silver triangle in a circle. Something was bothering me as we drove back into town, but I couldn't place it. Something overlooked. My attention was quickly distracted by more pressing concerns, however, the peristalsis of my lower intestine. I had a vision of the perfect jakes the Ritz would have: spotless tiles and freshly scrubbed porcelain smelling faintly of bleach. There'd be milled French soap, hot water, clean white towels, and an underling to whisk my shoulders with a brush. As fate would have it traffic clogged Pine in a pack of stalled autos. I started to grimace. We waited fifteen agonizing minutes while Jack continued cracking his knuckles. I pinched shut my sphincter.

The hotel, at last. Jack paid the 'cabman and a uniformed Hussar wearing a tall bearskin hat eased us through the revolving door. We went downstairs to the bar and I shied off to the facilities. The gentlemen's convenience was better than could have been hoped for and I read a complimentary
Gazette
while I shat. Afterwards the aged attendant dried my hands and offered me a pastille. I checked my teeth in the mirror for caries and to see if my fillings remained. Gold from the entire map: the Rand, the Klondike, California, the tombs of Mycenae. I wondered if my grave would one day be robbed and the grains in my teeth melted down for jewellery, transformed into a necklace for a maiden's throat in nineteen hundred ninety-nine. I spat out the sweet; for the fossil's help I rewarded him a nickel and went to the bar.

An American sat talking to Jack about Coolidge's trade policies. At the snap of fingers a venerable sommelier ceremoniously opened a bottle of wine. Jack and I treated the Yankee, who saluted the liberal liquor laws of the North.

“It's what I like about your country,” he said.

“What's that?” Jack asked.

“Well, number one, none of our Puritan hysteria. I tell you, sometimes it almost makes me blush to think of what they're trying to sell us in the States. Take that trial in Tennessee last year. Darrow showed Bryan up for a damn fool and the Bible for a pack of howlers, and he still lost! In the twentieth century! Evidence of science's progress everywhere around us! Now, lookee here, evolution's a fact, sure as this is fine wine, which I thank you gentlemen for. Now what are you going to believe, a book scribbled by Moses wandering in the desert three thousand years ago or one typed the other day by Mr. Einstein? What I mean is, we all know why the sky is blue, don't we?”

“Something to do with the sea?” I ventured.

“Precisely.”

The American drank. I waited for him to lay out the second point of his argument.

“What're you selling?” Jack asked.

“I'm glad you asked, young fellow. Let's call it peace of mind.”

“Jesus,” Jack said.

“No sir, but I do know some Bible salesmen. Good men, most of them, but they dip into their goods too much. Wouldn't stand it in a whiskey merchant and it's the same damn thing with Scripture pushers, rots the brain. Now, I was in Burlington just last night at a commercial hotel and I met one of these fellows. Here, I'll show you what I mean. He sold me a book that you gents might be interested in. I have it right here, a real pip.”