The Man Who Killed (32 page)

“Cross me on this and I'll feed you to the fucking wolves,” said Jack. “On your knees.”

Brown shook off his inertia and stiffened with the auld re-solve of Carlisle.

“There's no need.”

“Kneel,” Jack insisted.

For a moment I thought Jack would kill him. We were alone. The courtyard was abandoned. No navvies swung from the partly built river span overhead, bearing witness. My senses sharpened. I handled my Webley. Jack was being needlessly cruel, I thought. Brown was broken; there was no need to kick the cur. The Scotsman creakily lowered himself, the brief flare of rebellion doused. I saw him for what he was, a small, frightened functionary in over his head. For a brief moment I had a fellow feeling that I quickly banished. I'd gone too far the other way and we could quarter the man for all the difference it'd make.

“Do you know this place?” asked Jack.

“No.”

“It's where they hanged the French Patriots, the ones who burned down the Assembly. They were traitors. You won't be given the length of a rope, Brown. I promise you that.”

Jack moved in, grasping the handle of his white stick. Brown flinched, waiting for a slash or blow. With an animal smile Jack slowly pulled a steel blade from within the sharkspine.

“Dieu et mon droit.”

He tapped Brown's shoulders lightly with the sword, left, right, the burlesque of a knighting.

“Arise.”

It was dangerous to humiliate a man thus. Jack had refined his cruelty to the weak. He'd changed, and so had I. I was dead to pleasure, outrage, pain. I was a killer. Wind gusted off the water. There was no morality, only exigencies. My ethos: morphine and money. She was gone, at my hands, and I had nothing else to tie me to life. Brown would now pass along his shame to one weaker than he, the back of his hand to the wife, his belt to a child, the boot for a dog. The world spun ever thus.

“Homo homini lupus est,”
I said.

Jack looked at me.

“On your bike, Brown,” he said.

The man got to his feet and shuffled off. Jack came over and lit a cigaret.

“‘Man is wolf to man,'” he said.

“Alpha plus.”

“Thank your old man. Not much Latin in the camps.”

He replaced the sword in its scabbard. We walked away together in another direction. I spotted a copper on the street and reached down to pinch it. It was an Indian Head from the United States.

“Find a penny, pick it up,” I said.

“Put it in your shoe for luck,” said Jack.

“Not how it goes. Here.”

I flipped it over to him and he called heads, caught it and laughed, then put it in his pocket.

On Viger we hailed another 'cab and stopped at the Victoria Tavern on William. Inside the bar a skeleton played a wheezy concertina: “Nearer My God to Thee.”

“Like last call on the
Titanic
here,” said Jack. “Let's go elsewhere.”

We settled at the Victory and I sprang for all-dressed steamed Frankfurters on white bread with mustard and Kiri spruce beer to wash them down. We chewed and swallowed.

“Do you know what?” I asked.

“I don't.”

“We're not the sterling heroes in this tale.”

Jack ate.

“What d'you mean?”

“I mean you're no Hannay and I'm not Tom Brown.”

“Who are we then?”

“The Black Stone.”

It gave Jack pause. I lit a cigaret and continued.

“We're the ones you never read about, the ones who lean on weaklings and hand out beatings. Look at you, taking orders. We're not racing to save the crowned heads of Europe or stop the next war. We're the ones that the hero worries about when there's a knock on the door. All our troubles come from that. No honour in it.”

Jack swallowed and cleaned his mouth.

“Honour means nothing.
Amor fati:
love your fate. Accept it. We're here and others aren't. I know damned good men who're six feet under while fat bastards feed on ortolan drowned in Armagnac. We do what we have to, and that's all I have to say. Grab your things.”

In Griffintown jack o'lanterns lit up windowsills. Children wearing ghoul masks carried bags door to door. Shrill voices from ghosts and goblins piped a strange phrase: “Trick or treat!”

Tomorrow was Hallowe'en and a church Sunday so tonight was the night for fun and games. All Hallows' Eve. Side by side we marched to Duke, intending to pass the night at Jack's haunt. Before heading up we went into the tavern across the way for one more. The bar was packed and thick with smoke from wavering oil lamps. As we came in from the cold I sensed pairs of eyes on us. I bought two bottles of Black Horse and took them to a flimsy bench by the far wall. Jack was as uneasy as I and he started to grate on me, a result of our enforced companionship and relative lack of success. It was the same with any company reaching the end of the line.

He whispered the plan: if anyone resembling Bob crossed the border from Quebec Brown would be telephoned or wired here in Montreal. Jack aimed to get on Bob's trail from that point. Meanwhile we waited, killing time. Jack had ten dollars left and I promised him half my leavings. It was only just. I'd been wrong earlier; sometimes there was a fraction of honour, even amongst thieves and killers.

We were being watched, I was certain. I scanned a room filled with Neanderthals, dark pitiless morlocks. Was that an averted gaze from the two fellows in the corner? Who were those yeggs by the window? Slanted mirrors embossed with the names of the great whiskey houses allowed me a fractured reflection of the chamber. I saw Jack's hair shining amber in the low gloom. Around us groaned a murmuring, persistent chorus. It was late. The 'tender rang a bell.

“Time, gentlemen.”

A boy dragged a black curtain across the windowpane and a great galumph locked the front door. By staying put Jack and I joined the blind pig after closing hours. I bought two more stouts and drank mine mechanically, hand on gun.

“Got a feeling,” said Jack out the side of his mouth.

In a Jameson's mirror I saw two vaguely familiar men in flat caps at a table looking at a grey square of paper. One peered over his compatriot's shoulder and accidentally caught my eye. The paper was a photograph. In a burst of light my mind recognized them: the Senator's goons.

“We've been shopped,” I whispered.

“Where?”

“Corner. Flats. They've got our picture.”

“Right,” Jack said.

My eyes flitted over the crowd.

“Two more,” Jack said. “Black homburgs, ten o'clock.”

He was right. We were boxed in.

“Choice of enemies,” I said.

“After you,” he said.

“No, you,” I insisted.

Jack got up. I watched him walk to the back door. One of the big fellows in homburgs shook his head. Sweat pricked my scalp and my hand clenched the Webley tighter. Jack moved past the bar. Another fellow was posted there. A collective ripple like wind on a wheat field seemed to flutter through the remaining drinkers. Out the corner of my eye the wizened bartender started to crouch. Suddenly there was a shrill whistle, the electric lights went up and someone yelled: “Police!”

The pair at the window jumped and the homburgs did the same. I leapt to my feet with the Webley's hammer cocked. Jack grabbed a short bastard and held the naked blade from his cane to the man's neck. I pointed the Webley at the mirror and pulled the trigger. There was a boom and Bushmills Irish Whiskey
shattered, glittering to the floor. Topers hid under tables. I swung the gun to point at the cops, to the lummox at the front door, then back to the Senator's goons. I was a piece of stone, frozen with fury and fear. The broken looking glass coursed down in silver shards.

“Move and I'll burn your brains!” I roared.

“This one gets a knife!” shouted Jack.

The four cops were nearly identical in black coats and hats. One muttered to another.

“Ta gueule!”
I yelled and took aim at his yap.

“On the ground, all of you, or this one's dead!” shouted Jack.

Silence. The cops reluctantly bent. I kicked my way through prone bodies; innocent bystanders, one might call them, except everyone's guilty and I'd kill them all to get out. Eyes down, eyes up, over to Jack.

“Open it,” he commanded his prisoner.

Jack reached into his coat and took out his Browning, jabbing it into his hostage's lumbar. My arm trembled and I submitted to total tachycardia, my body bursting with searing blood, my skin ice, hair on end. We were in for it now and no mistake.

“You won't go far!” one of the plainclothesmen shouted.

“In a pig's eye!” yelled Jack.

He pushed our bartering chip through the door into the dark. Nothing happened. Jack darted out and I covered. I took one last look around the tavern. I'd never forget it. Came Jack's voice: “Ankle!”

I stepped into the night blind. Jack's hand grabbed me.

“This way,” he hissed.

He kicked the hostage in the arse and took off down the alley. I peeled after him, fast as I could. Nightmare, nightmare. I wasn't fast enough. My body was heavy, no air to breathe. Run. Run. Goddammit, the police at last. It was dark, too dark, I couldn't see a Goddamned thing. My eyes strained wide for light, trying to follow Jack as he ran. Dogs? Were those dogs chasing us? I turned and tripped and dropped my gun, scrambled to my feet. No time to find it. Run.

I broke out of the alley into a lit street and saw Jack sprinting down a narrow
ruelle
between two high buildings. There was the screech of tires and a pair of yellow headlamps rushed at me. Hanging, it would be hanging for me if I was caught. I charged into the darkness with my legs burning, soaking wet, running. Faster, faster. They won't hang you; they'll shoot you down like a fucking dog in the street. Go, Goddammit. Go.

Jack dashed to the left and I caught him turn, then turn again. Footsteps pounded like slamming doors after me and there were echoes and gunshots. I heard shouts, police whistles, dogs barking. No. I slowed for a moment, gasping, chest heaving. I grabbed at my necktie and pulled open the noose. No, there was no one, the noises were in me. I picked up the pace again but Jack was gone. Shit. My head spun wildly looking for a way out, an escape hatch. I turned another corner and hands grabbed the front of my coat. Cardiac arrest.

“Quiet. Breathe through your mouth. Don't move.”

Jack pushed me down. He had a gun in each hand and we were hiding behind rubbish bins in a loading bay. A rotten stench filled my nostrils. I brushed a waxy brick wall and smelled my fingers: fat. We were behind a butcher shop or slaughterhouse amongst waste meat and filth. I could hear a slithering movement and a squeaking. Rats. My teeth were bared, my eyes staring insanely. My stomach roiled and turned. Don't. Don't spew, you'll give us away. Jack cocked his head and froze. I didn't dare move. For an agonizing lifetime we waited as the vermin scratched and scratched.

“Lost my gun,” I said at last.

“Here.”

Jack handed over his Webley. We waited for anything. I was parched and screaming for water. We waited for our pursuers, for whistles and shouts, motorcars, footsteps, horse hooves, dog howls. Nothing.

“It gets better and better,” Jack said to himself.

“We've got to keep moving,” I said hoarsely.

“They know where to find us.”

“The Senator sold us. Why?”

“Damned if I know. Town's too hot now,” said Jack.

“Took them long enough.”

“They've got us. They'll cordon off the area and set up patrols. There'll be a uniform at every callbox and a flying squad ready in a trice. We've got to get off the island.”

“How? They'll call the stations and blockade the bridges. Even if we grab a motor—”

“We've got to get off,” repeated Jack.

“No, let's go to ground,” I whimpered.

Jack rounded on me.

“Where? If they knew we'd be at that dump they'll have the jump on us wherever we bolt. Use your head.”

His venom put my back up. I tamped down my rage for the moment. “Follow me,” I said.

“Where? Gaol?”

“No. Never that.”

We crept to the alley mouth and argued over our bearings. I told Jack my notion. He thought it over a minute and shrugged.

“Could be worse. Not by much.”

It was touch and go. The most dangerous moment was crossing the wide, well-lit expanse of McGill Street from Griffintown into old Ville Marie. We passed the Customs House and prowled along to the river. Jack stuck by me as I worried our way along, stopping at every noise. We wouldn't last a night plus the light of day on the run in this city, no friends and the police after us. It would end in a bloody fusillade. By pussyfooting it we came to our goal and fortune smiled on failure. It was there.

“Luck of the bloody Irish,” Jack said.

MY OLD COMRADE managed a tight grin as we stepped out from our concealed position to the deserted promenade between Alexandra and King Edward quays. I looked down at the rowboat I'd seen tied up by a freighter on Friday when we'd killed the moneymen.

“What was the boat called?” I asked.

“The
Hatteras Abyssal.
”

“Gone now,” I said.

“Back to Holland,” said Jack.

For the nonce there were no other large freighters moored nearby. Either chance or design, it didn't matter. We coasted to the rusty ladder and Jack climbed down. I spied a nightwatchman or harbour patrolman walking towards us.