Border City Blues 3-Book Bundle. Michael Januska
noticed Corbishdale becoming a little slack-jawed in disbelief.
“After a while Walters had had enough and quietly slipped down here. It only took the Pole a few days to track him down. He made Walters give him the lay of the land and then put him to work on Schwab. The whole thing made Walters sick. Walters said when we came knocking on his door he realized the only way to get rid of this phantom for good would be to finger him and suffer any consequences.”
Montroy turned and set his gaze back on the building across the way. He and Corbishdale were watching the Pole’s apartment on Tuscarora from a position across the street on Marentette. Montroy’s plan was to follow the Pole to his target, watch him execute his raid, and then find out where he took his liquor. He finished his story, talking out the side of his mouth at Corbishdale.
“This morning we brought back Schwab to corroborate Walters’ statement, and I spent the day gathering more evidence. The Pole’s a bottom feeder, son, picking up bottles wherever he can, the hard stuff mostly — whisky, bourbon, that sort of thing.”
Corbishdale couldn’t understand the lengths people went to make, traffic, and drink liquor. Temperance had always been the theme in his home. Looking back, he remembered his family being stable and content, not to mention loyal and God-fearing. He couldn’t understand why anyone would want it any other way.
Montroy peeled the cigarette butt off his lower lip, crushed it under his shoe, and got another one going.
“He’s just a big ugly bohunk who’s picked the wrong town to do his business.”
Corbishdale was unfamiliar with that term. He guessed it had something to do with the Pole being a foreigner.
“We’ve got all the excitement we can handle here; we don’t need any outsiders upsetting the balance.”
Corbishdale’s mind drifted back to when his father would rail against the followers of the Roman Church — mainly the Irish and Italians. The French became the focus of his anxiety when Quebec made conscription an issue. When the province refused to stay dry, it sent him right over the edge. “Freedom of the human conscience … pah.” He’d roll his eyes and shovel another helping of roast beef into his mouth. “It’s the alcohol,” he’d say, “it retards the brain.”
Montroy slumped down in his seat. “Light’s out.”
The apartment had gone dark. Corbishdale swallowed hard. He imagined the Pole making his way down the stairs of the building, his bulging eyes and long, mustachioed face in the dim light of the hall, his silhouette moving towards the doorway, and a flash of gun metal in his belt. He would step outside then check the shadows around the building and the adjacent street corners. Maybe he’d spot the police flyer. Maybe he was already on to them. Corbishdale adjusted his grip on the wheel.
“Steady, son. You don’t want to jump from the Third Page to the obituaries, now do you?”
Three figures climbed into a yellow Maxwell just on the other side of Tuscarora. The Pole was in the driver’s seat.
“All right, let’s go,” said Montroy, “but not too close.”
They followed it up Marentette. Montroy hadn’t told Corbishdale everything that was in the Pole’s file. He didn’t want to scare the boy shitless. At the same time he felt Corbishdale needed the experience, despite his recent adventure. The city was changing and he, along with the other young officers on the force, needed to be better prepared.
The Pole had been a loose cannon on the deck of Hamilton’s biggest outfit. When he got caught in a double-cross, the gang leader made an example of him. The Pole didn’t like that, so he made some threats. After that the gang leader wanted him dead. He sent his heavies over to the Pole’s safe house to burn it to the ground. Somehow the Pole managed to escape.
The Maxwell slowed to a stop then turned left onto Ellis. Montroy grabbed his pack of Macdonalds off the dashboard and shook one loose. He fired it up and took a long, soothing drag. The Maxwell hung a left onto Pierre and finally came to a stop in front of a house just south of Ottawa Street.
“Pull in here,” said Montroy.
He was pointing to some cars parked on the opposite side of the street. Montroy surveyed the block.
“Go knock on that door — where the light’s on — see if they have a telephone. Call the station and tell Yoakum to get down here.”
They slipped out curbside and split up. Montroy used the parked cars for cover as he moved closer to the Pole’s target. The moment the gang entered the house, Montroy did a duck-and-run across the street and took up a position below the veranda. There was some shouting inside and then the Pole’s boys came out, each carrying a case of liquor. The Pole followed presently and helped arrange the crates in the trunk of the car. As soon as they pulled away Montroy ran back and joined Corbishdale in the flyer.
“Don’t take your eyes off them.”
The Maxwell zigzagged through the city, cutting through neighbourhoods and skirting the downtown before finally slowing in front of a small building on the west end of Park Street. It was Windsor City Dairy.
“Let’s go see what’s curdling their milk.”
They found a window at the side of the garage. Montroy wiped the grease and soot from the glass with his sleeve. The Pole’s boys and a fellow from the dairy were unloading the Maxwell. When they finished the milkman disappeared and then returned with bottles of milk. The Pole’s boys cracked open the cases of liquor while the milkman arranged the bottles on a table. One of the Pole’s boys started pouring liquor into them. Montroy and Corbishdale looked at each other. The whisky wasn’t displacing the milk.
“I’ve seen enough. Stay here and cover the front while I go around back and try and find another way in.”
“Yes, sir.”
Montroy found a rear entrance in the alleyway, but it was locked. He pulled out his Colt, took a deep breath and kicked the door open.
“Hands up, boys — where I can see ’em.”
The milkman dove for cover. One of the Pole’s boys drew his pistol and Montroy fired, hitting him in the shoulder. The other fellow grabbed some air. Montroy cocked his revolver and aimed it at the Pole. The Pole laughed, pulled what appeared to be a butcher knife out of a sheath hanging from his belt, and started inching towards Montroy.
With his lanky black hair, white flesh, and big round eyes there was something dark and weirdly medieval about this man. Montroy took a step back. That was a mistake. Now the Pole knew he had him.
There was a noise at the front door. The Pole didn’t turn around at first. He just kept grinning, and as he moved into the light he threw a dense, cold shadow that seemed to bleed into every corner of the room.
“Sergeant Montroy?”
It was Corbishdale. He was standing there with his pistol drawn. The Pole turned and was a breath away from throwing the knife at Corbishdale when Montroy put a bullet in his back. The Pole froze for a moment, then his legs twisted under him and he dropped to the floor.
“Goddamn,” said Montroy and ran over to the Pole. “Call an ambulance.”
“Sir … I heard a shot … I …”
“That’s all right, son. Just get us that ambulance.”
Montroy looked up at the table and saw the milk bottles. He grabbed one. They were empty but painted to look full. When you held one in your hand it was pretty obvious, but on your porch at 5:30 in the morning no one could possibly tell the difference.
The Pole and his injured partner were loaded into the ambulance. Montroy rode with them and took the opportunity to ask the accomplice a few questions. When Montroy didn’t like the answers, he poked the man in the shoulder with his nightstick. Every so often he would glance over at the Pole lying unconscious on the stretcher. He had this creepy grin on his face,