LITMIR.BIZ

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streetcar driver was trying to motivate some of the taxicabs that were congregating in front of the Prince Edward Hotel. Insurance agents, dentists, physicians, and barristers, a host of characters Vera Maude preferred to avoid like the plague, were marching into the King Building. Next door the girls at the Laura Secord Candy Shop were putting the finishing touches on today’s window display. A fellow on a ladder was straightening the letters on the marquee at the Allen. At first glance Vera Maude thought it said The Man for Me. It actually said The Man From Home. It boasted “American millions, European titles, Mediterranean beauty, and smashing romance!”

      Not to mention air-conditioning. I feel a double feature coming on.

      “Lo-o-o-on-DUN.”

      Braverman stood up as they approached the Bank of Montreal building at the corner. The streetcar came to an abrupt halt just as Vera Maude was letting go of the hand strap. She fell into a man standing in front of her.

      “Pardon me, I’m sure.”

      He helped her regain her balance. It was his pleasure. She made a beeline for the door and managed to wiggle through before it closed.

      She spotted Braverman walking in front of the streetcar and followed him down Chatham Street. A couple people went into Wesley Radio, some went into the Chinese laundry. Others continued around the corner down Pelissier. The clock was ticking. Vera Maude stopped at Dougall and watched Braverman cross. She was about to give up hope when she saw him enter a building just up the block. She hustled over and checked it out.

      CURTIS PRINTERS

      She stared at the building for a moment. She was a little disappointed, though she wasn’t sure exactly why. What was she expecting?

      A big sign saying Braverman & Co.: Bootleggers, Con-artists, and Petty Criminals?

      She made a few mental notes then double-backed and turned up Victoria. She noticed the time and got going as fast as she could in heels. She slowed at London Street just long enough to let a streetcar pass and then almost got knocked down by a bicycle when she ran across Park without looking.

      “Jeepers, fella!”

      When she got to the top of the steps of the library, the janitor greeted her at the door.

      “Don’t rush yourself, Maudie. They’re a little preoccupied this morning. And Miss Lancefield’s at another one of her meetings.”

      “Thanks, Joe.”

      Vera Maude strolled in and sure enough they were all huddled around Daphne, gasping and whistling like so many kettles on the boil. Daphne was telling them about the gunshots she heard early this morning from the direction of the rail yards. Mavis said she heard something that sounded like gunshots too, though she had thought it was just a truck backfiring.

      “But, come to think of it, it did sound more like a gun.”

      Yeah, like you know what a gun sounds like.

      Vera Maude started sorting the daily papers. She was grateful no one noticed she was over a quarter of an hour late. Unless they were saving it for Miss Lancefield. Some of the girls were like that — walking around with an ace up their sleeve, waiting for just the right moment to slap it on the table. Vera Maude knew Miss Lancefield was getting tired of her excuses and apologies. One wrong move and Vera Maude would be facing a life sentence behind a counter at Smith’s department store.

      There was another conversation wrapping up at one of the reading tables. Several members of the Music, Literature, and Art Club were discussing topics for the fall season. They were recalling a meeting held earlier in the year. It was an open meeting, Vera Maude’s introduction to the club.

      She had to attend. Among the members were Miss Lancefield, a couple of assistant librarians, several schoolteachers, and representatives of the city’s cultural elite — the Merry Wives of Windsor. It was held up the street at the Bowlby house. The guest of honour was an associate of the Royal Academy of Music. He gave a talk and then later in the evening he and Margaret Bowlby played an arrangement of Beethoven’s 5th. In Reverend Paulin’s wife’s report on current events she touched on the so-called Art War being waged over a modernist exhibit at the Metropolitan Museum in New York. Vera Maude had to bite her tongue through the discussion that followed. The meeting closed with the singing of the national anthem.

      It was all very pleasant and very civilized and done with the utmost taste and decorum. But it was quite different from the new world of music, literature, and art that Vera Maude was reading about in the journals from London and New York.

      Veddy different indeed.

      She tried to picture Braverman in the audience, dressed as he was today and with his paint-splattered briefcase on his lap. Part bohemian, part gentleman, and part gangster.

      Gunshots from the direction of the rail yards?

      — Chapter 15 —

      ALL BETS ARE OFF

      McCloskey was sitting at the bar at the British-American having his first meal since leaving Hamilton: a plate of chicken and frog legs with a near-beer chaser. The beer, Cincinnati Cream Lager, tasted like the punch line to a joke that no one was getting.

      He needed to clear his head after the police had finished with him, so he walked the short mile back to City Garage on Erie Street, where he reclaimed the Light Six and topped up its fuel tank. His plan had been to head down to the British-American to trade information, but arriving on the scene he found everyone tongue-tied and with their fingers in their ears. Getting nowhere, he pulled up a stool at the bar and ordered breakfast.

      “That sounds more like dinner,” Eddie said.

      “I’m catching up.”

      He was cleaning off the last of the chicken bones when a boy came in with copies of the morning edition of the Border Cities Star draped over his arm. McCloskey peeled one off the top and pressed a coin in the boy’s palm. The boy continued to work the room, alternately offering a shine with the gear slung over his shoulder, but met with little success.

      McCloskey turned to the sports pages and noticed the Star was still carrying “Fanning with Farrell.”

      “Wills thinks he can take Dempsey,” he said to no one in particular.

      Eddie returned with clusters of empty glasses dangling from the fingers of each hand like dirty chandeliers. He set the glasses down below the bar and immediately got to rinsing and polishing them.

      “That so?” he said.

      He was a bear of a man with a gentle touch, just the kind of diplomat the British-American needed. McCloskey continued his digest of Farrell’s column.

      “Rickard says Wills’ll fight for less than a hundred thousand. He must be figuring he can take the purse. And listen to this: ‘Every time the champion fights, thousands will go just in the hope of seeing him knocked out and their presence adds to the house and the fighters’ purse.’ How do you like that?”

      “They set them up for the pleasure of watching them fall.”

      “Is this you waxing philosophical, Eddie?”

      “I wouldn’t say it if it weren’t true.”

      “I should’ve gone to see him fight Carpentier. Who knows, maybe things would’ve turned out different.” McCloskey sighed.

      “Now who’s the philosopher?”

      “The fight of the century. That’s what they all said.”

      “You know he was here on the weekend, don’t you?”

      “I know, I know.”

      McCloskey turned the page. Eddie was referring to Dempsey’s exhibition fights down at the Devonshire track on Saturday. Dempsey got a grand for putting pillows on his mitts and going two rounds each with Billy Wells and Bert Snyder. It was pretty light stuff. All the same, McCloskey

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