LITMIR.BIZ

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nose and stepped inside.

      The humid air was laced with cigar smoke. It was almost overwhelming. She wondered how men could huddle together in their clubs and roadhouses and suck on these brown, leathery sticks and come out alive, especially if they happened to be spending the day in a factory. And it seemed like since the war all of the rest of them were smoking cigarettes. They all had their favourite brand and wore it like a badge. Vera Maude studied the displays in the showcases.

      Player’s Navy Cut — Greatest Value in the World!

      Macdonald’s Cigarettes — The Tobacco with Heart!

      Wilson’s Bachelor — The National Smoke!

      She wondered if there really was a difference between any of them.

      “Maybe you’d prefer a good old-fashioned cigar?” said the man behind the counter. “For the Sunday Smoke — Haig Cigars — only five cents each, sir, as are the Peg Tops — The Old Reliable.”

      The man behind the counter spoke in advertising copy.

      “Do you have anything....?”

      A man in a straw hat, leaning one hip against the counter, made a face that said a little more subtle.

      “Of course, sir.”

      Vera Maude was throwing off the tobacconist’s rhythm.

      “I have the Jap. Manufactured from a native-grown Havana leaf. It has a true tropical flavor. Very exotic. Ten cents each.”

      The tobacconist turned, pulled down a box of Japs from the shelf, and set it down on the counter. He plucked out one of the cigars and handed it to Straw Hat, who dragged it across his upper lip and made a face.

      “Awfully strong. Wife may not approve. Don’t want to have to stand at the end of the walk to smoke it.”

      And Straw Hat spoke in telegraph.

      “I understand, sir.”

      The Japs disappeared and the tobacconist pulled another box down from the shelf.

      “How about White Owl, sir? Very smooth and a good price: three for twenty-five.”

      Vera Maude lingered around the conversation. She was curious. The tobacconist gave her a look. So did Straw Hat, but it was a different kind of look.

      “Nice,” he said.

      Straw Hat slapped the quarter down on the glass counter and pulled another coin from his vest pocket. “Half-dozen,” he said.

      “Very good, sir.”

      The tobacconist pulled two more cigars from the box. “You wouldn’t want to be caught short on Sunday.”

      “Come again?”

      “The new law, sir — cigars can no longer be sold on Sundays unless served with a meal.”

      Vera Maude raised her eyebrows.

      “Hmf,” said Straw Hat. “I’ll take a box.”

      The tobacconist turned around and Straw Hat gave Vera Maude the once-over while she wasn’t looking.

      Looks foreign. Big green eyes. Or are they brown? Real doll. Like to put her in my pocket and take her home.

      The tobacconist held the lid of the box open. Straw Hat replaced his six stogies.

      “Thank you, sir.” He nodded, took one last long look at Vera Maude and went out the door. “May I help you, ma’am?”

      The question was intended to shoo Vera Maude away, not to make her feel welcome.

      “A pack of Macdonald’s, please.”

      That caught the tobacconist by surprise. He had sold cigarettes to ladies before, but they were usually flappers or the sort that hung around bootleggers. This girl was neither.

      “Fifteen cents?” asked Vera Maude.

      The tobacconist pulled down a pack from the shelf. When he turned there were two dimes on the counter. Vera Maude picked up the pack of Macdonald’s then helped herself to a box of matches from a display near the register.

      “Keep the change.”

      She smiled to herself when she walked out and then looked around to see if anyone saw her leave the shop. It would be just her luck to run into her father or someone from the library. She counted it a good day when she was able to open the door a little further to vice. This one would be tough, though. Booze was easy. It could be consumed and concealed with relative ease and little chance of discovery. Cigarettes were different: the matches, the smoke, the smell on your clothes and in your hair, and the tobacco stains on your teeth and fingers.

      But what to do with the butts? Details, details.

      She paused at a newsstand on the Avenue and scanned the magazine covers. She had an idea. Once in a while periodicals meant for a home delivery got mixed up with the library’s delivery. She could pretend to have received a magazine meant for Curtis and walk it over, Business Methods or Graphic or something like that. She could even make like the subscription appeared to be in his name.

      I can’t make out the name. Barterman? Is there a Barterman working here?

      — Chapter 19 —

      LIKE A MOTH TO THE FLAME

      She wanted to kill him when she saw him. Instead she fell into his arms. Once she pulled herself together she told him plainly and simply what happened at the hospital.

      “And where is he now?”

      “Sandwich — in county jail.”

      “Not downtown?”

      “Locke has friends at county. He said he’d catch up with Henry at home after he finished his interrogation.”

      McCloskey knew what that meant. Locke always had his own way of doing things.

      “So who is this guy?” asked Clara.

      On his way to Clara’s McCloskey had stopped by the garage to check in with Orval. One of Orval’s regulars, one of the more reliable big mouths, had told him that Gabrese was dead, found hanging from the bars in his cell this morning. So much for getting a first-hand account of events at Ojibway.

      “He’s somebody’s housekeeper.”

      “Do you think whoever killed your father and Billy were behind it?”

      “I’m not sure.”

      McCloskey was holding his cards close; he really didn’t want Clara getting tangled in this.

      “Jack, if I arrived any later that man might have killed Henry too.”

      McCloskey wasn’t in the mood to listen to any mental hand-wringing. “It’s pointless to talk like that.”

      “I know but —”

      “But what?”

      “Henry’s all I got left.”

      McCloskey was thrown back to a summer afternoon several years ago. He had wandered by the Fields’ house looking for Billy and found Clara alone on the veranda, crying. She said Billy went with some friends to enlist.

      The war in Europe had been raging for almost two years at that point and this latest wave of volunteers knew exactly what they were getting themselves into. McCloskey jumped over the side of the veranda and hit the ground running. He caught up with Billy just as he was leaving the enlistment centre. His brother was wearing that stupid grin that made him look ripe for a beating. He asked Billy if their pa knew. Billy said no, not yet. Jack creased him with right to his gut and then walked into the office and signed himself up.

      Some said he didn’t want to get outdone by his younger brother. Others spoke of a promise Jack had made to his father. Frank McCloskey took ill once when the boys were

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