LITMIR.BIZ

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She closed her eyes and waited for the ship to right itself. Her tiny ship, tossing back and forth, in between places, in the middle of the Detroit River.

      French for strait. Strait of Calais. Dire straits. Strait jacket. I know into what straits of fortune she is driven. Because strait is the gate, and narrow is the way, which leadeth unto life, and few there be that find it. The water then flows down through Lake Erie, spilling over Niagara Falls into Lake Ontario, down the St. Lawrence and out into the estuary where it mingles with the salt water of the Atlantic. The place is too strait for me: give place to me that I might dwell. The ocean always looks so cold. And it’s so hot here. Why does it have to be so hot? Could a ripple of fresh water make it all the way across the ocean? Into the Seine and the taps and toilets of the Left Bank? Drink a toast, Mr. Joyce, and drink Canada Dry! Stop! I won’t listen. I was out last night on a yellow drunk with Horan and Goggins. Explain that to Mrs. Lancefield. Sleep, Maudie, sleep. I can’t stand it. I can’t face another day at the library. I can’t go on. I’ll go on. I could even get there early. Or at least on time. I can make a change. I can make it work. I can swallow my pride along with this gin and take the edge off. There is only one thing to do, boys, he said. Take them back to Terence Kelly. I hope I fall asleep before I tonight I hope —

      — Chapter 28 —

      RECONAISSANCE

      Locke was walking up from the ferry dock with his hands in his pockets. He looked as if he had been pacing the downtown waterfront all evening. McCloskey pulled the Light Six up to the curb outside the British-American.

      “Ready?”

      “Yeah.”

      Locke climbed in and McCloskey turned around and headed east along the Drive. Most of the traffic was going in the opposite direction, pleasure-seekers from Michigan on their way back home.

      McCloskey looked over at his passenger. “You okay?”

      “I was just thinking.”

      McCloskey pulled a White Owl from his coat pocket, bit off the tip, and spat it on the road.

      “Tell me, Locke, how do you like your chances of taking me down along with the rest of these chumps?”

      “If Fields trusts you, then I trust you.”

      “You’ll trust me as long as I’m helping you get what you want,” said McCloskey. “What about after?”

      “That’s up to you, isn’t it?” said Locke. “You choose your own path.”

      A long time ago the Lieutenant had told his men to beware of a cop named Locke who had ties to militant temperance factions. Locke and his crusader friends were into smashing stills, harassing roadhouse proprietors, running bootleggers off the road, and destroying any bottle they could get their hands on. The Lieutenant said he was a necessary evil: Locke discouraged small-time operators and in his overzealousness created more demand for the product. The chief left Locke to his devices because Locke had no problem enforcing unpopular laws and made the Methodist do-gooders feel like they had an insider. Locke had little idea what a fine line he was walking.

      “Slow down,” he said. “This is it.”

      McCloskey hung a right and parked the car on Esdras, the nearest side street. The two of them hustled across the road and took cover behind a line of parked cars leading up to the house.

      This was more than your usual summer rental. It looked like something from a movie magazine, like one of those places in the hills outside Los Angeles. Its single storey was long and symmetrical in design and covered in white stucco. There was a big oak door at the centre and a bay window at either end looking over the expanse of lawn. The front was dimly lit with decorative floodlighting. It was noticeably brighter towards the back. McCloskey scrambled up to a side window. Locke crouched behind him.

      “See anything?”

      It looked part hunting lodge and part war room. In the middle was a massive desk covered with maps and papers. A Union Jack hung on the wall to the right and to the left was a window that faced the river. A buck’s head was mounted over the fireplace and there were photos of athletes and men in uniform arranged along the mantle.

      “Three of them, all with their backs to me. Hold on.” McCloskey shifted along the window ledge. “Okay, come here and tell me if you know this guy.” He traded positions with Locke.

      “With the suspenders?”

      “Yeah.”

      “He’s the one I followed here the other night.”

      They traded positions again.

      “Here come a couple more. Well, well, well.”

      “What?”

      McCloskey waited for a cloud of cigar smoke to dissipate before he was certain whom he was staring at. “There’s something I neglected to tell you about the Lieutenant’s boss.”

      “What’s that?”

      McCloskey turned to Locke and told him that the Lieutenant’s boss, the man at top of their syndicate’s food chain, was none other than Richard Davies. Locke blinked a few times, like a light bulb shorting out.

      “What?”

      “Richard Davies is in there right now talking shop with a few of the most dangerous men in the Border Cities.”

      “I don’t believe it.”

      “See for yourself.”

      McCloskey shifted over.

      “But how —”

      “Shh.”

      There were voices coming from behind the house. Two men carrying what looked to be cases of liquor were making their way down towards a luxury vessel tied to the dock. It went by the name Strait Shooter and it was flying the Stars and Stripes. McCloskey wanted a closer look at the back of the house, so while the two men were busy loading their cargo on the boat, he made his move.

      “Watch my back.”

      The property sloped down to the river so there were two full storeys at the back. The two men had come out of a basement-level storage facility full of military surplus, bottles, boating gear, crates, and containers.

      “Seen enough?”

      A man with the weight and precision of a pile driver held McCloskey down and was preparing to strike.

      Thud.

      Then he collapsed. Locke was standing over the two of them gripping a rock the size of a grapefruit. McCloskey rolled the man off him.

      “I thought I told you to keep watch.”

      “I was watching the boat — this guy came from the front of the house. I didn’t see him until he —”

      “Let’s get the hell out of here,” said McCloskey.

      They made their way back along the line of cars. When they reached the Light Six, McCloskey told Locke what he saw at the back of the house. He speculated that Davies was diversifying his smuggling operation and might even be preparing to do battle with the coal strikers in Michigan.

      “So what do you think? Could you get some uniforms together and raid the place tonight?”

      “I don’t know, McCloskey.”

      McCloskey’s couldn’t believe it. “What do you mean? You saw the cases of liquor; you saw the boat. There were cars in the driveway that belonged to guys from my old outfit. What do you need? A written invitation? Permission from your mother?”

      Locke just sat there shaking his head, muttering Richard Davies’ name over and over again. McCloskey would continue poking until he hit the right nerve.

      “You’re telling me that since he has money, flies the flag, and looks good in a tux he should get off? What’s the matter, Locke? You only go

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