LITMIR.BIZ

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thought.

      “Yes, sir.”

      “You’re going to be hitting fast and hitting hard. That’s how we’re going to get through this. Slip will tell you who’s who and what’s what. You carrying?”

      McCloskey suddenly remembered that his gun was at the bottom of the Detroit River. “No, sir.”

      Brown snapped his fingers and a tall man in a big coat appeared out of nowhere. This was Brown’s shadow, a walking arsenal who went by the name of Lynch. He pulled two British service revolvers out of his coat, .455 Webley Mark VI’s. McCloskey was familiar with them. They were like hand-held artillery and could do serious damage.

      “One for each hand.”

      McCloskey took them.

      “When you’re done, I want you both back at the Connaught Hotel.”

      Less than thirty minutes later, McCloskey was taking aim at a fellow trying to negotiate a leap from the window of a burning building. The fool probably figured if he played it right, he could slide down the roof of the veranda and land on a pile of snow. McCloskey put a bullet in his hip and watched him tumble off the roof and land on the frozen pavement, missing the snow by inches.

      A shot rang from the house and a bullet hit the car adjacent to where McCloskey was standing. He remained focused, spotting a figure in another window. He threw some lead in its direction and the figure fell backwards into the flames. More shots followed, but they were coming from the other side of the house. Slip reappeared.

      “I got one,” he said. Glancing over his shoulder to the pavement he remarked, “I see you were busy.” There were sirens in the distance and McCloskey tucked away his revolver. “Let’s get out of here.”

      The next morning there was some unexpected news from Windsor: Billy McCloskey was alive and recovering nicely from his bullet wound. According to the doctor, if he had been standing at a slightly different angle or if the cold had not slowed the bleeding, he’d be dead right now. Of course Jack was relieved, but then came a raft of questions.

      Was Billy under the impression that his brother was the shooter? Did Billy actually see the shooter? Who could it have been? Was it an accident or did someone in that mob actually want Billy dead? And what was Billy telling the investigators right now? McCloskey’s moment of relief suddenly evaporated. He had no choice but to wait and see how things played out.

      McCloskey expected to be called back home, figuring Billy’s survival must have taken some of the heat off. That may have been the case, but there were new developments in Hamilton as well. The mandate now for Brown’s outfit was to extend their influence to the tips of the Golden Horseshoe — the region stretching west from the Niagara River along the peninsula, around Lake Ontario, and then back east to Toronto’s borders. To that end, Brown was told by the boss in Montreal that he could retain McCloskey’s services indefinitely. Apparently Green had no say in the matter.

      Lieutenant Brown was unrelenting in his campaign, and McCloskey became the go-to guy in virtually every operation.

      It looked like it was going to be a long winter, but then spring arrived early in the form of a fresh-faced girl sporting a sleek blonde bob. McCloskey was waiting for Slip in the mezzanine of the hotel when he spotted her sprinting up the stairs from the lobby. Her knees played peek-a-boo with the hem of her dress, and she jiggled in all the right places. When she passed McCloskey, she glanced at him with eyes like blue saucers.

      “Down, boy,” said Slip. “That’s the boss’s girl.”

      “The boss’s girl? How come I never seen her? Does she live here in the hotel?”

      “Yeah, but you didn’t hear it from me. She’s his best-kept secret. Now forget you ever saw her.”

      She looked young, sweet and, according to McCloskey, had no business hanging around guys like Brown.

      Slip just smiled and shook his head. “Just remember what I told you,” he said. “Now c’mon. We gotta be somewhere.”

      A few days later McCloskey saw her having breakfast downstairs. That’s twice in one week, he thought. It must be a sign.

      “Mind if I join you?” he said. “My name’s —”

      She looked up at McCloskey’s devilish grin. “I know who you are.”

      Her tone was playful, like she knew the score.

      “Call me Jack.”

      “Nice to meet you, Jack. I’m Sophie.”

      He gently took her hand.

      “Sophie.” McCloskey said it a few more times in his head. “I like that.”

      “It’s kind of grown on me. Do you like eggs, Jack?”

      Sophie pointed out the waiter hovering impatiently.

      “I’ll have whatever she’s having.”

      They got to talking about this and that, and eventually McCloskey got around to asking her how she got mixed up with a guy like Brown.

      “Just lucky, I guess.”

      “No, really.”

      She told him the story of how Brown pulled her out of a chorus line in Montreal. Rescued her was what he liked to say. Now she was sitting on the shelf in his trophy room.

      “So why stick around?”

      “The money’s good and I like the hours.”

      McCloskey tried to guess her age. Sure, she was young, but she had a worldly air about her, so he guessed older.

      “I turned eighteen the first of April. That makes me an April fool.”

      McCloskey almost choked on his scrambled eggs. It made her laugh and she had a great laugh.

      Slip happened to be walking through the dining room at the time and spotted the two of them playing footsy. He made a beeline for McCloskey and grabbed his arm.

      “What did I tell you?” said Slip.

      Slip gave Sophie a look, as if to say Leave my boy alone.

      “What? We’re just —”

      “I know what you’re doing. C’mon, let’s go.”

      “Don’t tell me — we gotta be somewhere.”

      McCloskey looked back at Sophie and shrugged. Sophie just smiled and waved goodbye.

      Regarding his brother Billy and the incident in the alleyway, McCloskey was still waiting for the other shoe to drop. Was it possible that everyone was still under the impression that he pulled the trigger? Did Billy know the truth? Was he just waiting to play that card?

      And then his mind would invariably turn to their father. What could Billy have told him? McCloskey was tempted on a number of occasions to jump in his car and drive home so that he could settle the matter once and for all.

      It felt like he had already been down this road: trying to get home, wanting to find his place, and hoping to set things right. But something always came along to make it all that much more complicated. He admitted to himself that sometimes it was himself, but most times it just seemed like fate was working against him.

      A couple weeks after Jack’s aborted breakfast with Sophie, Brown called McCloskey to his suite, and McCloskey arrived at the door the same time she did. She appeared quite agitated but he kept his distance. When the maid opened the door, Sophie stormed in. McCloskey cautiously followed.

      She proceeded to make what is commonly known as a scene. Evidently Brown had just sent her a message cancelling their plans for the evening, and this wasn’t the first time. It was all a bit awkward and McCloskey had the distinct feeling that Sophie was taking advantage of his being in the room.

      Desperate for a quick resolution, Brown glanced over at McCloskey. If he could trust this

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