LITMIR.BIZ

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even closer. “Luck’s got nothing to do with it,” he said. “Luck’s got nothing to do with anything.”

      Shorty backed away and squeezed the key in his palm. It felt hot.

      — Chapter 2 —

      SLIDING ON COBBLESTONE

      Morrison felt winter made him sharper. With everyone wrapped in layers, their hats pulled down low, their collars up high, and the elements assaulting his senses, he was forced to pay even closer attention to the finer details, where and whenever he could find them.

      He had spotted Lavish Learmouth on Chatham Street while he was making his way toward the Avenue. Lavish was wearing a long, heavy overcoat that made him look as wide as he was tall, but he wasn’t very tall. Of course, it was freezing cold out, but for Lavish this garb looked a little too functional, not really his style, not his cut. Morrison decided to follow.

      He was using this quiet Sunday morning to catch up on reports and other paperwork that he could no longer avoid. He hated being chained to his desk like that, getting bogged down in the minutiae of his job. He was looking forward to a walk to clear his head. But his head was already beginning to feel cluttered again, now with thoughts of what Lavish might be up to. He watched him waddle past Palmer & Clarke’s Dry Goods and Ready-to-Wear, Douglas’s Hardware, and then around the corner onto the Avenue in the direction of the river. He thought Lavish might drop into Stokes Brothers, the tobacconists, but he just kept on his way.

      Despite the cold, churchgoers were heading to their services. Morrison had been passing clusters of them, families, heading toward All Saints’ and St. Alphonsus. He was still passing them on the Avenue, though not as many now. Lavish, seemingly unable to control his momentum, almost knocked a couple of older ladies to the pavement in front of Elizabeth’s Hat Shop. They stopped and turned to give Lavish what Morrison could only assume were their best dirty looks. Morrison thought that was strange behaviour for Lavish; he was usually very much the gentleman. He wasn’t moving all that quickly, just steadily and rather purposefully. Morrison’s curiosity was building.

      Lavish stopped in front of the Royal Bank at the corner to let the traffic go by. Morrison paused, keeping his distance, but as soon as Lavish crossed Pitt Street, Morrison picked up the pace again. The churchgoers were starting to mingle with commuters walking to and from the docks, and Morrison was becoming anxious not to lose him.

      Where is he going?

      No establishment other than Pickard’s Drug Store would be open on this last block. Lavish walked right past, paused at Riverside Drive to let some light traffic go by, and Morrison ducked into the doorway at Bartlett’s. He spied Lavish looking over his shoulders then crossing the Drive, stepping carefully through the ruts in the snow. Morrison came out of the doorway. He exchanged discreet nods with the traffic cop standing in the middle of the intersection.

      Must be going into the British-American.

      But Lavish passed the hotel entrance.

      Nope.

      It was now beginning to look like Lavish was heading to the docks to catch the ferry. Morrison could hear the church bells ringing.

      Eleven.

      He had better close in on Lavish, but it wasn’t going to be easy. The slope down to the dock started right here. The snow had been swept away or trampled into patches of a snow-ice combination. Haphazardly seasoned with sand and salt, there were slippery parts still exposed. As he shuffled along toward the dock, Lavish braced himself, extending his arm against the side of the British-American.

      There was a gap between the rear of the hotel and the next building. Morrison watched Lavish stop, slowly lower his arm, and steady himself. He walked like he was navigating a minefield. His next step found a patch of icy cobblestone at the entrance to the laneway and suddenly both feet went right out from under him and he landed flat on his back. Not only that, but because of the slope, he slid down and spun a little, pointing head-first like a compass needle north to Detroit before coming to a stop in front of the Detroit Free Press agency office.

      Morrison had to get to him before any of the commuters did, so he hustled up to him with quick, flat-footed steps. At least he was wearing his galoshes. He found Lavish wiggling around like a turtle flipped on its back.

      “Hi, Lavish,” he said, looking down at him.

      “Oh — Detective Morrison. Good morning.”

      “That was a nasty fall. Let me help you up.”

      “No, thanks — I can manage.”

      “Lavish, it’s below freezing and you’re breaking a sweat. Are you feeling all right?”

      “I’m fine. Really, Detective, I can —”

      Morrison found some dry, secure footing. “No, I insist. Let me help.” He grabbed one of Lavish’s flailing arms but couldn’t lift him.

      “Have you put on a little weight, Lavish?” Morrison once had to pick up Lavish and throw him into the back of the police wagon.

      “Not that I’m aware of. You know, if you could just give me a kick and slide me down toward the dock —”

      “Don’t talk nonsense. I think it might be this coat of yours. Maybe if we just got you out of it first….”

      Morrison unbuttoned Lavish’s overcoat and, with Lavish resisting, wrestled the little man’s arms out of it. People were beginning to pay closer attention now, but they were still moving along toward the dock. It was too cold for gawking. Morrison gave the overcoat a pull and Lavish rolled out of it and onto the cobblestone. The detective could barely lift it.

      “You’re packing more than wool here, Lavish. Get up.”

      “It’s not mine.”

      Morrison draped the coat over his shoulder like it was a side of pork. “We’re going up to my office here at the B-A to have a conversation.”

      “But Detective —”

      “Or I hand you and your luggage over to Fields.”

      “No!”

      “You lead.”

      Lavish shuffled back up the hill in his polished dress shoes, now covered in slush and sand. The wind was picking up again. He tightened his silk muffler around his neck and tucked his gloved hands under his arms. A staff member at the hotel saw Morrison coming and held open the door.

      “Morning, Detective.”

      “Lazarus,” said Morrison, “shouldn’t you be home in bed?”

      “Tolley phoned in sick. He beat me to it. Something’s going round. Now I’m workin’ his shift and mine.”

      “Sorry to hear that. Is my room available?”

      “Yes, sir. It’s been slow lately. Lots of cancellations. You want me to help you with that?” Lazarus was pointing at the coat.

      “No, I got it. Give me about ten minutes; Mr. Learmouth here will need a taxi when we come back down.”

      Lazarus kept glancing over at Lavish, who was still shivering in his suit.

      “Yes, sir.”

      With his free hand, Morrison waved Lavish up the stairs. “After you.”

      Lavish had been to Morrison’s office at the British-American before. It was a dingy room on the third floor that Morrison liked to use for interrogations and dealings of his own. He paused at the first landing to let the detective catch up. Morrison weighed in at almost three bills, but despite that, as well as the booze and cigars, his engine was still in good form. Everyone figured he would just drop one day with no warning and with a smile on his face.

      Room 3b was around the corner from the landing. Lavish stepped aside and Morrison paused and tilted himself forward slightly to better balance the weight of the coat while he searched

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