LITMIR.BIZ

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looked around. “Unless we’re having them assembled in here.”

      “I changed my mind. We’re not going back into the billiards business.”

      This caught Shorty a little off guard. “What sort of business are we going into then?” And by business, he meant their front operation.

      McCloskey pulled a small silver case out of his other breast pocket, one not nearly big enough to house a row of cigars. He pried it open, lifted out a vellum business card, and presented it to Shorty.

      BORDER CITIES WRECKING AND SALVAGE

      Surplus and Used Auto Parts

      Domestic and International Sales

      112-16 Mercer St. PHONE SENECA 1008

      Shorty blinked. “Wrecking and salvage, Jack?”

      “We’re going to buy for pocket change any old clunkers we can get our hands on, chop them up and sell the parts — on both sides of the border. It’s a growing business and very profitable. Pay next to nothing for the car and its parts for, I don’t know, 500 percent? Anyway, that’s the legit part.”

      “I’m with you so far,” said Shorty.

      “These parts we’re moving around, we pack them with straw, newspaper, and a few bottles of rye. That’s how it’s going to work and that’s how it’s going to get done, and in a few months we’ll be moving more whisky than headlights.”

      “All right … but do you know much about this stuff, Jack?”

      “Not much, but I know people who do. We just need to put our heads together.”

      “The address …” Shorty was examining the card again, turning it over and over, looking for some sort of clue. It all sounded good but he had a feeling he was missing something.

      “I just signed the papers. Used to belong to this fellow named Sklash. He’s retiring. We can talk more about that later.” Jack was excited now and started pacing about the room. “The finer points of the deal need to be work out.” He checked his watch. “Oh — I’m late for another meeting. Tell Gorski and Mud I’ll be touching base with them about all this — sometime next week.”

      “We’re still using the British-American?” said Shorty.

      “Yeah, for now. And keep me up to speed on your quest or whatever this is, okay?”

      “Sure, boss.” Shorty touched the brim of his hat and tucked the business card away. He started slowly down the narrow stairwell but then picked up his pace to the point where he almost collided with a passerby on the sidewalk. He stopped, noticed his hand was hurting, and realized he was squeezing the key again. Jack had taken the news better than he thought he would. Shorty guessed it helped that Jack had other things on his mind. He looked up and down the Drive. Wrecking and salvage, he said to himself. He crossed the street to the Crawford Hotel, where the guys were waiting for him in the bar.

      “So what did he say?” said Mud.

      Shorty looked around the bar. Reformed, all of them. The place had been busted one too many times in the past couple weeks and was now bone dry. The Crawford had lost its protection and its game, and now most of the rooms upstairs were empty. The rummies had moved on, but they’d be back.

      “He said we can run with it — but only to the end of the week like we all agreed.”

      “What’s the matter?” asked Gorski, sensing something else was in the air.

      “Nothing. Jack’s just got a lot on his mind right now, you know, what with getting back in business and all.”

      “Anything we should know about?” said Lapointe.

      “No, not now,” said Shorty. “Let’s stay focused on our game. I have to make a call.” He got up from his chair, went up to the bar, and asked for the phone. The boys looked at each other but didn’t say anything.

      Before the end of the hour, Shorty was sitting across from Olive McTavish in a booth at Lanspeary’s Drugstore. She was one of the elevator operators across the street at the Prince Edward Hotel. The rest of the gang was sitting tight in Shorty’s Studebaker parked around the corner on Pelissier, mumbling into their coat collars.

      Olive was about to start her shift; Shorty bought her a milkshake for lunch. He asked the soda jerk to put an extra egg in it for her.

      “Good?”

      “Tasty.”

      “Great.” Shorty got right to the point. “Now, me and the boys want upstairs.”

      She was gently working the ’shake with the long spoon. “Where upstairs?”

      “You know where upstairs. Is it occupied?”

      “It’s off-season.”

      “Yeah, I heard all the beaches were closed. You’re going to let us in the back door so the house dick doesn’t see us, and then you’re going to take us up the service elevator.”

      She held the spoon halfway between the tall cup and her thin, painted lips. “You wanna short-sheet the beds?”

      “You’re awful cute today, aren’t you, Olive?”

      Shorty and Olive had a bit of a history. They'd gone to school together at Cameron Street Public. They were sweethearts for a while, but when Olive got a job and started taking long walks with a bellboy named Gerry, Shorty’s nose got out of joint. The fact of the matter was Olive didn’t want the complications that went along with being the girlfriend of an entry-level gangster. She wanted a simpler life. Shorty insisted he could give her that. Olive told him to take a good, long look in the mirror and be careful not to burn himself on that torch he was carrying. She was silent as she shovelled the last dregs of the thick ’shake into her mouth.

      Where does she put it? wondered Shorty. She came up to his chin and looked she weighed about as much as a bag of grapes.

      “All right. What’s it worth to you?”

      “Five,” she said.

      “A fin? For that I can get the concierge to give me a guided tour of the hotel and a hot meal at the end. All I want is a peek inside the suite.”

      “I could lose my job if I get caught, Shorty.”

      He looked at the pyramid of soda glasses behind the counter and wondered if he could knock them all down with one saltshaker. He sighed and reached for his wallet.

      “I feel like I’m displaying a horrible precedent.”

      She smiled.

      “And what’s this going to buy you if you get caught?”

      “It’ll let me drink my sorrows away.”

      Shorty was glad the others weren’t here to witness this. He told her he would bring the boys through the alley behind the hotel, just off Park Street, in ten minutes.

      “There’s a door to the left of the loading dock. I’ll be there,” she looked at her watch, “in fifteen.”

      Right on time, she let the boys in, and when they started with the stomping of the boots inside the door she told them to shush. “Be quiet and wait here.” It was the loudest whisper they had ever heard.

      Mud put out his cigarette and Lapointe pulled out his flask. Olive reappeared presently and waved them down a short, ugly, cinder-block hallway to the service elevator. She locked the car so that it travelled non-stop to the eleventh floor. When it halted she opened the scissor-gate slowly. It was dead quiet; the only thing running was the red carpet to the window at the end of the hall. The gang followed the tiny elevator operator to the door of the deluxe suite that back in the day had served as Richard Davies’s second home.

      It suddenly occurred to Shorty how crazy it was to think there might be anything belonging to Davies left in the suite, or even the smallest clue

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