He didn’t even look at her, just continued on his way, turned a corner, and disappeared.
The utility room was at the end of the hall. She set the pitcher down in the sink and let the water run. When it was full she poured herself a glass, downed it in three long gulps, and then headed back to the ward.
The swinging doors were closed. She pushed one open. It looked as if the other patients had been taken into the garden already. After a restless night under the sheets they usually got wheeled outside, where they could sit in the shade and drag some lemonade through a straw. The curtains were drawn around Henry’s and the other patient’s bed. Clara figured the nurses were trying to give them some peace while they moved the other patients out.
Clara gently pulled the curtain back and found Henry fast asleep. The other patient was stirring. She set the pitcher down on the table and went around to his bed.
There was a pillow over the man’s face. She yanked it off. She’d seen dead before and this guy was it. A shadow caught her eye. She jumped around, pulled the curtain back, and saw the doctor from the hallway holding a pillow over Henry’s face. He grabbed her mouth before she could scream. Soon Henry was awake and struggling. The doctor pushed Clara down on the bed and was trying to pinch her nose with his thumb. Unless she did something quick he’d finish them both off. Her hand fell on the pitcher. She swung at his head and with a thud and a splash he dropped to the floor. Henry pulled the pillow off his face, gasping for air.
Clara cursed McCloskey out loud. She knew he had to have something to do with all of this, and if she never saw him again it would be too soon.
Over at the Border Cities Star, the final edition was being proofed. There was a new headline: WELLINGTON’S DEFEAT. All told, three men died at the shootout at the Elliott — one constable, a motorcycle cop, and some nameless gangland thug. The paper called it “Wellington’s Defeat” because the police had originally gone to the Wellington Hotel at the corner of Elliott and Wellington instead of the Elliott Hotel a few blocks south on Wellington. That mix-up gave most of the gang time to escape or at least prepare for a confrontation with police. No one knew how it happened. There was talk of an investigation.
— Chapter 18 —
THE METROPOLE
The staff was testy. The air was stifling. Her new shoes were attempting to assassinate her feet from blind corners. Vera Maude moved slowly from room to room, assuming up discarded magazines and shelving abandoned books. The day couldn’t end soon enough for her.
And the rumours were piling up about the shootout this morning, blocking her path to the truth. What she needed was facts. Her problem was she didn’t know where to look for them. There was no card catalogue indexing clues, no place to look up bootleggers: see Braverman. When Daphne came back it was Vera Maude’s turn for lunch.
“Tag — you’re it.”
“Abyssinia.”
Vera Maude passed through the outer doors of the library and walked straight into a wall of hot, humid air. There was some relief as she made her way across the lawn, but when she reached the sidewalk she felt like she was standing on a hot plate. Tonight she would say a little prayer to her gods again for rain.
She stopped to wriggle her sunglasses out of her purse. They were the best investment she ever made: thirty-five cents, and she could give any guy the once-over without looking like she was coming on to him.
The streets were filling up with the usual lunchtime cast of characters: professionals from London Street; students and instructors from the School of Business; stenographers, secretaries, and the grand old ladies from west of the Avenue that took their lunch at the Prince Edward Hotel. There were dark suits with long faces going in and out of the Licence Inspector’s office, the crusader’s chief bureaucrat and red tape dispenser.
In quiet moments did he reflect on the futility of his work? Or was he all about the revenue from the fines?
Vera Maude briefly toyed with the idea of taking a detour around the Curtis offices and accidentally running into Braverman.
And then what? Ask him for directions? Tell him what I really think about his tie?
With each step Vera Maude became more irritated by the layers of clothing that clung to her body. Her cami-knickers and stockings were starting to feel like a wool sweater and a pair of hip-waders.
She cut over to Ferry and continued north to Pitt. She thought of this section of downtown as the Wrench Quarter, since it was home to Bowman Auto Supplies, Drouillard Gasoline, Riverdale Tire, Ferry Car Storage, Thompson Auto, just to name a few, and the Industrial Café where the motorheads that worked these joints fuelled up every morning. Vera Maude often ate lunch across the street at the Metropole. It was one of those new self-serve lunch bars that got its start catering to moviegoers.
It was a long, narrow space with an open kitchen in the back corner. The self-serve counter ran along the wall away from the kitchen to the cashier at the front. Tables covered in red and white gingham and chairs with curved cane backs were arranged about the floor. The walls were decorated with scenes from the great European cities: the grand architecture of London, the boulevards of Paris, and the ruins of ancient Rome. These images contrasted sharply with the fishing and hunting postcards from Niagara Falls, Grand Rapids, and Thunder Bay that adorned the cash register. Vera Maude picked up a cheese sandwich and poured herself some lemonade. She found a table near the front window.
Lurking in the back of her mind was the possibility that Braverman was just a middleman, procuring liquor for his clients and co-workers. It didn’t sound very interesting but it was probably closer to the truth. Vera Maude pressed her glass against her cheek. On days like this she was tempted to bob her hair like so many girls suggested.
I’m telling you, you would be so much more comfortable if you cut it all off.
But it’s grown quite attached to me.
And the more traditional folks would inevitably complain that she had gone flapper. There was just no pleasing anyone. Vera Maude wondered what Braverman would prefer and then she admonished herself for thinking she ought to tailor herself to please a man, a complete stranger no less. Anyway, she was supposed to be gathering intelligence on Braverman.
But shouldn’t a girl use all the weapons at her disposal?
Her mental landscape was all quicksand: thoughts moved slowly, then sank and disappeared. She looked back at the diner. The woman leaning over the register was reading a detective magazine. Two men each sat at their own table. One was sipping coffee and the other smoking a cigarette. The coffee sipper looked up and Vera Maude turned her gaze back towards the window, where a fly was repeatedly bashing its head against the glass. She finished her lemonade and abandoned the rest of her sandwich.
She decided to take the Avenue back to the library to see what was what. First she crossed the street to have a look at the new movie stills posted outside the Empire.
Nell Shipman in
“The Girl From God’s Country”
and Wanda Hawley in
“Too Much Wife”
It is a breezy comedy of married life, a bride’s noble resolutions, and how living up to what she considered her duty nearly wrecked her husband’s happiness.
She had to roll her eyes at that one. People started coming out of the theatre, squinting at the daylight and still chuckling at the Harold Lloyd two-reeler. Since the heat wave the theatres were open almost continuously so people could take advantage of the air conditioning.
Jackie Coogan in
“My Boy”
“I’m starting a riot at the Empire.
Wanna join us?”
Vera Maude decided that was what she needed: a little silver screen mayhem. She’d make a date this weekend with Jackie.