McCloskey wasn’t going to let it come to that. He started circling the Volcano, all the while winding up a punch from the tips of his toes. When he felt the power surge into his upper body he stopped dancing, planted his feet on the mat and pointed his right foot at the Volcano. His right arm then swung naturally, like a lightning bolt discharged from a storm cloud. It made sharp contact with the side of the Volcano’s head and nearly knocked it off his shoulders. He went down hard and the boys standing along that side of the ring took two steps back.
A cloud of dust billowed up from the mat and there was a big empty space where the Volcano used to be. The audience was in shock at first, then the shouting started between attendees and between Volcano and his trainer. His trainer, who also happened to be his brother, started crying into his towel. Over in a dark corner of the room serious money was changing hands.
McCloskey just stood there, surprised that he still had that much fire in him. He had thought he would have mellowed a bit. He took another look around the room, half-expecting to see his father and brother in the crowd for some reason. If word had not already made its way out to Ojibway that he was back in town, it would very shortly.
At the end of the day it turned out to be a bittersweet victory. While McCloskey won the fight and Windsor voted against Prohibition, the majority in the province supported it. So for anyone who happened to miss the war to end all wars, they needn’t worry, Prohibition would be their chance to see some action.
DRYS LEAD BY 140,000 read the headline in Monday’s paper in big, bold letters. It was like the world had finally come to an end. Technically speaking, though, the world wasn’t scheduled to end for another three months. July 19, 1921 — that’s when the new legislation would come into effect. From that day forward, not only would it be illegal to manufacture liquor for sale within Ontario, it would be illegal to import it as well. There was still time to stock up.
McCloskey was in a downtown pool hall going through the mechanics of his left hook with his new friends from the plant when someone came in with the afternoon edition of the Border Cities Star and began reading bits out loud. McCloskey remembered being in Cleveland when Prohibition hit the States. The general feeling then was that folks would just have to get their booze from across the lake. Now both sides would be more or less dry and a solution would require a little creative thinking.
Further reading revealed the date for the upcoming Dempsey-Carpentier championship fight. The focus of the conversation immediately shifted back to boxing, with brief asides on the seating capacity of a Studebaker Big Six and the best route to Jersey City.
Then the room fell silent. McCloskey noticed everyone suddenly looking past him and some then retreating into the shadows.
“You like Dempsey?”
There were a few, especially among American veterans, who still thought of his hero as a slacker. McCloskey turned slowly, expecting a challenge. It was a suit. The man filling it out was not as tall as McCloskey, but broader. His nose was pressed against his face and a scar intersected his left eyebrow. His jaw resembled a truck fender. McCloskey figured the guy had to have been a fighter, probably twenty years and as many pounds ago.
“You’re Killer McCloskey, aren’t you?”
“I might be.”
The man smiled and under the brim of his hat his squinty, deep-set eyes twinkled like diamonds at the bottom of a mineshaft.
“That was something the other night,” he said. “I mean the floor shook when that dago hit the mat.”
McCloskey wondered what he was after. Judging by the reaction of the boys in the pool hall, it wasn’t an autograph. McCloskey played it down.
“It was no big deal.”
Actually, it was a big deal. Little did McCloskey know, but his win had made the man in the suit a tidy sum of money and had nearly ruined a number of his rival bookies in Detroit.
“C’mon. I’ll buy you a drink. Not here — I’ve got a little place around the corner.”
Apparently, the man had come to talk business. He said his name was Green. Later on McCloskey heard some other fellows refer to him as the Lieutenant.
— Chapter 3 —
THE LIEUTENANT
It was getting late and the stragglers were heading home to flop. Green walked McCloskey around the corner to a diner on Pitt Street next to the Department of Soldiers’ Civil Re-establishment. Green picked through his key ring while McCloskey pressed his nose against the window. What he saw didn’t look like much.
“No — over here.”
Green was unlocking a plain-looking door to the right of the diner entrance. On the door was a small plaque that said “International Billiards — MEMBERS ONLY.”
The door opened to a narrow stairwell lit by a bare bulb hanging over the landing. McCloskey walked in Green’s shadow all the way up. On the landing and to the right they were confronted with an even heavier door that had a covered peephole the height and width of a pair of eyes. Green jangled his keys again, poked the locks, and swung it open.
The room was pitch black except for a bit of light in the windows overlooking the street below. Before stepping inside, Green reached around the doorframe and finger-punched a couple switches on the wall.
From the copper ceiling hung globe lights that illuminated a bunch of tables and cane chairs arranged haphazardly between the entrance and the bar. To the right were five billiard tables standing side by side. A big skylight punctured the ceiling above the centre table. Blinds covered every window except the ones along back that faced a brick wall in the alleyway.
It was first-class but not fancy, all oak and polished brass with spittoons on the floor instead of sawdust. Green could tell McCloskey was impressed. He let McCloskey take it all in and then pointed with his chin towards a room jutting out from the far corner.
“My office,” said Green.
He went in ahead of McCloskey and pulled the chain on a desk lamp. He shuffled some papers into a pile, removed his bowler hat and set it on top.
“Take a load off.”
McCloskey lowered himself into one of the matching wooden armchairs that faced the desk. Green offered him a cigar from a humidor that looked like a small treasure chest.
“Thanks.”
On a little table that stood between the two chairs was a metal contraption for snipping off one end of a cigar and lighting the other. It looked like it had been made in a machine shop out of spare engine parts. McCloskey put it to work and got the tip of the Cuban glowing. It was nice. Green poured some brown liquid into tumblers while McCloskey surveyed the room. Trophies lined a mantle and photos of boxers in their fighting stance hung on the wall. One of the pugilists was unmistakably Green.
“That was a long time ago.”
He handed McCloskey one of the tumblers and then settled into his chair. The leather groaned beneath him and he stole a puff from his cigar.
“If you don’t mind my asking, how much money you make last year dropping palookas like the Volcano?”
McCloskey
