said Daphne. “He’s been in here looking for copies of a Toronto paper. I forget which one. He told me has a friend that’s a foreign correspondent. He was probably just trying to impress me.” Daphne stopped and grinned. “Are you interested? You go for Yanks?”
“No, and not particularly. Have you ever talked to him?”
“He never has much to say. Why? What’s up?”
“I don’t know. I think he might be a bootlegger. Don’t act so surprised. There are more bootleggers than mechanics in this city and you know it.”
“That’s not true.”
Daphne lived somewhere just this side of Deep Denial. She also had a big mouth. It was time to change the subject.
“Come on, let’s finish before Miss Lancefield gets back.”
After two minutes of pencil pushing Vera Maude lifted hers and started drumming her cheek with it.
“Daphne?”
“Hm?”
“Are you familiar with Ulysses?”
“The Tennyson poem?”
“No, the novel, Joyce’s Irish novel.”
“I’ve heard of it. Why? Was someone looking for it?”
“Not exactly.”
Vera Maude let her mind wander over some rocky terrain inhabited by bootleggers, Greek gods, and Irish poets. She imagined Braverman slaying the Cyclops with a giant corkscrew then he and Joyce pouring libations of whisky over Tennyson’s grave. Yeats fired a lightning bolt at them from the heavens and Vera Maude knocked over her Vernor’s.
“Futz!”
She tipped it up before it spilled onto her file cards.
“Oh, Maudie, you’re hopeless.”
— Chapter 21 —
KENILWORTH
The first event is for Canadian foals at seven furlongs. Azrael looked the best on one race that he ran with American breeds. War Tank, always there or thereabouts, should prove the contender. Somme a morning glory that has worked well, but seems to fade away in real contests for money may take a notion on this outing to shake the glory off.
Sword ran a remarkably good race only a day or so ago, and may be a little better than rated. Dorius’ last race was a real good one, and should be tabbed. Ultimata is going to step to the front when the starter says come on, and will set a dizzy pace for the first three quarters of a mile, and might want to curl up the last eighth of a mile.
“Don’t believe everything you read in the papers, especially if it involves horses.”
Clara folded the Star back up and tucked it under her seat. “You would know.”
People were arriving at Kenilworth from every direction and by every mode of transportation imaginable. McCloskey parked the Light Six on the shoulder of the road, under the big wall behind the grandstand.
“Hang on — slide over and come out my side before you land yourself in the ditch.”
McCloskey helped her out while cars were whizzing by. They joined a group walking single file along the shoulder towards the gate.
The track was still buzzing from the events of the past weekend. Things hadn’t looked this lively since Man O’ War ran his last race here two years ago.
“C’mon,” said McCloskey, “business first.”
He led her up to the deck. The Lieutenant always had a table in one of the corners overlooking the track. McCloskey let his eyes wander but he saw no one from the outfit.
“Jack?”
“Yeah?”
“Isn’t that your neighbour from Ojibway?”
When Billy and Clara were courting, Billy used to borrow Lesperance’s car to pick her up so she could come swimming in the river. McCloskey caught a glimpse of the old man through the bodies milling about.
“Yeah, it is.”
It was unusual for Lesperance to be upstairs. Whenever McCloskey saw him he was at the front of the grandstands or hanging over the guardrail, shouting at the horses.
“Let’s go see what he’s up to.”
Lesperance was heading towards a table near the front.
“Whoa.” McCloskey grabbed Clara’s arm.
“What? Oh.” She moved closer to McCloskey. “Is that your old outfit?”
He surveyed the table. “Some of it.”
“Is the Lieutenant there?”
McCloskey barely recognized him. He was a shadow of his former self, gaunt, pale, and worn-out looking. McCloskey just stared at him. He was having trouble reconciling this image with his memory of the burly gangster that had propositioned him in the pool hall over a year ago.
“Yeah.”
Clara could easily imagine McCloskey seated with these men. At the same time it made her think it was a miracle Billy managed to survive as long as he did. These men looked seasoned, hard, and fearless. It gave her a chill to see them gathered like this. She noticed others looking at them and wondered if her face held the same expression theirs did, a combination of anger, unease, and morbid curiosity. Who were they and how did they come to own the Border Cities the way they did?
One of them got up to intercept Lesperance, and Lesperance started shouting. The Lieutenant looked embarrassed and appeared to be making excuses to a distinguished-looking man seated next to him.
McCloskey had been focusing on the Lieutenant so he hadn’t noticed the other man until now. McCloskey realized it was this man holding court and not the Lieutenant. He wore a white linen suit and a matching wide-brimmed hat. He had thick ginger moustaches and moved with grace and precision. He ignored the Lieutenant and looked away, casually puffing at his cigar.
“What’s going on, Jack?”
“I’m not sure.”
The Lieutenant got up and went over to Lesperance, presumably to tell him to get the fuck back home to his pigs and chickens. Then, right out of the blue, Lesperance swung his fist into the Lieutenant’s gut and doubled him over.
McCloskey was shocked. The old farmer from Ojibway had just creased the man that was supposedly running the Border Cities. While the Lieutenant tried to recover some of his dignity, Lesperance made for the table. A wall of thugs went up instantly and two of them dragged him away.
“Do you recognize him?”
“Who — the guy in the suit? No.”
A
