pause while we drank. Funny how quickly we returned to the shorthand of youth, a Pitman’s of our upbringing. At length I said: “I went to ground. Her people summer down in New England somewhere so I got a shack at Memphremagog and sweated it out.”
“Did the school push you or did you jump?” asked Jack.
“Both.”
“What was it?
Here I took a drink and lit another of Jack’s cigarets. He watched me. My hand remained steady. I breathed out slowly and told some of the truth. I’d been stealing morphine, mostly, from the hospital dispensary. They were never able to nab me outright but had come close. It was that and my grades. In the end I’d held a trump card and between the board of governors and myself was forged an understanding. I’d ducked a censure or quodding, but there’d be no medical degree for myself from McGill, and that was a fact everlasting.
There, I’d said it. It’d been bottled up long enough, and the confession was a relief, in its way. I drank more wine.
“How much did you pocket?” asked Jack after a spell.
“More than enough for me and to sell. You’d be tickled to hear my clientele. A few real hyas muckamucks. Some Chinamen from time to time. When I lost my entree I had to shift gears. It was none for them, then after awhile none for me. I had enough saved up for the shack by the lake. Read my Tacitus and had my fishing rod and thought I’d wait for her to come back in September to try again.”
“She’ll never marry you,” Jack said.
“I know.”
To counter the rising bile I swallowed more wine. Rancour. Jack squeezed lemon juice over wet bivalves. It was far better not to speculate on what you cannot control. That woman, the ache of my heart. Instead observe your present surroundings. Looming above were dark heavy beams bisecting white plaster. It was all cod-Tudor and pretense at the Derby, Old Blighty transplanted to the colonies. Best roast beef to be had, however.
“Look at this place,” I said. “Do you know what it reminds me of?”
Jack tipped an oyster into his mouth.
“Remember the Royal Ensign? Seventeen Mile House on the Island?” I asked.
Jack peered about.
“You’re right,” he said. “When was that now?”
“Boat race weekend it must have been. Why else would we have gone over? Six, seven years ago. Swiftsure.”
“We had bathtub gin with those two doozies, what were their names...”
“Elizabeth and Rebecca,” I said.
“Then borrowed Billy’s Ford and the keys to his pa’s cabin.”
“That cabin. Quel bordel,” I said.
“They got sick on the booze. You broke the gramophone.”
“You chopped down a totem pole in Sooke Harbour,” I countered.
Jack put his hand to his face in mock shame. “Ye gods.”
“Timber!”
My elbow was on the spread cloth and I let my forearm fall. When my hand hit the tabletop it rattled the oyster shells on the plate. Heads turned: old buffers with mottled faces. I chewed over a bland smile. Seventeen Mile House was far out on the road to Sooke, western Vancouver Island. The shores of the Pacific, our home at the edge of the world. They’d been good times together, years ago now, fresh back from the war.
“Liz and Becky. You burned their knickers in the stove, didn’t you? Wonder where they are now,” I said.
“Probably knitting booties,” said Jack.
“Those were the days.”
“And look at us now,” he went.
We were back in the past for just a moment, until the soup came. We spooned it up. More wine. At last the meat arrived, good and rare and red. Spuds, celery as requested, squab and cress. Warmth coursed through me. A plate cleaned in steady, animal hunger, at last I leaned back, replete, and listened to other diners chewing. Heavy sterling fork tines squeaked on china. Gustatory grunts, a cork popping, a woman’s laughter, the human hum of conversation and pleasure eased by money. Dark-suited men and gowned ladies gestured as waiters passed to and fro. Jack pushed his plate away and lit another cigaret. He demanded coffee of a flunky. As an aside to me he said: “Pass me your flask when it comes. For the trou normand. Bloody law, wine but no spirits.”
“Break it then,” I said.
Jack shot me a look.
“Knew that you were my man. If only you’d been around for the election last spring. That would’ve been something.”
“So what is it now?”
“Guess.”
“You said Chicago.”
“You heard right.”
“And Brown, who’s he when he’s at home?” I asked.
“Brown is a wee man who needed the fear of God put back in him. He’s the worst kind of Caledonian, stubborn as a mule, but amenable to our ends.”
“And those are?”
“I’ll respect your intelligence and assume you’ve figured it out.”
“Booze.”
“On the money.”
“The monkey at the quay,” I said.
Jack laid out the rudiments. Rich wets down south don’t like to drink piss. Leave the furniture polish for the punters. They wanted the real McCoy. The good stuff was supercargo shipped straight out of Glasgow or Liverpool as ballast or coal or what-have-you into Montreal, port of call. The monkey took care of the crew when they made land, and Jack indemnified the harbourmaster when the ship came in, as it did today. Brown was paid to look away and not make a peep.
“He’s Customs?” I asked.
“Correct. We’ve exploited his vice, but a little reminder is always in order for that type. He’s a weakling and a physical coward. In any event, tonight’s the night, hence your presence.”
“What are you, exactly?” I asked.
“You could say I’m an intermediary and guide over international frontiers. I truly could use your help. I want you to have a piece, for old times’ sake. This is the real work.”
“Repayment for your largesse?” I asked, gesturing to the dirty plates.
“No, not a favour. A job.”
He reached into his billfold and took out five twenties.
“For your time and trouble. There’ll be more tomorrow, on
