Lieutenant rose from his chair and started pacing around the room. He finally lit on the edge of his desk and sat there quietly for a moment, arms folded. McCloskey couldn’t read him, though he had a sense that something was wrong.
“So while the cops are sniffing around, trying to look like they know what they’re doing, you’ll be in Hamilton.”
“Hamilton?”
The Lieutenant brushed come ashes off his knee. “Yeah, Hamilton. Brown could use your talents for a while. When things settle down we’ll call you back.”
McCloskey looked over at Jigsaw, who seemed surprised, perhaps even a little disappointed. Maybe Jigsaw was hoping the Lieutenant would throw him to the cops, make a scapegoat out of him in order to take the heat off. Jigsaw never liked McCloskey; he had made that clear from the beginning. He said McCloskey was only good for providing entertainment for the crew. McCloskey always watched his back when he was alone with him.
“Our driver will take you part way. He’ll make sure you don’t get into any trouble. You’ll rendezvous with one of Brown’s boys and he’ll take you into Hamilton.”
When McCloskey finally managed to get the Lieutenant’s undivided attention, he looked into his eyes and saw something he had never seen before. He didn’t recognize it at first. Then he realized what it was. It was fear.
“They’re expecting you, Killer. Now scram.”
— Chapter 7 —
JUST LUCKY, I GUESS
McCloskey woke from a deep sleep when the engine stopped. He rubbed his eyes and looked out the window. An illuminated sign in the near distance blinked.
ALL DAY BREAKFAST
They were parked at a roadhouse. He slid his cuff away from his wristwatch and then attempted some simple math, but his mind was still somewhere back down the road.
“Where are we?”
“Brantford.”
The driver flashed his headlights. Another vehicle parked several car lengths away flashed back.
“Wait here.”
McCloskey watched the drivers exchanging words for a minute or two before he was gestured to come forward. The blast of cold air woke him fully.
“You’re in good hands, Killer. We’ll see you when you’re finished your tour.”
The other driver told McCloskey to get in and then they pulled away slowly through the drifting snow. He introduced himself as Slip and briefed McCloskey on the situation in Hamilton.
The story went something like this: not too long ago, Brown got into a routine of absorbing members of rival gangs they had subdued. He envisioned a sort of Grand Army of the local underworld, with himself as its Napoleon. This scheme worked well enough at first, but lately Brown had to question the loyalty of some of these soldiers. There were too many unfortunate coincidences, and a pattern of double-crossing was developing. It had come down to Brown struggling to maintain control of his outfit while simultaneously trying to keep resurgent gangs at bay. Drastic measures had to be taken before the Montreal boss was forced to intervene. A couple of days before, Brown turned to Green for help. After the incident involving the McCloskeys in Windsor, Green was looking for help as well. The lieutenants came to an agreement that was mutually beneficial.
The driver parked at a warehouse down on the waterfront. He led McCloskey inside and through a maze of massive containers that eventually opened up to an arrangement of crates that seemed to suggest an office. A bare bulb hung in the middle of the space. Either this was all Brown needed to run his operation, or it was all he had left. Brown smiled and extended a hand.
“Killer McCloskey.”
McCloskey nodded and gripped the hand firmly. “Lieutenant Brown.”
Brown was a small man but not insubstantial. There was tension in his body, but he wasn’t nervous or agitated. He was taut, precise, and lean.
He filled three small glasses then handed one to Slip and one to McCloskey.
“Slip paint a picture for you?”
“Yeah.”
“You’ve got your work cut out.”
“I can handle it.”
“That’s all I wanted to hear.”
They drained their glasses and set them back down on the battered wooded crates in front of them.
“There’s a flophouse in the east end being used by some of the more questionable members of the outfit. You and Slip are going to put a match to it and shoot anyone that tries to escape. Catch my drift?”
This guy doesn’t mince words or waste any time, McCloskey thought.
“Yes, sir.”
“You’re going to be hitting fast and hitting hard. That’s how we’re going to get through this. Slip will tell you who’s who and what’s what. You carrying?”
McCloskey suddenly remembered that his gun was at the bottom of the Detroit River. “No, sir.”
Brown snapped his fingers and a tall man in a big coat appeared out of nowhere. This was Brown’s shadow, a walking arsenal who went by the name of Lynch. He pulled two British service revolvers out of his coat, .455 Webley Mark VI’s. McCloskey was familiar with them. They were like hand-held artillery and could do serious damage.
“One for each hand.”
McCloskey took them.
“When you’re done, I want you both back at the Connaught Hotel.”
Less than thirty minutes later, McCloskey was taking aim at a fellow trying to negotiate a leap from the window of a burning building. The fool probably figured if he played it right, he could slide down the roof of the veranda and land on a pile of snow. McCloskey put a bullet in his hip and watched him tumble off the roof and land on the frozen pavement, missing the snow by inches.
A shot rang from the house and a bullet hit the car adjacent to where McCloskey was standing. He remained focused, spotting a figure in another window. He threw some lead in its direction and the figure fell backwards into the flames. More shots followed, but they were coming from the other side of the house. Slip reappeared.
“I got one,” he said. Glancing over his shoulder to the pavement he remarked, “I see you were busy.” There were sirens in the distance and McCloskey tucked away his revolver. “Let’s get out of here.”
The next morning there was some unexpected news from Windsor: Billy McCloskey was alive and recovering nicely from his bullet wound. According to the doctor, if he had been standing at a slightly different angle or if the cold had not slowed the bleeding, he’d be dead right now. Of course Jack was relieved, but then came a raft of questions.
Was Billy under the impression that his brother was the shooter? Did Billy actually see the shooter?
