Smoke (26 page)

“Do you think the bandit has a loaded gun?” Buster asks.

“The scoundrel who's been robbing folks? I imagine.”

“I mean he wouldn't need bullets. Just the sight of a gun gets people moving.”

Doc John raises an eyebrow. “You're not planning anything foolish are you?”

“Course not. I was just thinking.”

The boy's face is rough, more hardened physically in its expression than it was even a few months earlier, but there is a new level of interest the doctor recognizes. He glances out the window. “There's been a lot of speculation in
The Tillsonburg Observer,
” he says. “One writer is turning out a weekly column.”

“I bet the bandit would like that,” says Buster.

A few minutes later he steps out of the car to go and fetch Jelly Bean, and Doc John creaks and moans his way out of the driver's side, calls to the boy and tosses the keys over the hood. “Catch,” he says. “Can't very well impress the ladies without these.”

Buster brushes past Donny who is head down, reading a comic book and carrying a package of licorice, one piece dangling from between his teeth like a long black tongue.

Donny raises his eyes. “Hi Buster. Whatcha doing?”

“Not much. You?”

“Heading to Ivan's. Wanna tag along?”

“Can't, I'm busy.”

Just then Jelly Bean skips out onto the steps carrying an armload of posters. Her movements are nimble and airy. She smiles brightly at both boys, wearing an outfit Buster has never seen before—blue pedal pushers, a yellow halter top, matching sweater tied around her waist. Penny loafers. Her face is fresh and inviting until she notices Doc John, a chaperone, sitting in the back seat. “He's coming too?” She makes a weak attempt to wave at the doctor with her free hand. A poster slips from her arms and Buster bends down to pick it up.

“Gotta go,” he tells Donny. “I'll see you around though.”

“Yeah, see ya.”

Buster takes the stack as Jelly Bean opens the passenger-side door of the car. She slides in, grazing her head on the roof, and he passes the posters to her and walks around the front of the car while Doc John unrolls one. “These sure are fine, Judy. I didn't know you could draw.”

“Not really, but thank you.” She rubs her head. “I wanted to do a good job for Mother so she'll let me out of the Miss Tobacco competition. I used an ink pen and oil pastels. Do you like them Buster?” Buster cranes his neck to appreciate the poster and Doc John unrolls another, holds it out. All around the edges are small figures, dancing and laughing. Buster is impressed with the detail, with how she's captured their likenesses. He picks out his mother right away and reads the text.

 

Biggest birthday party ever! Smoke's 150th

Saturday September 12th, 1959

Clowns, Rides, Fireworks and much more!

Organized by the Order of the Eastern Star,

Violet Rebekah Lodges.

All proceeds to charity.

 

“Looks good to me,” he says. He's getting out of town for the first time in too long and he has wheels.

“I drew you both. See?” Jelly Bean points to the next poster and Doc John holds the image up, adjusts his glasses with one hand. Buster turns to face the front again, this time with a heaviness setting deep in his bones. She's included him in one of her drawings all right but she's painted him with his scars. “The letters are hardest,” Jelly Bean continues. “There's a lot of information to include. Mother thinks the full name of the Order is exotic and might attract foreigners.”

“What foreigners does she think we're gonna see in Tillsonburg?” Buster scoffs. He slides the key in the ignition and starts the engine.

“You never know.” Doc John drops his walking stick on the floor of the car. “We might run into that bandit you were asking about a few minutes ago. Or Alonzo Boyd. He's broken out of the Don Jail in Toronto twice already; maybe he's escaped again. The papers used to say he wandered these parts wearing cosmetics and a kerchief on his head. Passed himself off as a woman in public. That's mighty exotic if you ask me.” Doc John smiles at Jelly Bean and waves a crooked finger at Buster as he accelerates. “Slow down, son. You're driving too fast.”

Buster makes eye contact with the doctor in the rear-view mirror. Before the accident, he thought Doc John was little more than a cranky old goat—someone to make fun of with the other boys for his mannered speech and his mucky-muck walking stick. A throw-back to another generation. But with the old man he'd discovered that contempt and judgment could be replaced by respect. He forgot about the usual distinctions settling people into their proper places in the village. He forgot that doctors and farmer's sons don't generally have much to say to one another. It wasn't his father bringing stories or sustenance after all. A marked dependence has developed between the two of them; a bond that no one else can share. It's the bond between the damned—one damned to suffer and the other to heal. “I'm only going thirty,” Buster says as they veer onto Dover Street. Jelly Bean smiles nervously and spins back around, brushing Buster's hand with her own. She jerks away, reaches for the radio, switches it on and folds her hands in her lap like braided bread. She stares out the window and lightens some when the doctor begins to hum. “I've been thinking,” Buster continues. “You never finished the one about the Collingwood Manor Massacre.”

“Didn't I?” The doctor knows he didn't. He knows that in Smoke cars and clothes and hobbies may speak volumes about one's station in life but it's
conversation style
—implying things rather than explaining outright and taking pains never to brag—that's the great leveller. People here make a concerted effort not to place themselves above each other. If Jelly Bean Johnson enjoys painting pictures, she hides her paper and brushes and enjoys them when alone. If Walter knows more about operating a small business and about music than anyone for miles around, he makes a special effort not to show it. Individuality indicates uppityness. But if information is requested and you can talk the talk, you will be accepted. If you can tell a good story?
Well,
you can practically get away with murder. “You're right,” Doc John says. “I guess I didn't. Let me see … Detroit was preparing for a national convention of the American Legion.”

“Kind of like we're getting ready for the sesquicentennial?”

“Yes, Judy. It was like that, except booze had been ordered for cabarets and speakeasies around the city. You've got to understand, bootleggers were struggling to match demand. Wasn't like it is now with alcohol any time you like. As I've told Buster already, back then it was illegal, which meant the first law of human nature kicked in fast and furious and every man wanted to lay his hands on a bottle no matter what the price.” Doc John leans forward on the seat and lowers his voice. “The Purples had more than a few who tried to get in on the action. The River Gang. The Legs Laman thugs. The Westside Mob. They were all interested in horse racing across the river, racketeering, gambling, keeping the unions in check, and of course rum-running. There were several independent operators too, and they caused as much trouble as anyone encroaching on territory where they didn't belong. Didn't want to mess with them, no sir. Just because they weren't part of an organized group didn't mean they weren't out for blood. If you so much as gave a sideways glance in the direction of one of those loners he might wrap you tight in plastic sheets and lock you in his car trunk so you'd wish an anaconda had you in its grip instead.”

“Eeeuw.” Jelly Bean makes a face as if she's tasted cod-liver oil and Buster smirks. He enjoys seeing her romantic notions fall away. Life has always been brutal and bloody and the gore of existence is precisely what he relates to now. If she wants to hang with him she might as well know it. He slows the car as they approach the bridge at Ball's Falls.

“It was a different place and time Judy. Prohibition drove men mad. They were willing to kill for a taste of the forbidden. Smelled like sewer water much of that rotgut did but it didn't matter so long as we got our share. Anyway, tempers were wearing thin as the Purple Gang and rivals battled it out. It got so that one night the Purples would hijack a load coming over from Canada and the next night the River Gang would hijack it back. Federal agents were also cracking down.”

“So there was a blow-out?”

“The Third Avenue Terrors, that's all. Three hoods from Chicago originally, who wouldn't respect established boundaries or follow orders. They started muscling in on other people's business and it didn't go over very well. The Italian mob was growing angrier by the day and Irish organizations wanted to take the trio for a ride, but it was the Purples who finally settled the score.” He wags his finger at Buster. “Nothing good ever comes from being greedy.”

“Which fellas were they?”

“Herman Paul, Joe Lebovitz and Izzy Sutker. I don't think I've told you about them yet. The Purples tolerated them so long as there were kickbacks. But the trio cut out on their own, and before anyone knew it they were hijacking from friends and enemies alike and double-crossing their partners.”

“What year was it?”

“You're awfully stuck on details, son. You want to hear it or not?” The doctor sits back on the car seat and feels the sun warm his neck through the rear window. “They needed a cover for their real trading interests so they set up a handbook and hired Solly Levine to run it.”

“I know him,” says Buster. “He was the stool pigeon.”

“That's right. He came from a good family though, with lots of money. But Solly had a taste for the rougher side of life, and unfortunately he had bad timing. At first everything was looking up for the trio. They still had profits coming in from all directions and Solly was covering their debts. But pretty soon Paul, Lebovitz and Sutker were overextended and couldn't manage. Several nasty gangs came after them, so they did the only thing they could do to generate extra cash fast and that was to buy booze from the Purples on credit. Hear: if there's one thing you never want to do besides double-dealing, it's buying on credit. What looks free now is sure to cost you plenty more later on.”

Jelly Bean nods. “Did they get away with it?”

“Tried. They diluted their stock further than usual and under sold the market price. The trio was clever; got to give them that. They asked the Purple Gang directly for another favour, Raymond Bernstein in fact. Asked him to hold off collecting his share until after the legionnaires' convention. Bernstein said he'd be in touch.”

“That doesn't sound good,” says Buster.

“Bought them time but if you'd ever seen Ray Bernstein you'd know not to trust a single word that came out of his mouth. He was wiry, fish-eyed, and had a smile like an oil slick.” Doc John smiles.

“Then what?”

“Then all hell broke loose. Gangster style, which was cool and unpredictable. Bernstein came up with a clever plan to trap the trio and eliminate competition. He told Solly he wanted to stop all the squabbling for once and for all and bring those other boys into business officially, make them his liquor agents. He invited them to what they used to call a peace conference. The trio relaxed, loosened their belts, slept a little sounder. But morning and a setup comes fast and soon it was September sixteenth.”

“Hey,” Jelly Bean points to her posters again. “That's almost the date of our sesquicentennial.”

“Sure. The day of the massacre. Solly was working when he got a call that the meeting was scheduled for three that very afternoon. He was to bring the others to 1740 Collingwood. Apartment 211. He committed the information to memory, afraid of leaving a paper trail.” Buster meets the doctor's alert eyes in the rear-view mirror, sees his spindly shoulders drop, and is struck by his deceptively ambiguous countenance.

“How do you know that?”

“Don't believe me? Check the papers. It all came out eventually.”

“I believe you,” says Jelly Bean.

“Thank you, Judy. I appreciate that. Fact is, when you owe you do what you're told so you're darn tooting Solly did exactly as instructed. The four of them, with Solly leading the way, arrived at the Collingwood address right on time. Unarmed too, as a gesture of good faith. Solly thought he was there to be a bridge, see. The middleman. So he was feeling pretty chuffed when Ray Bernstein met them in the lobby of the building and shook his hand. Ray smiled slippery and escorted them into the apartment where a 78 was playing and where Harry Fleisher, Irving Milberg and Harry Keywell were waiting. Now anybody with a brain the size of a pea would have known what was coming next. Fleisher and Milberg were bad news. Their records spanned a decade. Sure Keywell was baby-faced, but he was hard as a two-by-four on the inside. I guess it goes to show—when you're desperate the mind will play tricks 'cause those three hoodlums still thought they had a chance.”

“Suckers.”

“Hmm. Paul, Levine and Lebovitz sat next to each other on a couch and Izzy sat on the arm. One of the Purples yanked the needle across the record, making that terrible scratching sound. You know the one? And the room was suddenly quiet. Keywell passed around expensive cigars and the men exchanged a few words. It all seemed safe enough until Ray Bernstein announced that he was leaving to find his accountant. ‘How the hell am I supposed to do business without my books!' he said, storming out. The trio and Solly sat nervously waiting for him to return.”

“But he doesn't, right? He just lets the others do his work. One, two, three pop!”

“Pretty much. He was the mastermind so he wouldn't want to get his hands dirty. He descended to the street and waited in the car— a big black Chrysler. He started the engine and then leaned on the horn.”

Buster presses the palm of his hand into the car horn, but doesn't cause it to sound. “That was the signal.”