Читать книгу Border City Blues 3-Book Bundle - Michael Januska - Страница 27

THE METROPOLE

The staff was testy. The air was stifling. Her new shoes were attempting to assassinate her feet from blind corners. Vera Maude moved slowly from room to room, assuming up discarded magazines and shelving abandoned books. The day couldn’t end soon enough for her.

And the rumours were piling up about the shootout this morning, blocking her path to the truth. What she needed was facts. Her problem was she didn’t know where to look for them. There was no card catalogue indexing clues, no place to look up bootleggers: see Braverman. When Daphne came back it was Vera Maude’s turn for lunch.

“Tag — you’re it.”

“Abyssinia.”

Vera Maude passed through the outer doors of the library and walked straight into a wall of hot, humid air. There was some relief as she made her way across the lawn, but when she reached the sidewalk she felt like she was standing on a hot plate. Tonight she would say a little prayer to her gods again for rain.

She stopped to wriggle her sunglasses out of her purse. They were the best investment she ever made: thirty-five cents, and she could give any guy the once-over without looking like she was coming on to him.

The streets were filling up with the usual lunchtime cast of characters: professionals from London Street; students and instructors from the School of Business; stenographers, secretaries, and the grand old ladies from west of the Avenue that took their lunch at the Prince Edward Hotel. There were dark suits with long faces going in and out of the Licence Inspector’s office, the crusader’s chief bureaucrat and red tape dispenser.

In quiet moments did he reflect on the futility of his work? Or was he all about the revenue from the fines?

Vera Maude briefly toyed with the idea of taking a detour around the Curtis offices and accidentally running into Braverman.

And then what? Ask him for directions? Tell him what I really think about his tie?

With each step Vera Maude became more irritated by the layers of clothing that clung to her body. Her cami-knickers and stockings were starting to feel like a wool sweater and a pair of hip-waders.

She cut over to Ferry and continued north to Pitt. She thought of this section of downtown as the Wrench Quarter, since it was home to Bowman Auto Supplies, Drouillard Gasoline, Riverdale Tire, Ferry Car Storage, Thompson Auto, just to name a few, and the Industrial Café where the motorheads that worked these joints fuelled up every morning. Vera Maude often ate lunch across the street at the Metropole. It was one of those new self-serve lunch bars that got its start catering to moviegoers.

It was a long, narrow space with an open kitchen in the back corner. The self-serve counter ran along the wall away from the kitchen to the cashier at the front. Tables covered in red and white gingham and chairs with curved cane backs were arranged about the floor. The walls were decorated with scenes from the great European cities: the grand architecture of London, the boulevards of Paris, and the ruins of ancient Rome. These images contrasted sharply with the fishing and hunting postcards from Niagara Falls, Grand Rapids, and Thunder Bay that adorned the cash register. Vera Maude picked up a cheese sandwich and poured herself some lemonade. She found a table near the front window.

Lurking in the back of her mind was the possibility that Braverman was just a middleman, procuring liquor for his clients and co-workers. It didn’t sound very interesting but it was probably closer to the truth. Vera Maude pressed her glass against her cheek. On days like this she was tempted to bob her hair like so many girls suggested.

 I’m telling you, you would be so much more comfortable if you cut it all off.

 But it’s grown quite attached to me.

And the more traditional folks would inevitably complain that she had gone flapper. There was just no pleasing anyone. Vera Maude wondered what Braverman would prefer and then she admonished herself for thinking she ought to tailor herself to please a man, a complete stranger no less. Anyway, she was supposed to be gathering intelligence on Braverman.

But shouldn’t a girl use all the weapons at her disposal?

Her mental landscape was all quicksand: thoughts moved slowly, then sank and disappeared. She looked back at the diner. The woman leaning over the register was reading a detective magazine. Two men each sat at their own table. One was sipping coffee and the other smoking a cigarette. The coffee sipper looked up and Vera Maude turned her gaze back towards the window, where a fly was repeatedly bashing its head against the glass. She finished her lemonade and abandoned the rest of her sandwich.

She decided to take the Avenue back to the library to see what was what. First she crossed the street to have a look at the new movie stills posted outside the Empire.

Nell Shipman in

“The Girl From God’s Country”

and Wanda Hawley in

“Too Much Wife”

It is a breezy comedy of married life, a bride’s noble resolutions, and how living up to what she considered her duty nearly wrecked her husband’s happiness.

She had to roll her eyes at that one. People started coming out of the theatre, squinting at the daylight and still chuckling at the Harold Lloyd two-reeler. Since the heat wave the theatres were open almost continuously so people could take advantage of the air conditioning.

Jackie Coogan in

“My Boy”

“I’m starting a riot at the Empire.

Wanna join us?”

Vera Maude decided that was what she needed: a little silver screen mayhem. She’d make a date this weekend with Jackie.

She continued walking and caught a whiff of tobacco. The cigar shop was up ahead and she was once again in the mood for adventure. She tweaked the wooden Indian’s nose and stepped inside.

The humid air was laced with cigar smoke. It was almost overwhelming. She wondered how men could huddle together in their clubs and roadhouses and suck on these brown, leathery sticks and come out alive, especially if they happened to be spending the day in a factory. And it seemed like since the war all of the rest of them were smoking cigarettes. They all had their favourite brand and wore it like a badge. Vera Maude studied the displays in the showcases.

Player’s Navy Cut — Greatest Value in the World!

Macdonald’s Cigarettes — The Tobacco with Heart!

Wilson’s Bachelor — The National Smoke!

She wondered if there really was a difference between any of them.

“Maybe you’d prefer a good old-fashioned cigar?” said the man behind the counter. “For the Sunday Smoke — Haig Cigars — only five cents each, sir, as are the Peg Tops — The Old Reliable.”

The man behind the counter spoke in advertising copy.

“Do you have anything....?”

A man in a straw hat, leaning one hip against the counter, made a face that said a little more subtle.

“Of course, sir.”

Vera Maude was throwing off the tobacconist’s rhythm.

“I have the Jap. Manufactured from a native-grown Havana leaf. It has a true tropical flavor. Very exotic. Ten cents each.”

The tobacconist turned, pulled down a box of Japs from the shelf, and set it down on the counter. He plucked out one of the cigars and handed it to Straw Hat, who dragged it across his upper lip and made a face.

“Awfully strong. Wife may not approve. Don’t want to have to stand at the end of the walk to smoke it.”

And Straw Hat spoke in telegraph.

“I understand, sir.”

The Japs disappeared and the tobacconist pulled another box down from the shelf.

“How about White Owl, sir? Very smooth and a good price: three for twenty-five.”

Vera Maude lingered around the conversation. She was curious. The tobacconist gave her a look. So did Straw Hat, but it was a different kind of look.

“Nice,” he said.

Straw Hat slapped the quarter down on the glass counter and pulled another coin from his vest pocket. “Half-dozen,” he said.

“Very good, sir.”

The tobacconist pulled two more cigars from the box. “You wouldn’t want to be caught short on Sunday.”

“Come again?”

“The new law, sir — cigars can no longer be sold on Sundays unless served with a meal.”

Vera Maude raised her eyebrows.

“Hmf,” said Straw Hat. “I’ll take a box.”

The tobacconist turned around and Straw Hat gave Vera Maude the once-over while she wasn’t looking.

Looks foreign. Big green eyes. Or are they brown? Real doll. Like to put her in my pocket and take her home.

The tobacconist held the lid of the box open. Straw Hat replaced his six stogies.

“Thank you, sir.” He nodded, took one last long look at Vera Maude and went out the door. “May I help you, ma’am?”

The question was intended to shoo Vera Maude away, not to make her feel welcome.

“A pack of Macdonald’s, please.”

That caught the tobacconist by surprise. He had sold cigarettes to ladies before, but they were usually flappers or the sort that hung around bootleggers. This girl was neither.

“Fifteen cents?” asked Vera Maude.

The tobacconist pulled down a pack from the shelf. When he turned there were two dimes on the counter. Vera Maude picked up the pack of Macdonald’s then helped herself to a box of matches from a display near the register.

“Keep the change.”

She smiled to herself when she walked out and then looked around to see if anyone saw her leave the shop. It would be just her luck to run into her father or someone from the library. She counted it a good day when she was able to open the door a little further to vice. This one would be tough, though. Booze was easy. It could be consumed and concealed with relative ease and little chance of discovery. Cigarettes were different: the matches, the smoke, the smell on your clothes and in your hair, and the tobacco stains on your teeth and fingers.

But what to do with the butts? Details, details.

She paused at a newsstand on the Avenue and scanned the magazine covers. She had an idea. Once in a while periodicals meant for a home delivery got mixed up with the library’s delivery. She could pretend to have received a magazine meant for Curtis and walk it over, Business Methods or Graphic or something like that. She could even make like the subscription appeared to be in his name.

I can’t make out the name. Barterman? Is there a Barterman working here?