The City Man Page 3
With a deep breath, she stops at her usual table, where Mona reads the racing form to Polonsky, and Chesler, red-eyed and appetent, holds out his glass.
Daisy pours.
Thanks, says Chesler.
Sure.
Chesler looks into his glass. Looks up. Elbows Mona.
Uh-huh, says Mona.
It’s been three weeks now, says Chesler. Maybe more.
Three weeks of what?
Of this nickel-and-dime stuff. Putting in my day and getting nothing back but dribs and drabs.
Times’re tough.
Yeah yeah.
They knock one back. Chesler runs his forefinger around the rim of his glass. He’s halfway to stinko.
Maybe it won’t get no better, he says.
Mona looks up from the racing form. You say that every time we hit a rough patch, she says.
Yeah yeah yeah.
Things go late. Chesler still full of ginger at half past three, so he steps outside where the air is cool like whispers and the moon waxes across an empty stretch of Spadina. He looks to his left and walks out of the alley. The quiet street slips away from him, steals down parallel lines so the dark pavement meets the night sky in deceitful new horizons.
He follows. Through a lonely intersection, then long blocks where brick and shadow fuse with lugubrious affinity. He sees locked doors drain away, a keystone go dim. Fragments of buildings float beyond eye level and connect near the corner where a street lamp burns.
Chesler stops.
Smiles.
Coins come out of his pocket and he aims for the loose yellow circle of lamplight. Flat clank of a penny on glass. He flings copper harder and harder until he hears a crash like laughter. More laughter at the words in his head. Small-timer. Public drunkenness. Van-CRASH-dal-CRASH-ism!
Well into the night when Mona shoves the cards aside. Countless games of Klondike no match for her restless fingers. She straightens up in the bed. Yawns. Arched shoulders and tired arms stretch, loosen. Ten fingers interlock and slowly pull apart. The gentle pronouncements of cartilage. Beside her, a candle flickers by the window. Three other walls mumbling; down the hall, Polonsky talks in his sleep. His voice, garbled and wrought, escapes his room and lingers in the house like hangover.
Mona yawns again. Runs a hand across the length of her cheek, slows slightly where knuckle meets jawbone and continues down her throat. With only the tips of fingers, she crosses over the ridge of breastbone and then the faintest brush of aureole. She inhales. A single finger now, skulking between the legs with practiced delicacy. Lubricious digit that closes the gap between touch and feel so her back presses deep into the pillows and candlelight smears the shadows that fall, like hair, over her face.
She comes.
Almost a month back at the paper and none of his copy comes close to page one. He covers awning fires and visits settlement houses, small-time stuff that writes itself and leaves lots of time for foot-dangling. Eli eyeballs his scuffed brogans, evidence of all the recent legwork. Stepping slowly back into the game, he is using the easy give-and-take of interviews to feel his way forward. Get comfortable with words again. As a rookie, he simply mimicked the sardonic patter of the veteran press boys. Now, amidst laces and tongue, he mulls a more certain locution.
Look alive, Morenz.
He looks up and Bert jams an address into his hand.
Eli stands on the sidelines of the police training field and watches a muster of very large men fall into formation. Series of lines arranged by instrument. Flutes and piccolos are readied, rope drums slung over big shoulders. Hammers of the glockenspiel are held tight just as Jones, the short, bespectacled director of the Police Fife and Drum Band, clears his throat and shoves a finger into the warm spring air.
The drum major takes his cue and beats off. Dum-ba dum-ba dum-ba dum-ba. His bandmates follow with a rigorous bam and blow that mangles the opening bars of ‘God Save the King.’
Stop, says Jones. Stop! Stop!
The band stops.
Jones points to a tall piccoloist in the back row.
You. McMaster. Blow.
McMaster takes a deep breath. His chest rises and falls in slow, distinct stages. He lifts his instrument, a vein in the neck goes tense and resplendent. Bulbous cheeks shove out note after shrill note.
Stop, says Jones. Stop! Stop!
McMaster stops.
Jones shakes his head. Six tone holes, he says. Only six. Think you can get it right?
McMaster blinks. Looks at the piccolo, so slender in his meaty hands.
Jones thumbs him to the sidelines.
Practice, McMaster. Practice practice practice.
But.
Go over there and suck that pickle.
But.
Suck it!
Eli watches McMaster walk his way. Square jaw lowered, shoulders braced like scaffold.
Rough, says Eli. Rough to be singled out like that.
Shit, says McMaster. I wasn’t so bad, was I?
I don’t know anything about music.
No worse than any of them other guys. Gleason? Flanders? Yost? We all sound the same.
I don’t know.
I do. It’s a cinch. And none of them better give me any lip about it, neither.
Hope not.
The large man looks closely at Eli. Ain’t seen you before, he says. Where’re you from? Bunco?
The Star.
Oh shit. Are you going to put this in the paper?
Don’t worry, says Eli. We’ll call this background.
Yeah?
Yeah.
That’s good. I don’t want any trouble.
You won’t get any from me. I’m Morenz.
McMaster.
They shake hands. Eli asks more questions. The answers obfuscated by the swelling discord of ‘Vimy Ridge,’ which follows the band as they march round and round, leaving a soaring crescendo in the air and size-fourteen indentations in the grass.
Police play a different tune
Toronto officers who regularly devote their time to more serious matters will have the chance to enjoy some lighter fare tomorrow afternoon when the Police Fife and Drum Band kicks off the city centenary celebrations.
The event will begin at 10:30 in the morning outside Union Station and proceed up University Avenue to City Hall. The band will perform inspirational favourites such as ‘Vimy Ridge’ and ‘Marche Lorraine.’
‘We have a very musical force,’ said Purvis Jones, director of the band. ‘I’ll wager we have one of the top bands in the Dominion.’
The 37-member band is made up of officers from all divisions. Director Jones said regular rehearsal schedules are often disrupted because many of his musicians get called to duty. ‘I lost half my flute section to a bank job last week,’ he said.
Jones added that many of the men have been practicing around their regular shifts to ensure that they will all be ready when the city celebrates its birthday tomorrow. ‘I guarantee it will be a fine show.’
Chesler slaps the paper down on the tabletop. FWAP! Whiskey rattles in three glasses. See, he says. This is just what we’ve been waiting for.
Mona and Daisy peer down at the article. Polonsky sits still.
Are you nuts? says Mona. There’ll be more cops there than at HQ.
It’ll be a push grift, says Chesler. A real push grift.
Yeah but.
And these’re the well-heeled we’re talking about. Them pokes’ll be fat.
I don’t know about this, says Mona.
Why not?
What’s wrong with our regular spot?
What’s wrong? Fuck. We’ve been pissing nickels for months now. I can’t stand it anymore. You think we can just wait and wait and something good will come along, but no way, sister. Nothing doing.
Mona sips her drink. Returns the glass quietly to the table.
Polonsky lights a cigarette. You know, he says, I worked this parade once. Back in ’27, I think. There was plenty to go around. Lot of coppers there, but they weren’t no different from anyone else. Ride a big fat bundle on their hips as easy as it was hidden in the seams. And they don’t savvy none either. Unless you’re talking whiz copper – then it’s another thing entirely. That’s one poke you don’t want to pinch.
Daisy reaches for Polonsky’s smoke. She takes a deep drag. This ain’t ’27, baby. Times’ve changed.
I know I know. I’m just saying is all.
Chesler turns to Mona. So what do you say?
Mona shrugs. Looks at Polonsky.
Listen, honey, Polonsky says. You got to work where you feel it’s a right spot. But this sounds like a regular tip, more or less. Lot of suckers.
Lot of suckers, says Chesler.
As long as you got the moxie, says Polonsky.
Chesler folds his arms. Course.
A warm spring sun droops onto the backs of the Fife and Drum Band. They sweat in full ceremonial regalia and spread out at arm’s length. Bubbles of nervous laughter flatten into a strict silence for one second, two, three. Then bum-ba bum-ba bum-ba goes the drum major. Bum-ba bum-ba replies the rest of the percussion section, followed by the first notes of the wind instruments. Soon ‘Vimy Ridge’ is in full swing. The band begins to march, moving from the Dominion Public Building, along the Front Street extension and up the westward slant of University Avenue. Pop pop pop go the flashbulbs. In the portion of a second needed for the shutter to open and close, marchers hastily slow into absolute stillness, poses that will linger into the next edition of the papers. Pop pop, they are illuminated. Deep lines in their faces, a fold in the clothes. Pop. Abbott, the photographer, pauses to change a bulb. Beside him, Eli describes the scene. He writes rousing music and packed avenue. He writes failed stretch of sidewalk
. In less penurious times, the city had planned for mass construction all the way up the street. The new building of the Parker Fountain Pen Company screamed progress via the perpetual assemblage of nibs. The neon weather beacon atop the Canada Life Building forecast continued prosperity. Back then, Eli quoted an endless parade of black-tie types who boasted of all the expected ribbon cuttings. Then the slump deepened and the hoopla became barely sibilant. Construction stopped. Skeletal forms stood empty and unfinished, so even now, less than three years later, Eli still sees a combination of growth and depression every step of the way.
A long narrow triangle of napes. This is what Chesler sees. Cloche hats and fedoras that advance up the street. Banners above gently ripple the words Toronto 1834 to 1934. From the back end of the line, he has his choice of fat marks, well-dressed men carrying the evidence of three squares above their belts. This crowd is a real kick in the pants. Six scores in and Chesler can locate by sight. Through the crook of an elbow he catches a left britch impression big enough for a blind man to spot. He restrains a smile, recklessly tossing away seconds now that there seems to be an eternity in the coffers. He shuffles his feet. Offices for a frame.
Everybody begins to inch forward. Contour of the crowd shifts with each step. An elbow juts out of nowhere, profiles bunch and separate. Within this brief rearrangement, Eli spots two familiar faces and hustles after them. Judge Tinker and an attorney named Snodgrass. Two men, eminently quotable, whose frequent appearances in the press belie an ability to construct a full sentence.
These celebrations, you know, says the judge. How important.
Snodgrass nods and nods. Exactly what I was.
Really a showcase.
Spectacle that.
The type of event that can bring our city a little.
A lot.
Yes, a lot of it.
Eli takes notes. They move further up the line, almost near City Hall, when Abbott appears, camera at the ready.
Okay. One picture of all of you.
Pop pop.
Mona turns from the flash. Too late. She has given up her kisser to the camera, her face captured on film. With a quick intake of breath she steps back and to the left, while the crowd continues to plod past her. This tiny change of pace not nearly enough because she should run run run from this spot, but out of the chatter and enjambment comes another office from Chesler. Set the frame. So she does. Eases back into the tip and finds the mark and his friends moving up the line. Phrases like civic pride and good clean fun float back her way, but the only word in her ears is frame. Set the frame, stay out of the camera frame. Mona shifts her weight, stays poised on the balls of her feet so her sudden homonymy won’t crumb the play. She takes a step, sets her heels. Plants her prat.
Three seconds before the music stops, Eli suddenly flinches, a feeling small and substantial as a pore of skin. He looks around. Cheekbones and sideburns cram his vision. Nothing out of the ordinary, so with a shrug he finesses his way to the cenotaph, where Abbott, Tinker and Snodgrass applaud. Cheers and whistles and hoo-haws. Eli makes notes while Abbott aims and fires. Pop pop. Tinker keeps clapping, Snodgrass jams his hands in his pockets and looks around furiously and the applause continues even as Mayor Stewart appears at the podium and says, My fellow Torontonians.
Part Two
April 1934
Eli pushes a red tray along a metal track. Slowly, past biscuits and a basket of apples gone yellow. Plates and plates of indistinguishable sandwiches. The special at the Bowles Lunch is alphabet soup. Behind the counter, a fat woman with a pencil behind her ear stirs the pot. Eli gets coffee.
He sits by the window. Sun and cloud fight for space on the other side of the glass. He takes a sip. Over the rim of his mug comes Bert Murneau. Puffing on a cigar. Soup and milk slosh onto his tray. He pulls up a chair.
Morenz.
Bert.
Bert gulps his milk. His Adam’s apple bounces. Good job on that celebration business.
Eli nods.
What’re your plans now?
I was thinking of getting some biscuits.
After that.
Eli shrugs.
No plans?
Nope.
Bert finishes his milk and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Still some white on the lips. His cigar has gone out.
Heading home then.
I guess so.
Bert twirls his spoon in the soup. Letters churn in the broth. An M flips over to become a W.
Easing yourself back in. That’s good, Morenz, that’s very good. You’ll need your rest.
Oh?
I’d like you to keep working this pickpocket angle.
Pickpockets? I’m a city man. What do I know about crime?
What’s to know? There’s good guys and there’s bad guys.
But, says Eli.
I think you’re ready to handle this. Now don’t get me wrong. I’m not trying to push, but you’ve always known your way around the old notepad. And we need a man on this. You’re that man, Morenz. And as long as you can tell me you’re on the ball – Bert taps his temple – up here, it’s a done deal.
Bert finishes his soup and relights his cigar. Leans back, puffing. Enormous minutes of silence.
Okay, says Eli.
The front door of the house opens and an oblong light leaks down two stairs. She comes out. Brimless blue hat, jacket in a darker shade. Pulls the handle and the door wedges into the frame, the lock turns with a sound like teeth grinding.
Out of the alley she walks, slowly, stopping only a moment when a surprisingly warm breeze blows through thin budding maples. Mona holds on to her hat and heads south on Spadina, west on Dundas. Into Kensington Market she goes, whistling a tune that gets tangled in the dull click of her own heels.
She reaches for an apple. Inspects it. Turns it coolly over, red skin and fingernails at every angle. She curls her lip. Other hands slip past, fat elbows collide. Bushels of women in the market this afternoon. They move down the aisles in strange unison, feeling fruit. Wire baskets slung over forearms. Mona palms the apple and wanders down the bins. Plums and apricots hide in the pockets of her coat. She looks for space. Across the floor, a woman tsktsks a bruised pear. Mona stops. Her hand lingers over the celery, stalks like long useless fingers.
Munching an apple along the clank and rustle of Kensington shops. Past moisture-covered windows and the open door of a dry goods, where two old women spit on their hands and pull out wooden stalls. A cobbler adjusts his awning for the flap of words. SHOE SHINE 5c. HATS BLOCKED. Mona takes three bites more and tosses the core into a trash bin. Hand in her pocket draws a cigarette from a crumpled pack. She feels in the lining for a matchstick in front of the butcher’s window, where plucked chickens hang and a man chews loudly on a cigar. Dots of blood on his sleeve and forearm.
Light? he asks.
Mona holds the unlit cigarette between two fingers and nods.
Back on Spadina, Mona stops at a newsstand. Browses the glossies and pulps, picking through Ballyhoo and Real Detective. Smiles at the lurid colour of Screenbook, the endless promises to astound and reveal. She balances the spine of the magazine in her palm and uses the big, floppy pages to shade her duke. With a deft movement of wrist and fingers, she stashes away two candy bars. Keeps one eye askance for the vendor, who taps his foot slowly, almost imperceptibly, at the opposite end of the row. Mona is wary of the impatient beat. She replaces the magazine and appeases him with two pennies for the newspaper. Crosses the street before she is halted by the headline. Small story on the bottom of the page that leaves her stiff, like a new deck of cards.
Angry judge complains about ‘sticky-fingered desperados’
One of Toronto’s most prominent legal minds lashed out at a ‘sickness’ on our city streets yesterday.
‘This pickpocket business is getting pretty bad,’ said Judge Orland Tinker of the municipal court. ‘People should feel free to wander anywhere in our city without fear of losing their wallet to these sticky-fingered desperados.’
Bank robbers get more notice because of their violent methods and large sums of cash, but it is the cowardly pickpocket who now requires swift attention, said the judge. ‘It’s a sickness on its way to a plague.’