radio say, Lon?”
Jack directed this at a skull-faced man in a greasy slouch hat and brown leather aviator’s jacket, who had just come out of the garage.
“Overcast and flurries.” He kept walking in the direction of the last car in line.
“Good.” Jack smiled at me. “No place to hide on the lake when the moon’s out.”
“Who’s Lon?”
“Oh, we just call him that on account of he looks like Lon Chaney in that picture, the one about the opera. His name’s Camarillo.”
That name I knew. He had shot down eight German planes with Eddie Rickenbacker’s squadron during the war and had a medal pinned on his chest by Woodrow Wilson. That was the last good thing I had heard about him. “I thought he worked for Sal Borneo.”
“He did. Now he don’t.”
“He’s a killer. They’re the only ones that can just up and quit like that.”
“Mercy-go-run,” Andy Kramm said. “Jack, you never told me I was keeping company with criminal trash.”
Big Bass chuckled—a low, chilling sound, like wind whistling through holes in a steel drum.
“No-man’s-land out there on the ice, Connie. You just joined the war.” Jack took back the tin cup and corked the thermos. “Let’s roll, kids.”
I rode in back with Andy Kramm, who rested his feet on a long black metal toolbox on the floor. Jack drove and Bass sat on the passenger’s side in front, blocking my half of the view through the windshield. The tire chains clanked and light from the streetlamps fluttered inside the car. Behind us the headlamps of the other cars were strung out like mourners in a funeral procession.
We took Woodward down to Jefferson and turned left. “Lake Erie’s the other way,” I said.
Jack turned his head to grin at Bass. “We don’t go out on the ice, Connie; we come back on it. There’s no law against driving to Canada.”
“Oh.”
We crossed on the Ambassador Bridge. The Windsor Tunnel, which some Detroiters had already rechristened the Funnel for its potential as a conduit for alcohol, was still under construction. The river beneath our feet glistened like black oil.
The guard in the Customs booth had silver hair and rimless glasses under a fur cap. He looked over our ID’s. “Reason for your visit?”
Jack said, “Pleasure.”
He handed back the cards. “Enjoy your stay.”
We drove on. Nobody else in the party was detained. Customs officials weren’t dumber then than they are now, or any less honest. When eight cars of a uniform size and vintage crossed the border with chains on their tires, the man in the rimless glasses had to suspect their true purpose, along with the probable presence of a number of unlicensed weapons. Bootleggers brought money into Canada. Where they went with what they bought was strictly between them and their own country.
The distillery Joey Machine did business with was in Leamington, conveniently located near the point where a convoy loaded with contraband might push off for the trek across Lake Erie’s frozen surface. On our way through the provincial village of Windsor I remembered why I was there and asked Andy Kramm how he had come to hook up with the Machine organization.
“I was a gunner with the Polar Bears. When I got home the war was over a year and there wasn’t no work for a veteran. I guess that’s how Lon wound up here too.”
“What are the Polar Bears?”
“We stood behind to fight the Bolsheviks in Russia, but that war didn’t go so good and they sent us home finally. I missed all the parades.”
“You’ve been with Machine since 1919?”
“No, I bummed around some: Drove a truck for the Greeks, run with the Little Jewish Navy, shot craps for Lefty Clark in Ecorse till my luck went west. Joey hired me off the floor the night Lefty canned me.”
“As a croupier?”
“No. Hell, no. I never got back my luck for that. He wanted a gunner.”
In Leamington, Jack pried the Hudson down a narrow brick-paved alley into a rutted lot and parked it at the
Jack directed this at a skull-faced man in a greasy slouch hat and brown leather aviator’s jacket, who had just come out of the garage.
“Overcast and flurries.” He kept walking in the direction of the last car in line.
“Good.” Jack smiled at me. “No place to hide on the lake when the moon’s out.”
“Who’s Lon?”
“Oh, we just call him that on account of he looks like Lon Chaney in that picture, the one about the opera. His name’s Camarillo.”
That name I knew. He had shot down eight German planes with Eddie Rickenbacker’s squadron during the war and had a medal pinned on his chest by Woodrow Wilson. That was the last good thing I had heard about him. “I thought he worked for Sal Borneo.”
“He did. Now he don’t.”
“He’s a killer. They’re the only ones that can just up and quit like that.”
“Mercy-go-run,” Andy Kramm said. “Jack, you never told me I was keeping company with criminal trash.”
Big Bass chuckled—a low, chilling sound, like wind whistling through holes in a steel drum.
“No-man’s-land out there on the ice, Connie. You just joined the war.” Jack took back the tin cup and corked the thermos. “Let’s roll, kids.”
I rode in back with Andy Kramm, who rested his feet on a long black metal toolbox on the floor. Jack drove and Bass sat on the passenger’s side in front, blocking my half of the view through the windshield. The tire chains clanked and light from the streetlamps fluttered inside the car. Behind us the headlamps of the other cars were strung out like mourners in a funeral procession.
We took Woodward down to Jefferson and turned left. “Lake Erie’s the other way,” I said.
Jack turned his head to grin at Bass. “We don’t go out on the ice, Connie; we come back on it. There’s no law against driving to Canada.”
“Oh.”
We crossed on the Ambassador Bridge. The Windsor Tunnel, which some Detroiters had already rechristened the Funnel for its potential as a conduit for alcohol, was still under construction. The river beneath our feet glistened like black oil.
The guard in the Customs booth had silver hair and rimless glasses under a fur cap. He looked over our ID’s. “Reason for your visit?”
Jack said, “Pleasure.”
He handed back the cards. “Enjoy your stay.”
We drove on. Nobody else in the party was detained. Customs officials weren’t dumber then than they are now, or any less honest. When eight cars of a uniform size and vintage crossed the border with chains on their tires, the man in the rimless glasses had to suspect their true purpose, along with the probable presence of a number of unlicensed weapons. Bootleggers brought money into Canada. Where they went with what they bought was strictly between them and their own country.
The distillery Joey Machine did business with was in Leamington, conveniently located near the point where a convoy loaded with contraband might push off for the trek across Lake Erie’s frozen surface. On our way through the provincial village of Windsor I remembered why I was there and asked Andy Kramm how he had come to hook up with the Machine organization.
“I was a gunner with the Polar Bears. When I got home the war was over a year and there wasn’t no work for a veteran. I guess that’s how Lon wound up here too.”
“What are the Polar Bears?”
“We stood behind to fight the Bolsheviks in Russia, but that war didn’t go so good and they sent us home finally. I missed all the parades.”
“You’ve been with Machine since 1919?”
“No, I bummed around some: Drove a truck for the Greeks, run with the Little Jewish Navy, shot craps for Lefty Clark in Ecorse till my luck went west. Joey hired me off the floor the night Lefty canned me.”
“As a croupier?”
“No. Hell, no. I never got back my luck for that. He wanted a gunner.”
In Leamington, Jack pried the Hudson down a narrow brick-paved alley into a rutted lot and parked it at the
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