Jack swallowed and cleaned his mouth.
“Honour means nothing. Amor fati: love your fate. Accept it. We’re here and others aren’t. I know damned good men who’re six feet under while fat bastards feed on ortolan drowned in Armagnac. We do what we have to, and that’s all I have to say. Grab your things.”
In Griffintown jack o’lanterns lit up windowsills. Children wearing ghoul masks carried bags door to door. Shrill voices from ghosts and goblins piped a strange phrase: “Trick or treat!”
Tomorrow was Hallowe’en and a church Sunday so tonight was the night for fun and games. All Hallows’ Eve. Side by side we marched to Duke, intending to pass the night at Jack’s haunt. Before heading up we went into the tavern across the way for one more. The bar was packed and thick with smoke from wavering oil lamps. As we came in from the cold I sensed pairs of eyes on us. I bought two bottles of Black Horse and took them to a flimsy bench by the far wall. Jack was as uneasy as I and he started to grate on me, a result of our enforced companionship and relative lack of success. It was the same with any company reaching the end of the line.
He whispered the plan: if anyone resembling Bob crossed the border from Quebec Brown would be telephoned or wired here in Montreal. Jack aimed to get on Bob’s trail from that point. Meanwhile we waited, killing time. Jack had ten dollars left and I promised him half my leavings. It was only just. I’d been wrong earlier; sometimes there was a fraction of honour, even amongst thieves and killers.
We were being watched, I was certain. I scanned a room filled with Neanderthals, dark pitiless morlocks. Was that an averted gaze from the two fellows in the corner? Who were those yeggs by the window? Slanted mirrors embossed with the names of the great whiskey houses allowed me a fractured reflection of the chamber. I saw Jack’s hair shining amber in the low gloom. Around us groaned a murmuring, persistent chorus. It was late. The ’tender rang a bell.
“Time, gentlemen.”
A boy dragged a black curtain across the windowpane and a great galumph locked the front door. By staying put Jack and I joined the blind pig after closing hours. I bought two more stouts and drank mine mechanically, hand on gun.
“Got a feeling,” said Jack out the side of his mouth.
In a Jameson’s mirror I saw two vaguely familiar men in flat caps at a table looking at a grey square of paper. One peered over his compatriot’s shoulder and accidentally caught my eye. The paper was a photograph. In a burst of light my mind recognized them: the Senator’s goons.
“We’ve been shopped,” I whispered.
“Where?”
“Corner. Flats. They’ve got our picture.”
“Right,” Jack said.
My eyes flitted over the crowd.
“Two more,” Jack said. “Black homburgs, ten o’clock.”
He was right. We were boxed in.
“Choice of enemies,” I said.
“After you,” he said.
“No, you,” I insisted.
Jack got up. I watched him walk to the back door. One of the big fellows in homburgs shook his head. Sweat pricked my scalp and my hand clenched the Webley tighter. Jack moved past the bar. Another fellow was posted there. A collective ripple like wind on a wheat field seemed to flutter through the remaining drinkers. Out the corner of my eye the wizened bartender started to crouch. Suddenly there was a shrill whistle, the electric lights went up and someone yelled: “Police!”
The pair at the window jumped and the homburgs did the same. I leapt to my feet with the Webley’s hammer cocked. Jack grabbed a short bastard and held the naked blade from his cane to the man’s neck. I pointed the Webley at the mirror and pulled the trigger. There was a boom and Bushmills Irish Whiskey
shattered, glittering to the floor. Topers hid under tables. I swung the gun to point at the cops, to the lummox at the front door, then back to the Senator’s goons. I was a piece of stone, frozen with fury and fear. The broken looking glass coursed down in silver shards.
“Move and I’ll burn your brains!” I roared.
“This one gets a knife!” shouted Jack.
The four cops were nearly identical in black coats and hats. One muttered to another.
“Ta gueule!” I yelled and took aim at his yap.
“On the ground, all of you, or this one’s dead!” shouted Jack.
Silence. The cops reluctantly bent. I kicked my way through prone bodies; innocent bystanders, one might call them, except everyone’s guilty and I’d kill them all to get out. Eyes down, eyes up, over to Jack.
“Open it,” he commanded his prisoner.
Jack reached into his coat and took out his Browning, jabbing it into his hostage’s lumbar. My arm trembled and I submitted to total tachycardia, my body bursting with searing blood, my skin ice, hair on end. We were in for it now and no mistake.
“You won’t go far!” one of the plainclothesmen shouted.
“In a pig’s eye!” yelled Jack.
He pushed our bartering chip through the door into the dark. Nothing happened. Jack darted out and I covered. I took one last look around the tavern. I’d never forget it. Came Jack’s voice: “Ankle!”
I stepped into the night blind. Jack’s hand grabbed me.
“This way,” he hissed.
He kicked the hostage in the arse and took off down the alley. I peeled after him, fast as I could. Nightmare, nightmare. I wasn’t fast enough. My body was heavy, no air to breathe. Run. Run. Goddammit, the police at last. It was dark, too dark, I couldn’t see a Goddamned thing. My eyes strained wide for light, trying to follow Jack as he ran. Dogs? Were those dogs chasing us? I turned and tripped and dropped my gun, scrambled to my feet. No time to find it. Run.
I broke out of the alley into a lit street and saw Jack sprinting down a narrow ruelle between two high buildings. There was the screech of tires and a pair of yellow headlamps rushed at me. Hanging, it would be hanging for me if I was caught. I charged into the darkness with my legs burning, soaking wet, running. Faster, faster. They won’t hang you; they’ll shoot you down like a fucking dog in the street. Go, Goddammit. Go.
Jack dashed to the left and I caught him turn, then turn again. Footsteps pounded like slamming doors after me and there were echoes and gunshots. I heard shouts, police whistles, dogs barking. No. I slowed for a moment, gasping, chest heaving. I grabbed at my necktie and pulled open the noose. No, there was no one, the noises were in me. I picked up the pace again but Jack was gone. Shit. My head spun wildly looking for a way out, an escape hatch. I turned another corner and hands grabbed the front of my coat. Cardiac arrest.
“Quiet. Breathe through your mouth. Don’t move.”
Jack pushed me down. He had a gun in each hand and we were hiding behind rubbish bins in a loading bay. A rotten stench filled my nostrils. I brushed a waxy brick wall and smelled my fingers: fat. We were behind a butcher shop or slaughterhouse amongst waste meat and filth. I could hear a slithering movement and a squeaking. Rats. My teeth were bared, my eyes staring insanely. My stomach roiled and turned. Don’t. Don’t spew, you’ll give us away. Jack cocked his head and froze. I didn’t dare move. For an agonizing lifetime we waited as the vermin scratched and scratched.
“Lost my gun,” I said at last.
“Here.”
Jack handed over his Webley. We waited for anything. I was parched and screaming for water. We waited for our pursuers, for whistles and shouts, motorcars, footsteps, horse hooves, dog howls. Nothing.
“It gets better and better,” Jack said to himself.