Miles To Go

2. Toronto 1961

2

Toronto 1961

Baldwin Street held dark memories for me. But there had been beams of light too. I stopped opposite number 92. A small crowd had gathered outside. One of the beat cops tried to shoo the dark hats and blue suits back toward the curb to clear the walk leading up to the house. A typical semi-detached Victorian on a street filled with the same. Narrow lot, three stories, boasting creaky, oak stairs in between, deep yard. Built sturdily and meant to last. Upper balcony for the family living on the second floor. That’s how people lived, as if they’d never left the old country. Packed in together, huddling against the odds, weathering the storms of life. A couple of young men prayed in the corner of the tiny front yard. They bowed their heads and swayed, murmuring feverishly under their breath. Beneath dark vests, fringes dangled and danced.

“Oy,” said Birdie.

“You can say that again.”

Hostile looks turned to glares as we strode up the walk. The beat cop looked flustered. His eyes widened as we approached. Onlookers thickened around us. Guttural sounds filled the air.

We stopped. Birdie raked the nosy neighbours with his death stare and it seemed that some of them actually shrank back as if they’d been cursed. They’d never seen a large black man up close before. I turned to the cop.

“Callaway sent for us.”

The cop nodded and jerked his thumb, then stepped back to let us through. As we passed by, the gawkers and mourners surged toward him filling the gap.

In the hallway, Birdie said, “That’s one of the best receptions we’ve ever had.”

“At least no one spat at us,” I replied.

“For a change,” Birdie boomed.

The odour hit me hard. That combination of chicken fat, mothballs and hair oil. Catapulted me into the past, where I didn’t want to go. Suddenly, I had a bad feeling about this.

“Why are we here,” I said quietly like I was talking to myself. Birdie gave me a strange look.

“Finally,” Callaway said, poking his head out of the kitchen. I looked down the gloom, following the length of the hall and walked it like I trod a familiar path. Identical to the house where I grew up. Identical to the house where everyone else I knew, grew up. Callaway beckoned. “Down here,” he said.

Inspector Callaway turned his broad back—a grey man in a grey suit with grey hair holding a grey hat. He’d lost his partner, Roy Mason, last year. Mason took a slug in the forehead during an operation gone bad at Christie Pits, a local park and the scene of a Fascist rally in the years before the War. No one had volunteered to take Mason’s place, so Callaway worked on his own. I knew him from my years in homicide. A good cop. Honest. That said something. Thinking about Mason—bent as a lawyer looking for a handout or better, a politician telling the ‘truth’—turned my mind to my old man, Jake Gold. Currently incarcerated in Kingston Penitentiary. I helped put him there. Great memories. But who was I kidding? More lay ahead.

In the kitchen, we entered a mob scene.

Two uniforms guarded the entrance, in case anyone tried to steal the dill pickles in the fridge. I saw the shoes first, scuffed black brogues, a flattened piece of gum ironed on the left heel, Bubblicious, I think. Next came a pair of splayed-out legs clad in dark, shiny trousers. The pant legs rode up his calves exposing light blue veins close to the surface of the skin. The cheap suit jacket flaps, flopped open, shirttails pulled up, exposing a torso of pale, flabby flesh. A crime technician and the coroner hovered over the body. Two plainclothes men had positioned themselves at the stiff’s head with their wide backs to the kitchen counter. Just behind them I could make out an alcove tunneling to the rest of the house. I glanced around the kitchen. It reminded me of my grandmother’s place. Waxy, grey linoleum flooring. To the side, a fold-up metal kitchen table with four, hardback chairs. Boxy cupboards painted off-white turning to yellow from cooking grease. To my left, the door to the back porch led to the narrow yard. With so many bodies in the way, the temperature in that close room climbed and I began to feel clammy. I glanced over at Birdie who remained impassive and watchful and cool. Maybe it was the past that made me feel queasy.

I turned my attention to the corpse. A youngish man with a trimmed beard, wire-rimmed glasses askew across his cheeks, the eyes wide open in surprise and perhaps, realization. The sort that came too late. The face pudgy, the mouth small, almost delicate and wide open. I spotted some gold fillings in the back molars. The bone hilt of a knife stuck out of his chest, the blade buried in his heart. A formidable blow. The suit jacket and formerly white shirt had sopped up the blood but there’d been enough to spill and splatter on the floor. Odd, no fringes. Naturally, I recognized him. Mendel Black. One Class A Putz.

“Nice work,” I said. Birdie grunted.

“That’s one way of putting it,” Callaway said.

“And another?”

“A mess,” he replied. I looked at Callaway curiously, about to ask him what the hell we were doing there when a grating voice echoed my thoughts.

“Who asked for him?” All the cops in the room, the crime technician, the coroner, me and Birdie, turned his way. A voice that flayed nerves, guaranteed to raise hackles. He stood framed in the doorway, pointing an accusing finger in my direction. “We don’t want him here, do you understand? Get him out.” He could have been the corpse on the floor. A bit taller. A bit thinner but the same pale complexion, the same trimmed beard, wire-rimmed spectacles, an identical cheap blue suit, fringes hanging below the jacket hem. The only difference? A red, star-shaped birthmark on his forehead. He wore his hat low to cover it. He tried to press himself between the two cops but they didn’t budge, blocking him with their thick arms and broad shoulders.

I ignored the intrusion for the moment. “He’s not wearing his fringes.”

“What?” Callaway looked quizzical.

“Look,” I said and pointed at the loudmouth. “Hanging below his jacket.”

Callaway turned to look, then looked back at me.

“What are they?”

“Known as a tzitzits. A reminder of a Jew’s religious obligations. Commanded by God to attach these fringes to the four corners of garments worn,” I replied. “I should say, that the men wore.”

“Hypocrite,” the grating voice shouted. “Hypocrite. Get out of here. We don’t want you. No one asked for you. Schlemiel. Dreck. Out.”

“Still the loudmouth, Avrom,” I said. Not phrased as a question. His dark eyes went blacker behind the spectacles and if the two burly cops hadn’t blocked his way, he might have come at me. Still, the bad blood burbled. Birdie straightened up and took a step forward.

“You think you can intimidate with your schvartze? Your own dybbuk? Shame. Shame on you.” Nonetheless, Avrom shrank back allowing the cops to shield him from Birdie’s presence.

“I asked for him,” a husky voice piped in, shielded by the cops in the doorway. “Let me through.”

Avrom and the two cops turned, opening a passage to the scene. I got a clean look.

I stared. Maybe, I gaped. I wouldn’t be surprised if my mouth hung open.

“Hello Mo,” she said. “It’s been a long time.” Her voice sang of black coffee and cigarettes.

The pipes in my throat rasped but some sound trickled out. “Miryam?” Jesus. Could it get any worse?

Callaway and the cops looked at me curiously. Birdie’s eyes roved the low ceiling that appeared to be about three inches above his upturned nose. Avrom, Miryam’s brother, continued to glare.

She’d aged, of course and put on some weight. Naturally, she wore a wig but I was certain her head wasn’t shaved. I didn’t think Miryam would allow that. She wore a high-necked blouse and a long skirt that trailed to the floor. She and her brother shared the same dark, burning eyes. I knew those eyes burned in a different way, not with hatred. She sized me up. I couldn’t tell if I passed inspection or not. A lot had happened since we’d last seen each other, just after the War.

“How have you been, Miryam?” It was the best I could do under the circumstances. She ignored me.

“I need to speak to Mo,” she said. “Alone.”

“No,” Avrom shouted. “I forbid it. It isn’t proper.”

Miryam faced him coolly. “You forbid? You forbid Avrom? No longer, do you hear? One more word and I will ask you to leave this house, do you understand?”

Avrom reddened then raised his hand. As he did so, Birdie and the two cops leaned in to stop him. Avrom hesitated then slowly lowered his arm to his side. “It isn’t proper to be alone with a man you are not married to,” he hissed.

“Gittel will be with me. I won’t be alone, even if it is your own reputation you are concerned about.”

“Gittel,” he repeated. “But she’s…”

“Retarded? Yeah I know,” Miryam said. “But I prefer her company to yours.”

Avrom choked down his words. His face turned red, cheeks puffed out. He looked like he’d swallowed a chipmunk. Instead, he turned on his heel, pushed through the cops and disappeared down the hall. I heard the soles of his cheap brogues pounding the rickety wooden floor. Creaky oak boards popping and cracking. A distant door slammed.

Miryam turned to Callaway, who had an amused expression on his face. He seemed to like the way she dealt with her overbearing brother. She jerked her head toward me.

“Is it okay?”

Callaway nodded.

“Sure, why not?” It didn’t follow procedure but he wasn’t one to let little things get in the way.

She glanced at me. “Come into the parlour. I left my sister there and we can talk. Okay?”

“Sure.”

“Not him,” she said, looking at Birdie. “Just you.”

I shrugged. Birdie nodded. “Fine.”