“The accent. Our friend John’ll remember nothing about me except that I’m a Confederate, you wait and see. One of your countrymen, Bob.”
“What’s that?” Bob asked.
I placed his nasal bray. New England somewhere.
“A Johnny Reb,” said Jack. “The war of Southern secession.”
“Fuck that,” said Bob. “I’m Irish.”
“Oh really? From the Free State are you now?” mocked Jack.
“What in the hell are you talking about?” asked Bob.
“You don’t sound Irish,” I said.
“Boston Irish,” Bob countered.
“Bob’s kinsman ran for governor of Massachusetts,” said Jack. “Why’d he lose again?”
“Never mind.”
“Mick here’s a Peep o’ Day Boy,” said Jack.
Bob finished counting and glared. Jack winked at me.
“What’ve you got?” he asked Bob.
“Twenty-eight hundred and thirty-five in bills. Maybe seventy more in change. Some Double Eagles. What’re these?”
Bob held out a handful of gold discs.
“New Zealand dollars,” Jack said. “Coin o’ the realm. So, that’s almost a thousand apiece. Not too shabby for an hour’s work.”
Bob spluttered: “Jesus, Jack, you said...”
“I said it was an easy score,” Jack cut in. “You hear any sirens? Filth knocking at your door? You Yankee bastards are never happy.”
“I’m no Yankee,” went Bob.
“Right, you’re some sort of shamrock-blooded Paddy Free Stater and a second cousin to Michael Collins. Up here in the Dominion you’re a Yankee, son, both you and that gentleman we tied up, so pipe down and cut the pot.”
Jack turned to me now, full flower. Amongst other questions, I wondered how much he’d taken on board. Drunk and garrulous it was best to let him wax eloquent.
“Did you know that John Wilkes Booth was here in this very town at the St. Lawrence Hall before he shot Lincoln? The bugger bragged all over town he was going to do it. Hell, Montreal was rotten with Confederates and spies and after the war Jefferson Goddamned Davis lived here and wrote his memoirs. There’s something wrong with this city; it breeds treason. Benedict Arnold, Booth, Benjamin Franklin.”
“Franklin was no traitor,” interrupted Bob.
“Franklin was a bought and paid for agent of George III,” said Jack.
Sullenly, Bob finished dividing the paper money. We each took our respective shares and I counted mine out: nine hundred and forty-five dollars in mixed bills. Not bad was right. It was more money than I’d ever held in my hands at one time.
“Give me the coins,” Jack said.
“What’re you going to do with them?” asked my avarice.
“Bury them under a sour apple tree. Can’t trust that bag with either of you Micks. You’d probably off and tithe it.”
“I take no orders from Rome,” I said.
Jack just laughed, as Bob and I eyed one another across a widening divide.
Bob resembled a nasty schoolboy, with traces of breeding shining through an assumed coarseness. It was something I’d seen before, rich boys talking common. Arrogant and vindictive, and no new friend of mine. Still, there was more to the gladrag, that much was clear. Bob put an elastic around his money. I figured I’d unstitch my coat tomorrow and hide mine in the lining.
“You paint?” I asked Bob.
“Some.”
“Bob’s a Fenian and a Fauvist,” Jack teased.
Bob ignored Jack’s baiting. Jack hadn’t touched his money yet, and I still had questions to put to him. What’d happened in the woods? How’d he gotten away and what had prompted this risky heist? I was close to asking when he rose and gathered his cash and the valise.
“I’d stay away from the Bank of England were I you,” said Jack. “Try not to spend it ostentatiously. That son of a bitch Adams’ll claim double what we stole to the cops and tell the ’papers the same tale of woe for his insurance. The world was ever thus. Now, I know a grand place to unwind, a favourite of the chief of police, but not of a Sunday. Come along, it’s on me.”
Bob locked up and we met down on the street.
“You certain this is a good idea? Shouldn’t we split up?” I said. “They’ll be looking for three men together.”
“Not where we’re going.”
JACK HAILED A TAXICAB at the corner.
“Mountain,” he said as we got in.
We drove onto Sherbrooke, passed the campus, and headed for the Golden Mile, making another right up Mountain. The district was beginning to fray at its edges as the city encroached upon it; all the rich families were abandoning the ancient preserve of wealth for Westmount and beyond. Good riddance. Jack barked a command and we stopped in front of a mansion that had seen its fortunes fade but was still in better than decent trim, almost respectable and discreet, with only the slightest piratical cast.
“Hell of a cathouse,” I said.
“The best in town.”
We mounted the flagged stone steps to a portal engraved with a coat of arms. In response to a soft bell chime a pretty housemaid opened the door. Our merry crew was received in a narthex of mirrors and ersatz gold. With this decor, there was no mistaking the nature of the house. Within moments a dreadnought of a madam steamed down the curving staircase to meet us. She bore an uncanny resemblance to Marie Dressler. Jack bowed and kissed a rose-gloved hand. Powdered and pink, the matron keeled and tittered: “You cheeky thing. It’s been far too long since you were here. I’d almost given up on you. And how delightful, you’ve brought some gentlemen along. How very lovely.”
The madam had a pleasing, musical laugh, wet red lips, shark’s eyes. Her perfume began to provoke a sneeze.
“What would you wish for tonight?” she asked.
“Elope with me,” Jack said.
She batted him away with a furled fan. Bob stood and postured to my right. The bouquet of the madam’s toilet water was now creeping deeper into my olfactory apparatus. Hold it in. Hold it. I fumbled for a cigaret as our group was swept into a sitting room done up in the fin-de-siecle manner, with electric globes made to resemble gas lamps and a player piano. Bob headed to a long divan against the wall and lounged, his manner supercilious. I bit at a thumbnail. It’d been a tiring day by any measure. Thick nude odalisques writhed in heavy gilt-framed paintings hanging over the mantelpiece. Jack conducted a whispered business with the madam in the corridor, and I sneezed into the handkerchief he’d given me during the movie-house hold-up. I sat in my overcoat and with my palms rubbed at my unshaven face, feeling consumptive, rheumatic, hollow. As I lit my cigaret Jack entered the room with four trollops in tow. A maid brought a tray of canapes, followed by several buckets of ice and wine on a cart surmounted by an enormous bottle of Champagne. Nine hundred and eighty-five dollars was a good year’s pay for some.
“Ladies,” gestured Jack.
The four girls positioned themselves around the salon in studied artless arrangements.
“We are,” Jack said, “representatives of a young men’s Christian temperance society and have come here tonight to gauge the pernicious effects of this devilishly bubbly stuff on winsome young maidens. Would you care to aid us?”
The girls gave a united cheer of agreement. Each was done up in a manner anachronistic with the room’s fittings. They sported kohled eyes and wore black stockings rolled down to the knee, slim-cut short dresses, high-
