The Man Who Killed

“You know what I want,” Jack said. “Hand me the ’gen on our Yankee friend and you can start digging a new grave for yourself at the tables. Fair trade, eh?”

Brown nodded weakly. It occurred to me that the pair were both gamblers. Jack had probably already burned through every dime in his pockets, hence his desperation now. For all his control Jack was grasping at straws. The Scotchman was a last resort, a long shot.

“Cross me on this and I’ll feed you to the fucking wolves,” said Jack. “On your knees.”

Brown shook off his inertia and stiffened with the auld re-solve of Carlisle.

“There’s no need.”

“Kneel,” Jack insisted.

For a moment I thought Jack would kill him. We were alone. The courtyard was abandoned. No navvies swung from the partly built river span overhead, bearing witness. My senses sharpened. I handled my Webley. Jack was being needlessly cruel, I thought. Brown was broken; there was no need to kick the cur. The Scotsman creakily lowered himself, the brief flare of rebellion doused. I saw him for what he was, a small, frightened functionary in over his head. For a brief moment I had a fellow feeling that I quickly banished. I’d gone too far the other way and we could quarter the man for all the difference it’d make.

“Do you know this place?” asked Jack.

“No.”

“It’s where they hanged the French Patriots, the ones who burned down the Assembly. They were traitors. You won’t be given the length of a rope, Brown. I promise you that.”

Jack moved in, grasping the handle of his white stick. Brown flinched, waiting for a slash or blow. With an animal smile Jack slowly pulled a steel blade from within the sharkspine.

“Dieu et mon droit.”

He tapped Brown’s shoulders lightly with the sword, left, right, the burlesque of a knighting.

“Arise.”

It was dangerous to humiliate a man thus. Jack had refined his cruelty to the weak. He’d changed, and so had I. I was dead to pleasure, outrage, pain. I was a killer. Wind gusted off the water. There was no morality, only exigencies. My ethos: morphine and money. She was gone, at my hands, and I had nothing else to tie me to life. Brown would now pass along his shame to one weaker than he, the back of his hand to the wife, his belt to a child, the boot for a dog. The world spun ever thus.

“Homo homini lupus est,” I said.

Jack looked at me.

“On your bike, Brown,” he said.

The man got to his feet and shuffled off. Jack came over and lit a cigaret.

“‘Man is wolf to man,’” he said.

“Alpha plus.”

“Thank your old man. Not much Latin in the camps.”

He replaced the sword in its scabbard. We walked away together in another direction. I spotted a copper on the street and reached down to pinch it. It was an Indian Head from the United States.

“Find a penny, pick it up,” I said.

“Put it in your shoe for luck,” said Jack.

“Not how it goes. Here.”

I flipped it over to him and he called heads, caught it and laughed, then put it in his pocket.

On Viger we hailed another ’cab and stopped at the Victoria Tavern on William. Inside the bar a skeleton played a wheezy concertina: “Nearer My God to Thee.”

“Like last call on the Titanic here,” said Jack. “Let’s go elsewhere.”

We settled at the Victory and I sprang for all-dressed steamed Frankfurters on white bread with mustard and Kiri spruce beer to wash them down. We chewed and swallowed.

“Do you know what?” I asked.

“I don’t.”

“We’re not the sterling heroes in this tale.”

Jack ate.

“What d’you mean?”

“I mean you’re no Hannay and I’m not Tom Brown.”

“Who are we then?”

“The Black Stone.”

It gave Jack pause. I lit a cigaret and continued.

“We’re the ones you never read about, the ones who lean on weaklings and hand out beatings. Look at you, taking orders. We’re not racing to save the crowned heads of Europe or stop the next war. We’re the ones that the hero worries about when there’s a knock on the door. All our troubles come from that. No honour in it.”

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