The Man Who Killed. Fraser Nixon

sourmash, the two damning reconstruction and toasting the immortal memory of Robert E. Lee. I poked the woman into the room and Bob followed. The woman cried: “John!”

      “Mary?”

      Bob sniggered. I almost agreed. Who were these people?

      “May I assume that you two enjoy the sanctity of the marital bond?” asked Jack.

      The manager choked.

      “Now see here, you ruffian,” he said.

      “For heaven’s sake, John,” wailed Mary.

      “Yes, John. For your own sake and that of this good lady, be kind enough to open the safe. We desire no harm to befall the missus,” said Jack.

      John goggled. John Adams, I saw painted on the frosted glass of the office door.

      “Sir, I beseech you, as a fellow Southerner, please...”

      “John!” Mary shrieked.

      Adams deflated. He swivelled his chair towards a Chinese screen, which he pulled aside to reveal a squat iron cube, then spun the dial and opened the safe. Jack sat on the edge of the desk, all taut attention and eager amusement, humming “Dixie.” The manager took out a bound pile of notes, a sack of silver, and a fat bag stuffed with loose bills. He passed the lot to Jack.

      “Thank you kindly,” said Jack.

      Bob pushed the woman down into a chair. I went to check our hogtied nightwatchman and from him smelled sharp sweat and urine. His eyes were shut tight. Disgusted, I returned to the office, where Jack was emptying a valise. He placed the money within and gave the case a heft. Bob’s eyes glinted and he looked over to me. Ice-cold and hard. Mary Adams was pale with fright. From his pocket Bob took out a blade and the woman whimpered. He cut fabric from the hem of her dress and her eyes went to mine, terrified. Bob balled the muslin and roughly shoved it into her mouth. He took sticking plaster from the desk and put it over her lips, then grabbed the last of his rope and with Jack’s help bound her and her husband’s wrists and ankles to their chairs. My heartbeat steadied. Jack straightened his cravat.

      “We thank you for your very kind indulgence in this matter. Now don’t you go being over-hasty in attempting to extricate yourselves, as we have compatriots observing each and every egress. Do take care now, y’hear?”

      With that we hustled out the back door to the alley.

      “Where now?” I asked.

      “Bob’s.”

      We hotfooted it to Sherbrooke, avoiding streetlamps, walking in a staggered file along the pavement, with Jack ahead, Bob watching him and his cargo, and myself covering our rear. Bob’s place was on Prince Arthur, in the student ghetto. It appeared my life had become a series of traverses from room to saloon to shitty room. What pattern was I tracing on the face of the city? We took the stairs to a standard two-bit garret with stains on the ceiling and spilled paint on the floorboards. Interestingly, large canvasses were stacked face first against the walls. Bob left, returned with a bowl of cracked ice, and pulled a bottle of whiskey from a boot by the bed. Jack checked his ’watch.

      “Nice work, boyos.”

      I lit a cigaret, my hands spiting their training, shaking with a minor tremor. Tension. The puncture points along my arm gave a phantom throb. My teeth tasted chalky. I wanted something, morphine, opium, oblivion. Bob portioned out the gargle. Nausea rose within me to be chased down by antiseptic liquor.

      Between Jack and Bob there ran a current of excitement, their grins lupine. Lon Chaney in The Trap. Jack poured the contents of the bag onto a ratty Chesterfield. Bob nearly ravened at the sight of the cash but restrained himself with an effort. Jack lit a cigaret. I tapped my ashes into a half oyster shell. What was I playing at? It’d happened too bloody fast for real fear to grip me overmuch. Fatalism. Jack regarded me. I spat a shred of tobacco onto the floorboards while Bob counted the money. The coins rang as they struck each other: nickels, dimes, quarters, dollars. Copper, silver, gold.

      I fixed Jack with a look and we regarded each other, unblinking. I broke first. “What was that distracting detail you mentioned?” I asked.

      “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