Word has filtered through the precinct that Quam was cashiered from the Dry Squad and is plenty blue about it. Hook feels responsible, though Quam is unsuitable for the work, lacking the necessary inner rage when circumstances demand.
Once again, he feels the urge to look up the constable and have a chat. This time, however, it is for a respectable reason.
Sure enough, he finds Quam in Leonard’s Cafe, seated on what looks to be his usual stool at the counter, tucking into a slab of peach pie with a scoop of vanilla ice cream on the side. Hook decides not to beat around the bush: “Well, Mr Quam, I understand you’ve suffered a disappointment.”
Startled, Quam looks up with fork in mid-air, causing the overloaded scoop of pie and ice cream to drop back onto the plate.
“Oh. It’s you, sir. Pardon my French, but I hope you’re not here to gloat about my misfortune.”
“Constable, gloating is the last thing on my mind.”
“And no sarcasm, sir, please. I got a whiff of it there.”
“Not a word of sarcasm, I promise you. Every word I say will come straight from the heart.”
Quam looks down at his pie, sadly. “Well, the truth of it, sir, is that I was not up to the job.”
“Ah. I’ve been in the same position myself.”
“You have, sir?”
“Oh yes. In fact, hardly a day goes by when I don’t feel decidedly inept. But what was it did you in? I hope it wasn’t the Maple Hotel fiasco.”
Quam temporarily forgets about his pie. “Well, as you know, sir, when transferring to another unit, one is on six months’ probation. It took less than a month for me to be deemed unsuitable. I have an ‘unsuitable attitude’ is what the report says. And they were right. My attitude was unsuitable. I hoped for straightforward police work, only to discover that, with the Dry Squad, work is rarely straightforward. At times it felt more like politics than law enforcement. At other times it felt like we were committing a crime.”
Hook sets fire to an Ogden’s. He finds it unsettling to hear this from the constable, as though a pet dog has begun to speak in complete sentences.
“Mr Quam, sometimes it occurs to me that, whether we know it or not, everyone is in politics.”
Quam thinks about this for some time, stirring ice cream into his forkful of pie. “Did you know, sir, that Leonard’s changes its pie fillings to go with the seasons?”
“No, Mr Quam, I must admit that I didn’t know that.”
“Well it’s true, sir. Leonard said so himself. He said he meant it as a sort of celebration.”
“Beg your pardon? A celebration of what?”
“Well I asked him that same question, sir. He said it was about the seasons.”
“Mr Quam, I’m impressed. You observe unusual things. Please consider rejoining the team.”
Bootlegging by Another Name
A Crusade of Weasels
Ed McCurdy
Staff Writer
The Evening Star
Those whom connections allow
Have lucrative fields to plough
While tipplers pay
Liberals make hay
Milking the hundred-proof cow.
Documents provided to this newspaper by a former member of government indicate beyond doubt that the so-called Crusade Against Bootlegging is in fact a publicly funded version of the Chicago gang wars, where rivals vie for an ever-greater share of the loot.
If true, then the Liquor Control Board can only be described as a family tree, a crime syndicate and a slush fund combined.
Especially fortunate have been board members Alan Beaven and Chester Munn, whose oversight of the supply chain over the past two years has proved a blessing to their nearest and dearest, and whose qualifications for their appointments have yet to be established.
With its inferior products, stratospheric prices and a near-sadistic list of regulations as to where, how and when a workman can buy a glass of beer, the board is already heartily disliked to the point of hatred.
With Attorney General Cunning in charge, Clyde Taggart was tasked with keeping the department from becoming an election issue—an uphill battle, to say the least.
It can hardly be a coincidence that Mr Taggart has disappeared without a trace. (Rumour has it that he was one step ahead of the summons server.)
Now, the LCB’s newly installed chairman is Harlan Crombie, a long-time ally of Attorney General Stalker. Seemingly, Crombie has been tasked with keeping the pigs inside the pen and ensuring that the stink doesn’t annoy the neighbours—so that the LCB may continue to serve pork to Liberal supporters and achieve an electoral victory.
Recently uncovered evidence suggests that Mr Crombie’s efforts at animal husbandry are doomed to fail; in fact, already the public has begun to smell a rat.