Motor City Shakedown (11 page)

The trolley started up again, and I took a few deep breaths to calm myself. The closer I got to the police station, the more I filled with doubt. How did I know Riordan wasn't on the Gianollas' payroll or would say something to a cop who was? Murphy saying Riordan was honest didn't make it so. Even if he was as honest as I thought he was, this path was still fraught with danger. He knew how much I wanted Adamo. I would need to be careful with him.

I hopped off the car at Bethune Street and walked the remaining four blocks to the police station. As soon as I walked in the door, the smell hit me—a vague odor of bleach that failed to cover the sour stench of vomit and sweat.

The desk sergeant, a gray-haired Irishman with a florid face, bellowed, “Oh, the prodigal son has returned, now, has he? We've missed you terribly. What would you like to confess to today?”

I swallowed the response that came to mind and said, “I'd like to see Detective Riordan.”

“You would, now, would'ja?”

I nodded.

“Well, the detective isn't in just now, laddie.” He smirked. “But I think we've got an available guest room where you could wait.”

“If it's all the same to you, I'll wait out here.”

I sat in one of the old wooden chairs in the lobby, working the problem with the Gianollas in my mind. If I could get Riordan to go after them, they might forget about me—and my family. If not, I couldn't risk talking to any other policeman. Riordan had to believe me.

After about an hour, he walked in along with another man. Both wore dark wool suits with waistcoats and ties. I jumped up and called out, “Detective Riordan? Could I speak with you, please?”

He turned toward me, his face registering surprise. “‘Please,' Will? I don't think I've heard you use that word before.” He nodded for the other man to leave. As I walked up to Riordan, his lip curled. The burgundy slash on his face shone in the electric lights.

I looked away from his scar and lowered my voice. “Privately?”

He pursed his lips and nodded. “All right.” Without another word, he turned and walked toward an interior door. I followed him into a hallway with dirty white plaster walls and a scuffed plank floor. Finally he ducked—literally—into an office near the end of the hall. The doorway was barely six feet high. A small oak desk filled a quarter of the tiny room. A line of beat-up file cabinets filled half. The remaining few feet created a narrow walkway to his desk and left just enough room for his chair on one side and another small chair to be wedged in sideways against the opposite wall.

“I pictured you with a little more finery than this,” I said as Riordan squeezed himself behind his desk.

“Reward of my investigation into the Electric Executioner. When it turned out it wasn't you, the mayor and commissioner tried to get me to resign. When I wouldn't—” He spread his hands in front of him. “Now, what can I do for you?”

I sat in the other chair. “Do you know Tony and Sam Gianolla?”

He pulled a cigar from his coat pocket, bit off the end, and spit it into a small wastebasket next to him. “Can't say I do.” Lighting the cigar, he puffed cloud after cloud of rotting leaf stink into the room.

I waved my left hand in front of me, which did nothing more than rearrange the smoke. “Tony Gianolla is the leader of a Black Hand gang. Sam is his muscle.”

Riordan leaned forward, looking interested. “Where do they work out of?”

“I don't know. They kidnapped me, threatened to kill my family. They dumped me into a trunk and drove for half an hour. I don't know if they drove around in circles or took me straight to wherever I was.”

“Why are they after you?”

“They have some sort of stake in the Teamsters Union and want me to get them into Detroit Electric.”

He opened a desk drawer and pulled out a form. “What did you say their names were?”

“No paperwork.”

He looked up at me.

“The Gianollas have cops on their payroll. If they find out I came here they'll kill my family. They're already into it with the Adamo gang. Tony Gianolla said Adamo killed one of his men a few days ago.”

Riordan rubbed the stubble on his chin. “Seems quite a coincidence, doesn't it?”

“What? That Adamo is a player in this?”

One corner of his mouth slowly turned upward. “Yes, that's exactly what I meant.”

“Two Black Hand gangs fighting each other? Judging from the newspapers, that's just about all they do. Please, Detective Riordan, I need your help. Off the books.”

He shook his head slowly. “I don't do business that way, Will. Especially with a murderer. You know, for some reason I never doubted you killed Moretti.”

That stopped me. “My Lord, I didn't kill him. If you were so sure of that, why'd you bring Esposito's confession to court?”

He flung an arm over the back of the chair and blew a big cloud of smoke toward the ceiling before he looked at me again. “I've been asking myself the same question.”

CHAPTER TEN

My father's secretary, Mr. Wilkinson, looked up when I entered the office. He was sitting at his small walnut desk, atop of which were only a blotter with green leather trim, a black telephone—the finish of its candlestick polished to a high gloss—and a single stack of paper. All were neatly squared to the lines of the desk.

“Will.” He smiled. “You look good.” He stood and walked around his desk, holding out his left hand. “Congratulations. I was so happy to hear the news.” He ducked his head. “Of course I knew you didn't do it.”

I tried to smile while I was thanking him, though I'm sure it was more a grimace.

“What brings you in today?” he asked. “Your father didn't say anything about it.”

“No. I didn't expect to be in. I'd just like a minute with him.”

“Certainly. Let me see if he has a moment.” He stepped to my father's office door and knocked twice.

My father's muffled voice carried through the door. Wilkinson opened it and stepped just inside. “Have you a moment to see an innocent man?” I could hear the smile in his voice.

“What?” my father said. “Oh, Will's here?”

Wilkinson nodded and stepped aside as my father hurried out of his office. “Good, good. There's something I'd like to speak with you about.”

“All right. I'd like to speak with you as well.” My voice was weak, pathetic. I tried to build some enthusiasm.

“Certainly. Come in.” He put his hand on my arm and escorted me into his office. He'd gotten new chairs since the last time I was here. I sat in one of them. The chair bulged in odd places that stuck into my back, and I shifted in my seat in a fruitless effort to get comfortable. “What's wrong with this chair?”

My father grinned. “I'm tired of people wasting my time. I've been on the lookout for the least comfortable chairs in the country.”

I stood. “I think you've found them.”

“All right.” He sat in his gray leather swivel chair. “What can I do for you?”

“I'd like to come back to work—but not in engineering. I'd like to work with you.”

“Mmm.” He chewed on the inside of his cheek. Finally he said, “We might be able to arrange that. But first I need
you
to do something.”

“What?”

“See Dr. Miller for a complete examination.”

“Why?”

“Humor me. I want to be sure you're healthy before you come back to work.”

I shrugged. “Fine. But what sort of work might I do?”

“Let me ponder that. There are a few special projects I haven't been able to get to.”

“I was thinking of a front office job. Administration. Something like that.”

“We'll discuss it after you see Dr. Miller,” he said. “And you must promise to follow Dr. Miller's instructions … should he have any.”

Again, I shrugged. “Fine.”

He picked up the receiver of his telephone. “Wilkinson? Call Dr. Miller. Tell him Will and I will be in this afternoon.” He listened for a moment. “Yes. He said whenever I could get him there.” He hung up.

“Today?” I said.

“Well, yes. He told me he'd fit you in any time.”

“All right.” My father and Dr. Miller had obviously planned this out, but I didn't anticipate any difficulty. I'd known Dr. Miller since I was a child, and he'd helped me immeasurably in my trials with Elizabeth. I had nothing to worry about. Once I finished with Dr. Miller, I'd begin to work on my father again. He
had
to give me a good job.

*   *   *

“Neurasthenia,” Dr. Miller said, turning to my father. “Or ‘Americanitis,' if you prefer. There's no doubt.”

“Oh, please.” I shook my head and jumped off the examination table. “There's nothing wrong with me that a week out of jail won't cure.”

“I'm afraid not, Will.” The doctor flipped through the pages of his notebook, peering over his pince-nez glasses. “Dispepsia, melancholia, a tendency to addiction—I could go on.” He spread his hands in front of him. “It's simply your body's response to the speed of life in this country. I believe your dependence on morphine came from a subconscious desire to slow down your life and to escape from the pressure exerted on you. The human body and mind weren't designed for this kind of strain. You need the rest cure.”

“I can't do that.”

“Will, listen to reason,” my father said. “There are any number of nice sanitariums—Dr. Kellogg's in Battle Creek, for instance.”

“He's right, Will,” Dr. Miller said. “Though I'd recommend traveling a bit farther. The Glen Springs Hotel in New York has been getting wonderful results with their radioactive mineral springs. A month or two there will give your body time to heal itself.”

“All I've been doing is resting. I need to get back to work.”

My father shook his head. “You promised to follow Dr. Miller's instructions.”

“Father, I'll go crazy there. The best thing for me is to work. If we work together you'll be able to keep your eye on me. You'll know if I'm getting better or worse. Please.” I reached out to him with my left hand. “I need to work.”

He sighed and turned to Dr. Miller. “Are there any other treatments?”

“Well, there's one possibility.” He looked thoughtful.

“Will I be able to work right away?” I asked.

“Shouldn't be a problem.”

I looked at my father. “And you'll let me work with you?”

He rubbed his chin with a forefinger before nodding.

Then it didn't matter what it was. “I'll do it.” I looked out the window at Dr. Miller's vegetable garden and was brought back to the day I discovered Elizabeth was addicted to heroin.

“All right,” Dr. Miller said. “We can start immediately.”

“Fine.” I turned to my father. “I'll be in bright and early tomorrow morning.”

“I'll need a few minutes,” Dr. Miller said. “I have to warm up the machine.”

“What machine?”

“Oh, I'm sorry,” Dr. Miller said. “Electrotherapy is what I was talking about.”

“That's putting my feet in electrified water?”

Dr. Miller chuckled. “No, of course not. Studies have proved that to be completely ineffective.”

“Oh.” I felt a little relief. “Well then, what are you going to do?”

“We connect a pair of electrodes to a machine.” He stepped up to me. “And we affix one here”—he touched one of my temples—“and the other to the inner angle of the eye, about here.” He pointed to my eye, just to the side of my nose.

“No.” It came out automatically.

Dr. Miller glanced at my father, who said, “There's always Glen Springs, Will.”

Shit.
“No … no, I'll do this—the electrotherapy.” I had to protect my family.

“I've done this hundreds of times, Will,” Dr. Miller said. “The charge is relatively mild. You've nothing to worry about.” He looked at my father and then again at me. “Okay?”

The thought of shooting an electrical charge into my head scared me to death, not to mention that it brought back frightful memories. But what choice did I have? “Fine.”

Dr. Miller left the room. I waited with my father until the doctor came back and escorted me into a small room with no windows. It contained a hospital bed, a small white table, a cabinet with medical supplies, and a single wooden chair. On the table was a wooden box with a pair of wires sticking out of it. It was plugged into a light socket.

Dr. Miller asked me to sit on the bed before taking two small white disks out of the cabinet. He applied a bit of glue to the back of the disks and stuck one on my left temple and the other at the edge of my right eye. While he did, he said, “Electrotherapy is a tried-and-true technique. I prefer the rest cure because it's less intrusive, but this is as likely to cure you. Now, lie down.”

I lay back, and he hooked the wires to the disks glued to my head. My fingers were trembling.

Stroking his long white beard, he said, “When we start, you will feel a tingling sensation first, and then a mild jolt that may disorient you a bit. I'll want to watch you for a few hours and then your father can take you home.” He reached over to the box. “All right, here we go.”

Little fingers tickled my skull and danced down my arms and legs. A second later, a bomb went off in my head.

*   *   *

I remember bits and pieces of the rest of that day—a nurse, mashed potatoes (though I don't recall any other component of a meal), and someone tucking me into an unfamiliar bed. The next morning I got dressed and came back to my apartment. While I was standing in the hallway in front of my door, a vague memory appeared—I had tried to open a locked door and then climbed out a window. I didn't remember how I got home.

After unlocking my door, I walked into the foyer. The telephone in my den was ringing. I strolled in and picked up the phone. A man was on the other end, and he sounded angry, but I couldn't make out what he was talking about. Eventually I hung up and wandered into the parlor, where I sat on the sofa and stared out the window. Throughout the day people knocked on my door, and the telephone rang numerous times, but I was content to just sit. Twice that I recall, a man twisted the knob and pounded on the door with his fist, rattling the dishes in my china cabinet, before stomping down the hall, cursing.