Motor City Shakedown (12 page)

I noted this somewhere in the interior of my brain, but didn't examine it at the time and had forgotten all about it when I decided to get something to eat. My mind had cleared to the extent that I felt like I had just awakened from a night with too little sleep—dull, head heavy, my vision surrounded with darkness.

I dressed and headed out the door, down the stairs, and out of the building. It was dark, which surprised me. I had no idea what time it was but didn't think to look at my watch.

A dark figure appeared in front of me. The next thing I knew, I was lying on my back, writhing in pain. My stomach felt like it had been torn apart, but the attack was so sudden, so violent, that I didn't know if I had been shot or hit with something.

The man grabbed my collar and dragged me into the alley between my building and the house next door. With one hand, he lifted me to my feet and pinned me against the wall. I gasped from the pain as my stomach muscles stretched out.

The light of the electric streetlamp cut across his forehead at an angle. One eye was in the light, the other in shadow. Even in my state, that one eye—brown, wide, bulging was all I needed to see—Sam Gianolla. He tapped me under the chin with a baseball bat. My teeth clicked together. I clenched my jaw.

“My friend say you don' take him serious.”

“I—I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Fuck you don't.” He brought the bat up under my chin and popped me again, this time a little harder. “Joe from the Teamsters called ya this morning. Ya hung up on him.”

“No. I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Listen to me,
stronzo.
This ain't no game.” He let go of my collar and pushed his forearm hard against my windpipe. “You got one more chance. I liked Esposito. He wasn' a piece a shit like you.”

“All right.” I still didn't know what he was talking about, but denying him would only get me hurt worse. “It was a mistake. I'll do what you want.”

Gianolla stepped back and dropped the bat to his side. “Adamo got a warrant out on him. Your job right now is to get the Teamsters in. If this work out, we won't have to cut him in at all.” He smiled a cold, dark smile. “Makes your job easy.” He wound up and rammed the end of the bat into my stomach.

I fell to the ground and curled up in the fetal position, gasping for breath. Gianolla used the bat to turn my head toward him. “Only reason you not dead is my brother. Next time I gotta come here it gonna hurt a lot worse. And next time gonna be
permanente.
”

*   *   *

Sam Gianolla stalked off, and I picked myself up from the alleyway and stumbled, doubled over, toward the front of my building. I was nearly to the door when a pair of voices called out, “Will!”

In the dim light of the streetlamps, I saw my mother and father hurrying up the walk. “Oh, thank God,” my mother said. “Will, dear, are you all right?”

“Yes.” I straightened, my stomach muscles stabbing at me. “Just a little sick to my stomach.”

They stopped in front of me. “Well, you don't look all right,” my mother said, putting her arm around me and steering me to the door. Now seeing me in the light, she gasped. “What happened to you?”

I pushed my hair back from my forehead and straightened my coat. “Nothing. I took a tumble.”

“Let's get you into bed.” She turned to my father. “William, you need to phone Dr. Miller and let him know Will's here.”

They fussed over me and got me back into my apartment. My mother put me to bed while my father went into my den to use the telephone. When I was situated, she left to make me a cup of tea, and my father sat in my rocking chair. “Why did you leave Dr. Miller's?”

I shook my head. “I don't know. I don't remember.”

“His contraption malfunctioned. I don't know how many watts you had shot through your head, but it was probably enough to power the Victoria through the entire thousand-mile endurance run.”

I nodded. “Sounds about right.”

“You scared Dr. Miller and your mother to death. After you disappeared, they came here to find you, but you weren't home. She phoned me, and we both came over this afternoon and then contacted everyone we could think of, including all the hospitals.”

“I'm sorry. I'm pretty sure I was here all day. I don't think I got into any trouble.”

“You should go to a sanitarium, Will.”

“No.” I thought about it. “I'll keep getting the treatment.”

My father's eyes grew wide. “You're not serious.”

“I'm not leaving town.”

“See Dr. Miller again. He'll figure something out.”

“Fine.” I nodded back. I couldn't go to a sanitarium. “But I'll be in to work Monday.”

“No. I don't want to see you in the office next week.”

“Be reasonable, Father.”

He was having none of it. My mother bustled into the room with a cup of tea and shooed my father out. She plumped the pillows and took my temperature and generally did all the things mothers seem to be under contract to do. When she ran out of maternal duties, she sat on the edge of my bed and took hold of my hand. I had always borne a close resemblance to her, but she had changed. Her brunette hair was now shot with steel gray, and her long face seemed even longer, with more prominent cheekbones. Crow's-feet were etched into the skin at the sides of her eyes, deep wrinkles cut into her forehead, and sharp semicircles curved around the edges of her mouth.

“What happened to you, Will?”

“Nothing, Mother. I'm fine.”

“You know, we didn't stop being your parents when you turned eighteen. We still love you. Let us help you.” She squeezed my hand. “We're not stupid, Will. You're obviously in trouble again.”

“I'll be fine.”

“You need to get out of Detroit—just get away from everything. It's no wonder you have neurasthenia. With Wesley's death and your trial and your … situation with Elizabeth, how could you not be plagued with melancholy?” She patted my hand. “Go to a sanitarium.”

“No, Mother.” I pushed myself up on the bed. “That would make me worse. I need to work.” If I didn't deliver, the Gianolla brothers would kill her, I had no doubt of that. Anger flared inside me. They threatened my mother and father. Though I said nothing, I could feel my jaw tighten. Those sons of bitches were not going to harm my family.

I touched my mother's hand. “Trust me. I'll stay at your house after the treatments until I'm back in my right mind.” I was going to have to figure out how to fake having the treatment. I couldn't keep this up, what with the problems I was facing.

She just looked at me for a moment. It was then I noticed that, with all the deep lines on her face, there were no laugh lines. She had taken a few trips to the Battle Creek San over the years. She knew what I was going through. “What about all those holes in your wall?”

“Oh, that's nothing. I just throw knives sometimes. It's helping my coordination.”

She looked at me a while longer, biting her lip. I wondered what she was thinking. Finally she nodded. “I'm spending the night.”

“Mother, really, it's not necessary. I'm perfectly—”

“That's enough of that nonsense, Will. I'm your mother.” Her tone softened. “You need someone to take care of you. You've been through so much. If you don't work it out of your system, you're going to do something you'll regret.”

I couldn't help but laugh. Do something I'll regret? I was looking forward to the day I would do something—anything—I
wouldn't
regret.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Dr. Miller came over a little while later and examined me. After apologizing a few dozen times, he declared me fit enough for home bed rest. By Sunday morning, I felt like I was back to normal. My mother stayed all day, watching over me like a hen. I had things to do, but there was no shaking her, so I exercised and stretched my hand when she let me out of bed. It also gave me time to think.

According to Sam Gianolla, the police were after Vito Adamo. The Gianollas wanted me to concentrate on getting the Teamsters into Detroit Electric. That wasn't going to happen, no matter what I did. If I could find Adamo, I would have options. One would be to do what the Gianollas wanted—set up Vito Adamo to be murdered. But that looked like a short-term solution. Once Adamo was out of the way, I would still have the Teamsters problem.

I had to rid myself of the Gianollas, and I could think of only one way to do that. But it would require working with a man I'd sworn to kill, or at the very least, bring to justice. I wondered if I could do that. The very thought of Vito Adamo made me smolder with anger. I doubted he felt any more congeniality for me. If I could get past my feelings to make the attempt, would Adamo do the same? Perhaps, if the Gianollas presented as big a problem for him as they did for me.

In the late afternoon I was lying on the sofa reading when the telephone rang. My mother answered it. She talked for a few minutes, and I assumed it was one of her friends. But then she called, “Will? It's Elizabeth.”

I felt a moment of panic. This conversation was inevitable, but I so wanted to avoid it. I went to the den, took the phone from my mother, and waited until she retreated from the room. “Hello?”

“Hello, Will,” Elizabeth said. “How are you?”

It wasn't the standard reflexive “How are you?” Her voice was full of concern. My mother must have told her about the electrotherapy mishap. “I'm doing fine,” I said. “And you?”

“Fine. There's a new Impressionist exhibition at the art museum, and I thought, if you weren't too busy, you might like to see it with me.”

“No. I can't. Between work and this treatment I'm getting, I really have to put my social life on hold for a while. I'm sorry. Maybe things will settle down in a few weeks.” I hoped we'd be able to resume our relationship when I finished with the Gianollas. I didn't want to shut her out forever.

“Oh. All right. I understand.”

We talked a few minutes more before we hung up with no plans for getting together or even phoning. I was watching my chances for a happy life slip between my fingers.

*   *   *

The next morning I was able to convince my mother that I was in my right mind, or at least as near as I was going to get, and she agreed to leave me to my own devices. I tried to hide from her the sharp pains that stabbed me in the gut every time I bent over or twisted my torso, courtesy of Sam Gianolla and his baseball bat.

At ten o'clock I left my apartment. It was cool but sunny, a perfect morning of the type that helped me forget the dark cold months of winter. My first stop was a sporting goods store, where I bought a switchblade and two .32-caliber seven-shot Colts with two boxes of bullets. I stuck the knife in my pocket, one of the guns into my belt, and when I got home, the other gun into my nightstand. Things were getting uglier, and the path I was being forced to take would be dangerous.

While I was deciding what to do next, a thought struck me: The Employers Association of Detroit used Vito Adamo's men on occasion to do their dirty work. I didn't know who had taken John Cooper's place as the Labor Bureau's security head, but he would know how to get hold of Adamo.

I hurried to my den and phoned the EAD. A secretary answered and, after I explained whom I was looking for, told me the head of security was now a man named James Finnegan. I vaguely remembered him as a member of John Cooper's union busters. He was a good-sized man, though not huge, with acne scars pitting his cheeks. I couldn't recall ever speaking with him. When he came on the line, his voice was serious and gravelly. He said he was busy, but I persisted and he finally made an appointment with me for an hour later.

I took a Woodward Line trolley to Grand River Avenue and then walked the last two blocks to the EAD office in the Stevens Building. The walls of the foyer and lobby had been covered with rich mahogany paneling since I'd last been here, and a new oriental rug graced the hardwood floor. The office smelled of money.

The receptionist showed me to Finnegan's dark-paneled office, a large room with dozens of wooden filing cabinets and a pair of upholstered chairs in front of the desk. Finnegan was sitting behind the desk and stood when I came in.

“Mr. Anderson.” He held his right hand out to me and looked surprised when I shook it with my left. “Please.” He gestured toward one of the chairs in front of his desk and waited until I sat to sink back into his chair. “I've got a meeting in a few minutes, so perhaps we should get right to it. What can I do for you?”

“Your predecessor worked with certain … criminal elements when he needed men to do dirty work. I need to get in touch with one of those men—Vito Adamo. I know John Cooper would have left information on how to contact him. I need that information.”

He sat back, and his chair gave out a long shrill creak. “No. I'm sure you're mistaken. Believe me, I'd know.”

“You are aware that Cooper used criminals?”

Finnegan eyed me from across the desk. Finally he said, “Mr. Anderson, we do not employ criminals for any reason. I've been through every file in the place. There's nothing about any Adamo.”

He didn't know Cooper used Adamo's men? It wasn't outside the realm of possibility, but still … “Perhaps you could check again.”

“Tell you what, Mr. Anderson.” He stood and walked out from behind his desk. When I stood, he took my arm and led me toward the door. “I'll look through everything again. If I find anything about Adamo I'll give you a call.”

I thanked him, though I'm not sure why, and left the office. Walking back to the trolley stop, I shook my head. Finnegan wasn't going to be any help.

I was going to have to hunt down Adamo on my own.

*   *   *