Motor City Shakedown (21 page)

I climbed into the driving seat, set the spark and throttle, and hopped down again. The engine started on the first crank. I pulled my goggles over my eyes and set my touring cap at a jaunty angle before rolling the automobile out of the garage at a snail's pace. Once I was clear, I tore up Woodward toward the factory, obliterating the ten-mile-an-hour city speed limit. The engine roared as I weaved between cars, wagons, carriages, and bicycles, stopping only for the streetcars. The wind blew back my hair and buffeted my cheeks, and I felt an exhilaration I hadn't experienced in a long time. I could see why men preferred gasoline cars—especially fast ones.

When I arrived at the factory, Mr. Wilkinson told me he had set an appointment at two o'clock for my father and me with James Finnegan from the EAD. Prior to that, we'd be having lunch with a few of my father's counterparts in the business. My father was busy all morning, so to keep myself occupied, I wrote down some of Edsel's ideas about efficiency.

At noon I drove my father to the Pontchartrain Hotel, the de facto meeting place for automobile men in Detroit. On the way, I told him about Joe Curtiss.

“They're after Joe too?” he exclaimed. “Lord.”

I parked at the curb just down from the hotel. While walking through the dining room, my father greeted a number of men I didn't know—all newer members of the automotive community. We stopped at a table where three men were already seated—Joe Hudson, of both J. L. Hudson Department Store and Hudson Motors; Ransom E. Olds, formerly of Olds Motor Works, now running the REO Motor Car Company; and Bill Durant, who, after being squeezed out of General Motors by bankers, had formed the Chevrolet Motor Company with his former racing driver, Louis Chevrolet.

You needed a program to keep track of the players in this business.

They caught up on each other's families and businesses through lunch. My father waited until we finished eating to bring up the EAD and Finnegan. Hudson and Olds had nothing but good things to say. The Employers Association had been doing a fine job for them in eliminating union threats, and they thought Finnegan a good sort and a solid man. Durant agreed with them, but added nothing to the conversation. After thanking them, my father and I walked out the front door and turned right, heading for my car.

“William?” a man called. Bill Durant cut through the pedestrian traffic in front of the hotel and hurried up to us. He was a small man with a high forehead, kind eyes, and large ears that stuck out from his head. Taking hold of my father's arm, he said, “I didn't want to say anything in there, but I heard some troubling things from the Employers Association about Will.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

“Troubling how?” my father asked.

“One night after a meeting I had drinks with a few of the EAD men, including Finnegan. He was in his cups already, but after a few more drinks he started up on how it was Will's fault that John Cooper got into the spot he did.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and met my eyes. “He seemed to believe you started the chain of events that led to Cooper bribing Judge Hume.”

“That's ridiculous,” my father said.

“I got the impression Finnegan had looked up to Cooper. He thought Will should be locked up for life. The other men agreed with him.” Grimacing, Durant said, “Sorry. Just thought you ought to know.”

My father and I shared a glance. He turned back to Durant. “Who else was with Finnegan?”

“Well.” He hesitated. Looking out at the street, he said, “Paxton, Whitaker, Bielman, a few others.”

My father ran his hand over the top of his head. “Everyone who matters.”

Durant nodded.

Son of a bitch
. “Anything else?” I said.

“No.”

We thanked Mr. Durant and climbed into my car. “It makes sense to me now,” I said. “I couldn't understand why he wouldn't acknowledge that the Employers Association works—or at least worked—with criminals. Now I know. He just doesn't want to help
me
.”

“Why would Finnegan blame you? You had nothing to do with the bribery or the murders Cooper committed.”

“Who knows what Cooper told them about me. He hated me. And I
was
responsible for him meeting Elizabeth and his entry into Judge Hume's confidence.” I shook my head. “Maybe you should go by yourself.” I pulled out into traffic for the short drive to the Stevens Building.

“No.” My father's face was red. “We're doing this together.”

He was silent the rest of the way, though I could practically see the steam coming from his ears. I parked across the street from the office. We climbed out and waited for traffic to clear. Before we crossed, he said, “Listen. If we go in angry, we're cutting our own throats. Let's give him the benefit of the doubt, see if he'll work with us. If we can't go to the police, the Employers Association is all we have.”

When we reached the EAD office, the receptionist called Finnegan, who met us in the lobby. “Mr. Anderson,” he said, holding out his hand to my father. They shook, and I could see my father had a real grip on the security man's hand. Finnegan didn't offer to shake with me this time.

“Can we speak somewhere private?” my father said.

“Of course.”

We followed him to his office and took our respective places around his desk. Finnegan leaned forward and folded his hands on the desktop. His face was carefully neutral. “Now, what can I do for you gentlemen?”

“Mr. Finnegan,” my father said, “we have a problem.”

“All right.” Finnegan reached out and pulled a notepad in front of him. “What sort of problem?”

“The Teamsters are making a run at the Anderson Electric Car Company by way of some Sicilian thugs.”

Finnegan's eyes darted to me. “Is this that Adamo character you asked about?”

“No,” I said. “It's another gang.”

“And who might they be?”

I glanced at my father. He nodded. Turning back to Finnegan, I told him about the Gianollas kidnapping me. “I believe they are siphoning off union funds and helping the Teamsters expand. They've threatened my family if I don't get the union into Anderson Electric.”

“Hmm,” Finnegan said, leaning back. He looked from me to my father. “That's quite a story.”

“But listen,” I said. “You have to keep this from the police. I'm positive the Gianollas have cops on their payroll. If we don't let the Teamsters in, they say they're going to kill my parents and my—Elizabeth Hume.” I'd almost said
fiancée.
“The Gianollas are using a go-between named Ethan Pinsky for the negotiations. And they've told an Anderson employee, Joe Curtiss, that they'd kill his family if we don't get this done.”

“I'll try to run down some addresses,” Finnegan said. “Anything else?”

“No.” I looked at my father, and he shook his head.

“All right.” He stood, and we followed suit. “Just so you know,” he said. “AFL unions are making runs at companies all across the city, and the Wobblies are filling in the gaps. My men are spread very thin. But this will be a top priority.”

My father shook hands again with Finnegan, and we left the office. On the way back to the factory, I said, “I'm not going to be coming in to work for a while. I need to deal with this Gianolla problem.”

My father nodded. “What are we going to do about your mother and Elizabeth?”

“I tried to get Elizabeth to take her mother out of town, but she's not budging. Maybe Mother could visit a relative?”

He shook his head. “I'll talk to her, but you know your mother.”

“Do you really think Finnegan will help us?”

My father shrugged. “I don't know. I suppose we'll find out.”

I spent some time with him in his office at the factory, puzzling through our problem, and then drove back to the garage, where I left the Torpedo and caught a streetcar home. I unlocked my door, walked inside, and was heading for the bathroom when I heard a chair scrape in the kitchen. Whipping the gun out of my belt, I slunk around to the kitchen entrance. There, at the table, sat Tony Gianolla.

*   *   *

I saw red. “You son of a—”

A gun barrel pushed against my ear, and the blade of a knife pressed into my throat. “Wouldn' finish that,
paisano,
” Sam Gianolla said. “Gimme the piece.”

I held my gun up over my shoulder.

He took it with his knife hand. “Siddown.”

He shoved me to the kitchen and pushed me into a chair across from his brother, who stared at me with those hooded eyes. “What was ya doin' this afternoon?”

“Just … business.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

He looked over my shoulder and nodded. A fist crashed against the side of my head, knocking me out of the chair. I fell first against the icebox and then to the floor. My head rang like cathedral bells. Sam picked me up, stuck me back in the chair, and stood at my side, uncomfortably close.

Tony smiled. “What was ya talkin' to Finnegan 'bout?”

They knew. I clutched the side of my head and gasped out, “It was routine business.”

“Why is it I don' believe you?” Tony said.

“I swear!” I blinked, trying to clear my head. “We're closing down part of the carriage plant.” I was making it up as I went. “There's a lot of men to be let go, and we need to coordinate that with the EAD.”

After a quick look at Sam, Tony grabbed my face with one big paw. “Listen, shit-sack.” He shook my head, rattling my brain. “I know people down there. You fuck with me on this, we're gonna do to you what we did to Sam Buendo. You hear me?”

My face still buried in his hand, I nodded. His palm smelled of garlic.

“You know what we did to him?” Tony said.

He shook my head for me.

“I was like a father to that asshole. The rat tipped the cops on some olive oil that wasn' strictly legal. Sammy took a baseball bat to him for two hours. Break a bone, break another one, break another one. You know how many bones a man's got, shit-sack?”

I shook my head, still clutched in that big mitt.

“More'n two hundred. How many'd you break, Sammy?”

“Most of 'em,” Sam grunted.

Tony shoved me back in my chair and let go of my face. “While he could still feel it, Sam cut off his cock. Then we dump him in a field and lit him on fire. So now do you know what we gonna do if you fuck with us?”

I nodded. My head was still ringing.

Tony stood. “I better hear good reports on you, sonny.” He walked around the table, fitting his derby onto his head.

“Wait,” I said.

He stopped and looked down at me.

“If you want me to cooperate with you, I want the truth out of you on one thing—who killed Carlo Moretti?”

The brothers shared a grin before Tony turned back to me. “You? You want the truth? Why don' you give him some truth, Sammy.”

Sam grabbed my right hand and squeezed it. I cried out and tore at his fingers. Agonizing waves of pain crashed over me. He squeezed harder. I fell to my knees, tears streaming down my face. “Stop! Stop!”

His grip slackened just enough that I could speak. “I'll help you,” I gasped. “Any way I can.”

Sam bent down and looked into my eyes. “That's 'xactly what you gonna do.” He gave my hand a tremendous squeeze, grinding the bones back and forth over each other. Lights burst in front of me. When he let go, I fell to the floor.

I heard their footsteps moving away from me, and then my door opened and closed. I tried to stand and made it only to my knees before I threw up.

*   *   *

God damn. God damn, it hurts.

I staggered into the bathroom, trying to hold my hand up as I retched again and again. When I was through, I grabbed the bottle of aspirin. After looking at it for a second, I let it drop to the floor and hurried to the bedroom. I took my remaining pistol from the nightstand, stuffed it in my belt, and wiped the tears from my eyes. My hand burned as if it were still covered with sulfuric acid, eating away at the skin, the flesh, the bone. I would never be able to see this through while dealing with so much pain. I needed something. And the something I needed wasn't aspirin.

I checked my watch. It was 4:48. Stores would be open another twelve minutes. I hurried out to Woodward with my arms crossed, my right hand tucked under my left arm. Pushing past the crowd at the trolley stop, I turned right and staggered the two blocks to Peterson's Pharmacy. The pain in my hand was so agonizing I could hardly breathe.

I pushed open the door. My hand still felt like it was on fire, but I also noticed my mouth was watering. Mr. Peterson, an older man, balding, with his stomach straining against his white tunic, stood behind the counter. “May I help you, sir?” He looked at me expectantly.

I walked up to the counter and took in a shuddering breath. “I need morphine.”

“Do you have a prescription?”

“No, and I don't need one. Morphine. Please.”

He looked me over. “Sir, I'm afraid that I can't just sell morphine willy-nilly to everyone who comes along.”

“God damn it!” I shouted, tugging the glove off my disfigured hand. I stuck it in his face. “See? Now do you understand?”

Averting his eyes, he turned and pulled a one-ounce bottle from the shelf. “That will be a dollar-fifty, sir.”

I fumbled the wallet from my pocket and pulled out two dollars. “Keep it.”

“No, sir. Dollar-fifty, no more.” He gave me two quarters.

I pocketed them along with the morphine. “Thank you,” I said. “I appreciate your decency.”

“Just so you know,” he said, “in the future you will need a prescription. You shouldn't have any trouble getting one.”

“Thanks.” I stuck my right hand in my coat pocket and practically ran from the shop. I hadn't made it to the corner before I took the first drink. When I got home, I chipped ice from the block, wrapped it in a towel, and carried it into the parlor. I took another good dose of morphine and lay down on the sofa, the ice-filled towel draped over my hand.