Motor City Shakedown (24 page)

Elizabeth gave me a dark look. I held my hands up in front of me. “I know. I don't like it any more than you do. Anyway, he said I had to prove to him that I didn't kill Moretti. I've investigated. I even talked to Detective Riordan. I don't see how I'll be able to prove anything to Adamo, but I think he'd work with us if it was in their best interest. The Gianollas obviously have more power than the Adamos. If Vito wasn't afraid of them, would he have turned himself in? He needs help, and he's smart enough to know it.”

Elizabeth shook her head. “You're forgetting one thing. He's in
jail.
He can't do anything. Is Salvatore capable of something like this?”

“I don't know. He's no Vito, that's for certain.” I lit a cigarette for myself. “Listen, if you have a better idea, I'm all ears. I can't think of any other way to get rid of the Gianollas.”

She bit her lip. “Work with the Adamos?” She was quiet for a few moments before looking into my eyes. “I'll do what I have to. We need to end this.”

I nodded. “Why don't we drive out to Ford City tomorrow, see if we can figure out where they're holing up.”

“Ford City?”

“The Gianollas gave me an address where we might find the Adamo gang.”

“All right. Do you want me to drive?”

“No.” I grinned. “I'll drive.”

“You bought a car?”

“A special car.”

She looked at me with raised eyebrows, but I waved her off. “It's better that you experience it first. If we find Salvatore, we can propose a truce. I'll pick you up. Say, nine o'clock?”

She handed me her glass. “Then I'll see you in the morning.”

I followed her to the front door and helped her into her coat, as best as I could with one hand. She piled her hair up on her head and fixed it in place with the comb before putting on her hat and running it through with the hatpin.

“Would you like me to see you home?” I said. “It's no trouble.”

“That won't be necessary.” She opened her bag and pulled out a Browning pistol.

I looked at her in surprise.

She popped out the magazine, checked the load, and tucked the gun back into her purse. Glancing up at me, she allowed herself a little smile. “It was my father's. I've helped myself to his gun cabinet. And I've got the Baker. I'll be safe.”

Elizabeth's father bought a Baker Electric shortly after she broke off our engagement—much more, I'm sure, to bother me than because he thought it was the right automobile for his family. (Not that there was anything wrong with a Baker. It just wasn't a Detroit.)

I opened the door for her. “Drive carefully.”

“I will. Good night.” She stepped out into the hallway but stopped and turned back to me. “Thank you for trusting me. I'll be of great help to you. You'll see.”

She headed off down the hall. Rubbing my hand, I watched her go. I'd be seeing a lot more of Elizabeth, but she'd be right in the line of fire.

*   *   *

At 9:05 I pulled the Torpedo to the curb just down the block from Elizabeth's house. She was waiting in the swing on the porch. My heart ached. The swing was our spot, one of the few places we could get out from under the spying eyes of her father when we were courting. She saw me coming up the sidewalk and skipped down the stairway, turned out perfectly in an emerald day dress with a matching purse and long coat, and a straw boater on her head cocked at a jaunty angle. “My, aren't you the swell?” she said. “You look like an advertising model in
Horseless Age.
”

“Thank you. Wait, is that a compliment?”

Her eyebrows rose. “Yes.”

Today was the first time in a very long while I'd actually put some thought into my clothing. I'd gone with a tan tweed Norfolk jacket with matching knickerbockers, knee-length stockings, and a pair of sturdy brown shoes with leather gaiters—the perfect outfit for a rugged outdoorsman. These days, no ensemble of mine was complete without a gun, so of course I had a pistol tucked into my belt at the small of my back.

“You look very nice this morning as well,” I said.

She gave me a curtsy and smiled. “Thank you, sir.”

My. She was in a good mood.

She gestured toward the Torpedo. “Is that a Model T?”

“Yes,” I said. “It was Edsel's. He modified it with some of the men at Ford.”

“Modified?”

I grinned. “I'll show you.” I escorted her to the car and helped her up into the passenger seat, then set the spark and throttle and walked around front to start it. I got it going on the second crank and climbed into the car, squeezing past Elizabeth into the driving seat. I gave it some throttle, and the engine went from a purr to a roar.

Her eyes widened. “This is no ordinary flivver.”

Handing her a set of driving goggles, I smiled and said, “Here. You'll need these.” I drew the throttle back down and got ready to pull out. “Oh. Did you bring a gun?”

She raised her purse. “You?”

I nodded and started out down Jefferson, heading west toward downtown. It was a perfect morning. A few clouds drifted across the sky, the temperature was already in the mid-sixties, and explosions of green filled the trees and garden beds. Elizabeth was affecting me more than I knew.

I sneaked a glance at her. The wind riffled through her hair. Her classic Helen of Troy profile was marred only by her forehead, which was creased in concentration.

“What are you thinking about?” I asked.

“What? Nothing.” She forced out a laugh. “Just thinking.”

When I stopped for traffic at McDougall, I said, “Oh, some interesting news this morning.” I dug out the front section of the newspaper from under the seat and handed it to her, folded over to an article. The headline read,
ADAMO MURDER TRIAL TO BEGIN MONDAY
.

I'd been surprised it would start so soon. Both the State and the defense had called for a speedy trial. Ferdinand Palma again assured the public of Vito Adamo's innocence, while District Attorney Higgins vowed to put him behind bars. The entire article filled a mere quarter column. Adamo had done a good job of staying out of the limelight. He had no more significance to the newspapers or the general public than any other man accused of a crime.

I nudged my way through traffic at the corner and continued down the street with a glance at the speedometer Edsel had installed. With the Detroit Electric I normally drove, changing from first to second moved the car from five to eight miles per hour. Gasoline automobiles weren't so predictable.

After perusing the article, Elizabeth looked up at me and said, “Might be an interesting way to spend some time.”

“Going to the trial?”

She nodded. “I'd like to see him squirm. And I especially want to be there for the sentencing.”

“I'm sure we can find time to stop by.”

We passed through the city to the shacks and coal yards at the outskirts and then burst into the surrounding countryside. The cobbles ended abruptly, and we splashed down into a puddle on the pitted dirt road running parallel to the Detroit River. I was watching a barge pass, three huge pyramids of dusty black coal on its flat deck, when Elizabeth said, “Open it up.”

“What?”

She leaned over to look at the speedometer. “This automobile will go faster than twelve miles per hour, won't it?”

“Certainly.”

“Then open it up. Let's see what this thing can do.”

I looked ahead. The road was clear. “Goggles?” I pulled mine down over my eyes, and Elizabeth did likewise. “Okay, hold on!” I jerked the throttle lever down, and the car leaped forward. We raced down the road, laughing and shouting like children, the wind buffeting our faces and blowing back our hair, as we jounced through puddles and potholes. I saw puffs of smoke on the horizon, and before I knew it, we had caught up to an interurban train, five cars behind the locomotive on the tracks alongside the road, chugging toward Wyandotte.

“Faster!” Elizabeth shouted.

I glanced at the speedometer. We were already going thirty. “Are you sure?”

“Come on, Grandpa!” she said as we were both thrown forward by a pothole. “Punch it!”

I pulled the throttle lever nearly to full speed. We blew past the train and flew down the road—literally at times. Elizabeth gripped her door and the top of the dashboard in front of her, grinning with delight, her hair spilling out from under her hat. “Faster!”

I risked a glance at the speedometer again—forty-five miles per hour. I'd never driven this fast. Few people had. A hill was coming up ahead. I nudged the throttle agan, hoping to catch some air at the top. We both whooped as we roared up the hill. At the peak, the tires left the ground. We sailed for ten feet before rattling back to earth.

The rear of the car slid left. I was losing control. I jerked the wheel left, and we fishtailed back and forth, barreling into the field before I was able to get control. We slid to a stop in a cloud of dust. My hand burned as if on fire. I'd grabbed the wheel with both hands. I grimaced but kept the cry from escaping my lips. When I thought I could control my voice, I took a deep breath and looked at Elizabeth. “I'll take it a little slower now, if you don't mind.”

She smiled. “That seems to be a reasonable idea.”

I pulled the throttle lever down and kept our speed at fifteen miles per hour, which now felt like a crawl.

Elizabeth sat back and pulled out her hatpin, then swept her hair out of her face and back up under her hat. Replacing the pin, she nodded. “Wow, that was fun. Our Baker won't do that.”

We passed the Michigan Alkali Company's huge factory and pulled into the little village of Ford City. The address Tony Gianolla had given me was on Antoine. It was a small commercial area with shops and offices, and many of the signs on the buildings were in Italian. We both peered into the building in question as we passed at five miles per hour. It was a small grocery.

Elizabeth turned to me with a question on her face. “Are you sure about the address? I've never taken the Adamos for grocers.”

I shrugged, then circled around and pulled to the curb across the street from the store. “Let's take a look. Is your gun loaded?”

She nodded. “Yours?”

“Yep. And listen. Be ready for trouble. If we come across Salvatore, I don't think he's going to be happy to see us.” We hopped out and crossed the street to the market. It was well stocked and clean. The back wall was lined with beer kegs. The two men working in the store looked Italian, but I didn't recognize them. We took a lap through the aisles and stopped at the counter. “Excuse me,” I said to the back of one of the men. He turned and looked at me expectantly.

“I need to get a message to Salvatore Adamo.”

He looked wary but shrugged and said something to me in Italian, finishing with the word
“Inglese.”

I pulled out my wallet and laid a five-dollar bill on the counter. “I'm Will Anderson. I need to talk to him.”

He pushed the bill back toward me and shrugged again, his hands spread in front of him. I left the bill. I thought he had shown recognition of the Adamo name, but there was no way to know for sure. I hoped he spoke the universal language of money. When I turned around, I saw Elizabeth trying to talk to the other man, who didn't seem to speak English either.

I caught her eye and nodded toward the front of the store. We walked out to the boardwalk. “What do you think?” I said.

Elizabeth was staring across the street. I followed her eyes. The sign on the building directly opposite us read,
DROGHERIA GIANOLLA
.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

It was another small market—similar size, red brick, the first floor of a two-story building. “Let's go see if I recognize anyone,” I said.

We crossed the street and walked inside. Three older men in dark suits sat at a small table by the front window, sipping espresso from tiny cups. A tall shelf filled with liquor bottles stood behind them, the bottles glittering in the sun. I pulled my eyes away, walked past, and looked around the store. The only thing I thought unusual was the large quantity of liquor in front and the stacks of beer kegs towering against the rear wall.

A young man in a crisp white apron stood behind the counter. I sauntered up to him. “Do you speak English?”

“Sì,”
he said, holding his thumb and forefinger half an inch apart.

“Who owns this store?”

“Non so.”

“I don't understand,” I said.

“He said he doesn't know,” Elizabeth said. “Do you know who owns the market across the street?”

His eyes became wary. “No.”

“Have you ever heard of Salvatore Adamo?”

“No.
Scusa,
” he said, turning away. He began rearranging tins of coffee on the shelf.

We looked around for a while, but I didn't see either of the Gianolla brothers. With nothing better to do, we sat in the Torpedo watching the stores. “I don't know,” Elizabeth said. She shifted and put her arm up on the back of the seat. “Do you really believe Vito Adamo and Tony Gianolla are grocers?”

I shrugged.

“I wonder, though. If they are, did their dispute start over a thumb on the meat scale or a price war on lettuce? It's just so bizarre that they would have these stores across the street from each other.”

“In Ford City, yet. The two most feared names in the Detroit underworld belong to a pair of grocers. From Ford City. Unbelievable.”

“So what have we gained?”

“Not very much. I'll tell Detective Riordan about this, though. Maybe he can sniff them out.” I put my hand on hers. “What do you say we get some lunch and then take a drive around the area? Maybe I can spot the house the kidnappers took me to.”

Elizabeth agreed, and we had lunch in a small Italian restaurant. When we finished, we drove around the village, looking for a needle in a haystack—the white clapboard house with a fruit tree between the house and the stable. I saw nothing familiar. After an hour, we decided to go back to Detroit.