Motor City Shakedown (25 page)

Fifteen minutes outside of Ford City, the Torpedo's engine began sputtering. Elizabeth looked at me, alarmed. “What is it?”

“I don't…” The engine sputtered one last time and quit. We drifted around a corner, and I pulled the car under an oak tree on the side of the road.
Son of a bitch.
“I forgot to check the gasoline.”

She laughed and clapped her hands. “Will Anderson, renowned endurance driver and former world-record holder, runs out of gasoline on a trip to the country. Wait until the press hears about this.”

“Ha ha. Very funny. Although I
am
flattered you think the press would be interested in something other than my criminal activities.” I motioned for her to exit the car so I could do the same. “If you please.” Elizabeth, still snickering, climbed down from the car. With both eyes fixed on the pleasant sight of her behind, I followed her out. Fortunately, Edsel had left a small gasoline can in the trunk. Unfortunately, it was empty. I grabbed it and said, “Would you care to join me in a lovely stroll through the countryside, or would you prefer to wait under the tree?”

She looked up toward the sky and cupped her chin in her hand, enjoying dragging this out. “Well, it is a lovely day. Perhaps I will join you.”

We had no sooner started back up the road toward Ford City when the sound of a motorcar bubbled up in the distance. When we reached the straightaway, I saw an automobile racing toward us. “Well, maybe it's our lucky day,” I said. “Surely they'll help a fellow motorist.”

We stood at the side of the road and watched the car approach. As it got closer, I could see it was a blue Hudson touring car, with two men in front. When they were perhaps fifty yards away, the passenger gave a start and twisted away from us, showing us his back. The driver, a big brute in a black pin-striped suit and straw boater, stood on the brakes, and the Hudson threw up a cloud of dust as it slid to a stop. He threw it into reverse, and the car jerked backwards, partway into the field next to the road, and then roared off again in the opposite direction.

I held up the gasoline can and shouted, “Hey! We need help!”

“What was that about?” Elizabeth asked as we watched the car disappear from sight.

I shook my head. “I don't know, but the man in the passenger seat didn't want us to see who he was.”

“Did you recognize the other man?”

“No.”

“Do you think they might have been following us?” she asked.

“Could be.”

“Who do you think it was?”

I grunted out a laugh. There were so many possibilities.

*   *   *

We were lucky enough to find a farmer only a few minutes down the road who siphoned enough gasoline out of his tractor to get us back to Ford City. There, we were directed to a lumberyard, where a man filled our tank from a fifty-five-gallon barrel they had set up in front—but at twenty-four cents a gallon it was no bargain.

We set out for Detroit, and this time I kept the speed down. I drove Elizabeth home and left her with a promise that I'd call her before doing anything else. Then I drove over to Hastings Street and parked six blocks from the Bucket—as close as I thought I could get and have my car still there when I came back. One way or another I had to speak with Salvatore.

It was a surprisingly uneventful visit. The saloon was nearly empty, Big Boy was absent, and the bartender was certain he'd never heard of Salvatore Adamo—or anyone at all named Adamo—even after I tried to jog his memory with a five-dollar bill. I could have brought Elizabeth after all.

I passed the evening hurling various knives in the parlor. I had accumulated a jackknife with a four-inch blade, a six-inch switchblade, and a pair of daggers, both with eight-inch blades, one thin and lightweight, the other heavy with a thick handle. For fun, I also grabbed the butcher knife from the kitchen. The more I practiced, the better I got, though it took dozens of throws to adjust from one to the other. The butcher knife was the easiest to stick in the wall, followed by the daggers, which I attributed to their balance. The jackknife was challenging, but the switchblade was the hardest by far. The haft and spring mechanism were virtually all the weight of the knife, which caused an uneven spin and gave me no margin for error.

I found that throwing straight overhand worked best, but the amount of wrist action and the distance from the board varied greatly from knife to knife. It was actually relaxing. I'd found that concentrating on the problems of knife-throwing blocked out my other thoughts. Each knife needed to be thrown from a different distance in order for the blade to stick in the wall, their length and my wrist action determining the rate of spin. My switchblade stuck most often from about fifteen feet away, while throwing my butcher knife required me to be in the hallway. By the time my neighbors started pounding on the walls, I thought I was getting pretty good. Perhaps if I had to go on the run I could find a job with the circus.

*   *   *

At eight o'clock the next morning, I was reading the paper in the parlor when Wilkinson phoned me to come down to see my father. When I got to the outer office, Wilkinson was sitting at his desk with a grimace on his face. I caught his eye and arched my eyebrows, but he just shook his head and told me to go right in.

Detective Riordan was sitting in front of my father's desk in what looked like Wilkinson's chair. One of the uncomfortable chairs was missing. Unfortunately, that left one for me.

My father cleared his throat. “Detective Riordan thought he ought to speak with me directly.”

Riordan half turned in his seat. An unlit cigar was clenched in his teeth. “I wanted to see if your father's understanding of the situation squared with what you told me.”

“And it does,” my father said.

Riordan nodded at me. “Pinsky's a lawyer, Jewish by way of Russia, no criminal record. He's worked with both the IWW and AFL. He's based in New York, but the New York police wouldn't say a word about him, which means he's connected. I couldn't find a record of a Detroit address for him.”

I took my wallet from my coat, pulled out the piece of paper Waldman had given me, and handed it to Detective Riordan. “Here's his address and telephone number.”

“Good.” He copied them into his notebook.

“Any idea where Pinsky was when Moretti was killed?” I said.

“He appears to have been in New York last August. Now, the Gianollas.” He chewed on the cigar. “I didn't find anything. Not in Detroit or Ford City. No records, nothing. As far as the U.S. government's concerned, these guys don't exist.” He shifted in his chair so that he was facing me. “Your father's never seen them, and he's only heard about them from you. I have to ask. Do they really exist? Because if you're sending me on a wild-goose chase—”

“Yes, they exist. And thanks for reminding me.” I dug another scrap of paper out of my coat pocket and handed it to him. “These are addresses of groceries in Ford City that I believe to be owned by the Adamos and the Gianollas. And feel free to ask your Sergeant Rogers if I made them up. I told you he was investigating them.”

“I couldn't confirm that.”

“Really?” I said. “Why would he lie to me?”

Riordan hesitated. “Well … he may be investigating them. Like I said, I couldn't confirm it.” He sat back and glanced at each of us. “Gentlemen, I am on the outside these days.”

“I'm sorry to hear that, Detective,” my father said.

“It's not your fault,” Riordan replied to my father. “And, as much as I'd like to blame him, it's not your son's either. I did it to myself. But that is neither here nor there.” He picked up his fedora from my father's desk and twirled it on a finger. “You're in a fix.” He shook his head. “You'll have to meet with Pinsky, and he has to think you're serious. I need you to buy us some time while I figure this out.”

My head drew back in surprise.
“Us?”

Detective Riordan turned back to me, his face a blank page. “I suppose I owe you something. And the Lord knows someone needs to show you how to get
out
of trouble.”

Detective Riordan joking? I didn't say anything, afraid to burst the bubble.

He took the cigar from his mouth, contemplated it for a moment, and said, “Three things, nonnegotiable. Number one—we do everything legally. Are we clear on that?”

My father and I agreed, though I wasn't sure I'd be able to live up to the commitment.

“Number two—my bosses wouldn't look kindly on me running an investigation without approval. I'm already on thin ice. No one else can know I'm helping you.”

We agreed.

“And three—I have a job and a family. I'm not going to be able to devote a lot of time to this.”

“We're grateful for any assistance you can lend us, Detective,” my father said.

“What should I do about Joe Curtiss?” I said. “I told him to get his wife and children out of town until this is over. He's scared to death.”

“I wouldn't recommend that,” Riordan said. “If the Gianollas are who you say they are, when they find out they'll know he's turned.”

“Couldn't his family just be on vacation or something?”

Riordan shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

“I think he's going to do it,” I said.

He spread his hands in front of him. “Everything's a risk, gentlemen. If they stay, they may get killed. If they leave, Joe might. You might.”

“I know that's a risk he'd take,” I said. “And I would too.”

“How much time did Pinsky give you to arrange a meeting with your father?” Riordan said.

“A week.”

“From when?”

“Last Friday.”

“Before we do this,” Riordan said, “I want to be sure you don't want to pay him off.”

My father shook his head. “I've got everything in the business. I can't come up with fifty thousand dollars.”

“And there's no guarantee that the Gianollas won't just keep coming back to the well,” Riordan said. “In fact, I'd be shocked if they didn't. Easy money.” He looked at me. “What do you say we surprise Pinsky and call a day early?”

I looked at my father and then back at Riordan. “And tell him what?”

“That your father refuses to meet with any representative of a union.”

“What?” my father and I both exclaimed.

“If you give in too easily, he'll know something's up. When he pushes you, ask him to give you more time. But not until he pushes you.”

I made the call. Waldman answered the phone and asked if I could wait a moment.

“Mr. Anderson?” Pinsky's wheezy voice struggled through the telephone line.

“Yes, Mr. Pinsky. I wanted you to know that I've spoken to my father, and … well, he said he won't meet with you.”

“That is most disappointing,” Pinsky said. “You do know the consequences of his inaction?”

“Yes, but … I don't know how I could convince him.”

“I have a few ideas,” Pinsky said. “But they all involve someone”—he gasped in a breath—“being badly hurt.”

“Give me some time. I'll figure it out.”

“I hope so, for the sake of your loved ones.” He paused. “If I have not met with your father”—he took a breath—“within the next five days, I will pass on the news”—he took another breath—“that you are uncooperative.”

“I'll work on him, Mr. Pinsky.”

“Very well, Mr. Anderson. I'll wait to hear from you. I would suggest he bring the money with him.” He hung up.

I replaced the receiver on the candlestick and recounted the conversation to my father and Detective Riordan.

“Good,” he said. “We've got until the twenty-fourth. Now, we can't be seen talking to each other. We need a go-between. Any ideas?”

“I'm sure Edsel Ford would help,” I said. “How much risk do you suppose there is?”

“That's hard to say. Do you see him socially?”

“He and I talk all the time. And I just bought a car from him.”

Riordan glanced at my father. “Is that okay with you?”

Though he looked worried, my father nodded.

Riordan pulled a notepad from his inside coat pocket, wrote something, and handed the paper to my father. “Here's my telephone number. If you have an emergency, you can catch me there most nights after eight. Tell Edsel that too.”

When Riordan left, I called Edsel and filled him in on the situation. After I gave him the telephone number, I copied it and tucked the sheet of paper into my wallet. It seemed a reasonable bet that, sometime, I'd need to get hold of Detective Riordan in the middle of the night.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Edsel phoned me at home that night. “Just wanted to let you know that I talked to our mutual friend. And of course I'll help you with your car in any way I can.”

Now we're speaking in code. As they say, being paranoid doesn't mean everyone really
isn't
out to get you. “Great. Thanks, Edsel.” I picked up the candlestick and sat back in my chair. “I just want to be sure you don't get hurt.”

“I'll be fine. It'll make my life interesting. Who wouldn't want that?”

“Me, for one,” I said. “I've had enough of it. Did our friend give you any details?”

“He essentially repeated what you already told me, though I didn't let him know that. And I'd like to extend you an invitation. F. W. Taylor is going to be speaking about scientific management at Detroit College next Monday night. Would you like to go with me?”

“Certainly.” I was sure there was more than Taylorism to be discussed that night. “I'll look forward to it.”

“Will?” His voice took on a plaintive note.

“Yes, Edsel?”

“Be careful.… That car's got a lot of power.”