Motor City Shakedown (26 page)

“I will. And you be careful in that Speedster. Good night, Edsel.”

“Good night, Will.”

I hung up the receiver and set the candlestick back on the desk. Edsel was nineteen now, a man, and he was smart. He'd be okay.

*   *   *

On Friday I checked with Izzy to see if they had found out anything about Moretti's killer. He said they hadn't, but Abe told him to let me know they'd keep searching if I paid for another three days. I told him to forget it. I was going to run out of money if I kept paying the Bernsteins for what I suspected was absolutely nothing.

The weekend passed with no contact from Riordan, the Gianollas, or Ethan Pinsky. Elizabeth and I spent some time in the office at the factory but stayed away from Ford City and the Bucket. Given that I was meeting Edsel Monday night, I hadn't expected to hear from Riordan, but I couldn't help thinking we were cutting it too close. I didn't let Elizabeth go anywhere without me, and I always had my gun handy.

Monday morning I rolled over onto my right hand and woke, shouting in pain. I held the abomination up in front of my face and looked at it. This hand was a curse—a scarred, ragged, burgundy curse with which I would be saddled for the rest of my life.

The rest of my life.

As that sank in, I thought,
Maybe I should quit complaining and get on with it
.

Repressing the thought of the morphine in the nightstand, I went into the bathroom and mixed three grams of aspirin into a glass of water. I drank that before dressing for the day and putting on my glove. At seven o'clock, Elizabeth rang my bell. I asked her in for coffee, and we sat at the kitchen table. Steam rose in a slender wisp in front of her face.

“Any developments?” she asked, tipping some cream into her cup.

“Nothing.”

“Then let's go to the trial today.”

“All right. I need to do something to take my mind off Pinsky. I sure hope Riordan gave Edsel some answers.”

She took a sip of coffee. “You're worried about Detective Riordan delivering on something he said he'd do?”

“Of course I am. He's not God, you know.”

“There's nothing you can do about it, is there?” In a matter-of-fact voice, she added, “Worry about things you can change, not the things outside your control. You'll be much happier.”

“I suppose that's good advice,” I said, frostier than I intended.

“Perhaps you
should
listen to a little advice.”

I sat back. Why was I getting angry with her? Was it simply that a woman was trying to tell me how to live my life? “Lizzie, I'm sorry. You're right. I'm just nervous.”

She smiled. “I know that, Will. Say, to take your mind off your problems, why don't you fry me up some bacon and eggs?”

“I don't have any bacon.”

She jumped up and opened the door of the icebox. “But you have eggs.” Thrusting the box of eggs at me, she said, “Over-hard, please. And some toast. Don't burn it.”

I got up and began making breakfast. I had to work harder than I might have, given my useless right hand, but I tried to make the entire operation look effortless. Being a cripple had already meant losing my dignity in enough ways. After we ate, I left the dishes in the sink. Washing them meant taking off my glove, something I wasn't prepared to do in front of Elizabeth.

We took a trolley to the courthouse and queued up half an hour before the doors opened. Only a few other people, none of whom I recognized, had beaten us there. We sat in the front row on the left-hand side, where we would be just behind the defendant. I hoped I'd have a chance to speak with him.

The courtroom filled quickly. I turned around and looked through the crowd, hoping to see Salvatore Adamo, but he was nowhere in sight. In the back row on the far side, I spotted Angelo, the young man who had guarded Wesley and me at the Bucket on a night that seemed so long ago. He looked emaciated, with sunken eyes and a ragged pair of black mustaches. I caught his gaze. He tore his eyes away and began studying the floor in front of him.

Just before nine o'clock District Attorney Higgins and an assistant sat at the prosecution's table. A few minutes later, a bailiff brought out Vito Adamo, Ferdinand Palma, and two other men from behind a closed door. One of them was a rough-looking Italian I presumed to be Adamo's accomplice, Filipo Busolato. The other was a swell in a fancy suit with broad pinstripes. The lawyer, no doubt.

Adamo looked good as he always did, though he still wore the poor truck driver outfit he'd been in when I saw him in jail. His disguise didn't go as far as his face, however. His expression was just this side of a smirk. He was allowing this trial, his face said.

The bailiff led him to the table in front of us. He looked around, and his eyes caught mine. One corner of his mouth turned up in an amused smile. He looked at Elizabeth, and his smile grew larger. He bowed toward her, though just with his head. “Enjoy yourselves,” he whispered.

“We need to talk to your brother,” I said.

He shot a glance behind him before whispering back, “Why?”

“The Gianollas.”

He narrowed his eyes. Before he could speak, he was joined by his codefendant and lawyer. His gaze lingered on me a moment longer before he turned and sat at the table.

The trial began with Higgins's opening statement. He paced in front of the jury for half an hour, droning on about how they would prove this, and they would establish that. The only thing he proved was that he was going to bore the jury to death.

When he finished, Adamo's lawyer jumped up and explained that Mr. Adamo and Mr. Busolato were actually at church when Carlo Callego was murdered, and five witnesses—five, he repeated, holding up a hand with all five fingers extended—including a priest, would swear to that. This trial was a sham and nothing more than the persecution of a pair of poor immigrants trying only to provide a good life for their families. They were being railroaded for a crime they did not commit, would never commit.

When the court adjourned for lunch, I looked for Angelo, but he had disappeared, so I drove Elizabeth home, telling her I'd pick her up for the speech at six thirty. We didn't speak much on the drive. The trial had depressed both of us.

I was certain Adamo would be acquitted. I was conflicted. On the one hand, I wanted him dead or at least spending the rest of his life behind bars. On the other, he could help me get the Gianollas out of my life.

I wasn't sure which was the better hand.

*   *   *

That evening I dressed in tie and tails, grabbed my umbrella, and caught a streetcar downtown. I stood in the aisle and stared out the window, wondering what the evening would bring. Raindrops sprinkled against the windows of the trolley, gathering and running down in rivulets onto the wooden window frame.

I hopped out a block away from the Detroit Electric garage, popped the umbrella, and trotted down the sidewalk. I was just opening the front door when Joe Curtiss ran out, almost knocking me over. “Oh, shit, Will,” he said. “What the hell?” He looked around before pulling me down the sidewalk to the alley next to the building. Shoving me against the wall, he said, “You told me you met with Pinsky.”

“I did.”

“Sam said you were supposed to meet Pinsky today. You didn't show. What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Oh.” Now I understood—the meeting we'd originally set up. “Pinsky and I rescheduled that. I've already met with him once. And I'm going to phone him tomorrow.”

His relief was palpable. “Good. I hope to hell he tells the Gianollas that.”

“Why? What happened?”

“So far, just a phone call. But Sam said I'd better have some answers tomorrow. I was just heading to your place.”

I shook my head, thinking about Sam Gianolla. “I'll make sure Pinsky tells them, Joe.”

“Okay.”

“Did you get Gina and the kids out of town?”

“No. I just…” He shrugged. “I don't have the dough.”

“I told you I'd pay for it.” I pulled my wallet from my coat and handed him five twenties. “Here. That will get them somewhere nice.”

He stared at the bills in amazement. “Shit no, Will.” He handed three of the twenties back to me. “They can go to Gina's sister's place in Kalamazoo. Thanks. A lot.” He put a hand on my shoulder. “I'll pay you back.”

“Just get them out tonight. And I'll phone Pinsky right away.”

He nodded, and we said our good-byes, heading in opposite directions—him for the trolley stop, me for the garage. I tried phoning Pinsky from Mr. Billings's office, but no one answered. I'd try again after the speech. I got my car and picked up Elizabeth, and we headed up Woodward to get Edsel.

I rang the Fords' bell shortly before seven. Edsel answered the door, dressed in black tie and tails—with a football helmet on his head.

I cocked an eye at him. “What's that about?”

He grinned. “Just thought I might need a little protection if you're going to drive.”

Elizabeth laughed. I rolled my eyes. Edsel took off the helmet and glanced at the hallway mirror to fix his hair. “Well, if Elizabeth lived through the drive over here, I suppose I'll just have to buck up.” Picking up an umbrella, he said, “We can't live forever, can we now, Elizabeth?”

Smiling, she took his arm. He turned and shouted out, “We're going to the lecture now, Mother. I'll be late.” Turning back to me, he said in a low voice, “We'll talk in the car.”

He opened his umbrella, and we walked to my car through a fine mist of drizzle. Edsel helped Elizabeth into the Torpedo, and she maneuvered herself into the backseat. I climbed into the driving seat with Edsel next to me. Craning my neck to see behind us, I began backing down the driveway.

“Looks like you've gotten a bit of control over the throttle,” Edsel said.

“Thanks for noticing,” I replied, pulling onto Edison Street. “So what did Detective Riordan say?”

“He wants you to call Pinsky tomorrow morning. Set up a meeting with you and your father for tomorrow at three o'clock.”

“That's a good idea. I wouldn't want my father to go there alone.” I reached out and turned the handle of the windshield wiper back and forth.

“Detective Riordan will be surveilling Pinsky's home for the meeting.”

“Good,” I said. “I don't know that I can sneak any weapons past Pinsky's man.”

“At noon tomorrow,” Edsel said, “he wants three reliable Anderson security men to meet him at the telephone company's office on Lafayette. One will monitor Pinsky's phone calls. The others will accompany Detective Riordan. He's quite certain there will be no danger to either of you. Pinsky needs cooperation to achieve his ends, not compulsion.”

I turned right on Woodward. Elizabeth leaned forward. “Let me come. As a secretary. His man won't search me.”

“His daughter will probably be there,” I said.

“She won't find anything,” Elizabeth said.

I thought about it. If Riordan thought it would be safe … “Fine. So long as my father agrees, you can go—as our bodyguard.” I spun the wiper handle again.

“Bodyguard,” she said. I could hear the smile in her voice. “That sounds about right.”

I was coming up quickly on an opera coach pulled by a pair of horses. I let up on the throttle and hit the brake. A streetcar was crawling through the intersection. I slowed and stopped behind the coach. “What are we supposed to accomplish at this meeting?” I wiped the windshield again.

“Detective Riordan wants your father to start out hard-nosed, then at the end leave the door cracked just a bit. Riordan wants to stir things up. Pinsky will either make phone calls, which will be monitored, or send messages to his confederates, which will be intercepted before going on to their intended recipient. Once Detective Riordan determines the location of the Gianollas, he'll have them apprehended. In effect, you're flushing out your game.”

While Edsel was talking, the trolley cleared, and the coach started up again. I swung around it, tires spinning on the wet pavement as we rocketed past. I parked just down the street from Detroit College. We checked our coats in the lecture hall's lobby and were heading toward some open seats near the front when I caught a flash of white skin from the corner of my eye. I turned and looked. The crowd in the aisle parted, and my gut twisted.

Ethan Pinsky strutted down the aisle in a black silk tuxedo and top hat, a big yellow smile on his face, wearing Minna on his arm like jewelry. Her pink silk evening dress plunged into her cleavage and rippled in her wake; her diamond necklace, bracelets, and rings sparkled dollar signs in everyone's eyes. Her auburn hair was pinned into tight ringlets under a narrow-brimmed pink chapeau.

They hadn't noticed me yet, and I wanted to keep it that way. I turned to head up the aisle and almost ran over Waldman, who stood with his feet planted, blocking the aisle. “Mr. Pinsky would like to speak with you.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

I tried to push past Waldman. “I don't want to speak with him.”

He grabbed my arm. “I must insist. Don't make a scene.”

“Ah, Mr. Anderson,” Pinsky wheezed from behind me.

I glanced down the aisle. Edsel and Elizabeth were heading toward the front, not having noticed that I'd stopped. Good. I took a deep breath and turned around. “Why are you following me?”

“Following you?” He smiled and raised a well-worn copy of Taylor's
The Principles of Scientific Management.
“I'm here to learn. All businesses need to think scientifically.”

I leaned in toward him. “Why didn't you tell the Gianollas we're cooperating?”

His forehead furrowed, and he frowned. “I have done so.”

“That's not what Sam told Joe Curtiss. He's afraid for his life.”

Pinsky pursed his lips and shook his head. “He has nothing to worry about. I will phone them. This evening, in fact.”