Motor City Shakedown (34 page)

“Silenzio!”
the man above me shouted.

I froze again, as did everyone else. They seemed to listen for a moment; then the kidnapper barked out a command and they all began moving again. He walked down the dock. I pulled the shotgun from the pocket of my duster, held it out of the water, and slid farther into the river. The bullets in the pistol were watertight, so I didn't think I'd have a problem with that, but I had to keep the shotgun shells dry.

More spiders scurried up my neck and onto my face, looking for dry ground. Chills ran through me. I slid deeper into the river, while my mind screamed at me to get underwater, get the spiders off. Perhaps a dozen of them now congregated on my face, scuttling back and forth. I wasn't stopping, no matter who heard me. I took a deep breath through my nose and slipped the rest of the way underwater. The spiders floated away.

Keeping the shotgun out of the river, I pushed myself out a little farther and then crouched in three feet of water, my head a foot under the dock. My cheek throbbed, and the skin felt tight. It was swelling. I hoped the spider hadn't been poisonous.

Another voice rose above the others, a voice I immediately recognized—Tony Gianolla. He walked onto the edge of the dock, joining the kidnapper. I tracked him with the shotgun. Tony and the other man walked over my position and stopped a little way past me, then turned and walked back off the dock. Tony called out to Sam, who answered. In a spirited conversation, the three men began moving toward me.

I stuck the shotgun under my arm, pulled the pistol from my belt, and held it upside down, making sure all the water was emptied from the barrel. I'd heard that so long as the barrel was clear, pistols that had been immersed would still fire. This wasn't the best time to experiment, but there was nothing to be done for it. It would work or it wouldn't. I stuck the gun into the highest pocket in my duster and took hold of the shotgun again.

Two of the men walked onto the dock. The other stayed back. I wasn't sure both men above me were Gianollas, but at least one of them was. The other was near. I'd shoot these men from down here, then come up on the side of the dock with the pistol and shoot the other. The two men on the dock stood close together, only two feet in front of me. I braced the shotgun against my shoulder, trying to steady it with my bad hand. Taking a deep breath, I aimed between the slats at the silhouettes and pulled both triggers.

The gun slammed into my shoulder. The roar of the twelve-gauge, so near my ear, deafened me, but the dock shook when the men fell. One pitched into the water. I dropped the shotgun, pulled the pistol from my pocket, and swept up from the side, looking for another Gianolla.

Gunshots fired from all around, bright flashes in the dark, muffled explosions in my damaged ears. A bullet thudded into the wood next to me. Another whizzed over my head. I shot at everything man-shaped I could see. A muzzle flashed beside a coal pile on the other side of the yard, and then another and another. Elizabeth had opened fire.

Something hit me from behind, spinning me around. A man ran at me from the end of the dock. Fire leaped from the end of his gun. I dived into the water and swam underneath the dock to the other side, toward one of the barges. My right arm didn't seem to work. Now sharp pains arced through my shoulder. I came up for a breath and ducked into the water again, swimming for the last dock. The pain sharpened, was overwhelming. Trying not to gasp in water, I dug with my left arm and my legs, trying to get as far away as I could.

When I came up again, I was ten feet from the front of one of the barges. Sporadic gunfire came from the coal yard. Two men walked up and down the middle dock, scanning the water. A number of others hustled a big body toward the truck.

I swam one-armed to the front of the barge and underneath the dock to the far side, Elizabeth's side. Sharp pains, like the stab of an ice pick, pulsated in my shoulder. Hidden in the dark, I pushed myself as close to the shore as I could before trying to stand. My head spun. It was all I could do not to cry out from the pain.
The morphine.
I crouched down, steadied myself, and fished one of the bottles from my pocket.

I took a long drink and hurried around the outside of the fence. It was getting hard to focus. I felt weak and tired. The truck started up and roared away, the headlamps careening over the coal piles. In seconds, it was gone. I hurried to the loose board and saw that it lay on the ground outside.

I hoped that meant Elizabeth had escaped. She hadn't cried out. There had been no triumphant shouts from Gianolla's men. I climbed through the hole in the fence and took a quick look inside, then propped up the board as quietly as I could with one hand and hurried down the shoreline.

*   *   *

Holding my right arm in my left, I ran up the road toward the car. I was on the right side of the street and then the left and then I was back again on the right. I tried to straighten out but couldn't quite seem to do it. Finally I saw the car and the silhouette of a small person crouching near it in the dark. I slowed and called out quietly, “Elizabeth?” My voice was thick, my tone dull.

“Will,” she said. “Come on.”

I lurched up the street to her. “Are you all right?”

She steered me toward the Torpedo. “I'm fine. Let's get out of here.”

“I'm fine.”
Wait. She didn't ask.
I was so tired. I adjusted the throttle and spark and felt my way around to the front to start the car. Elizabeth was already there, spinning the crank. The engine caught. When I turned, my head spun again, and I nearly fell over. I steadied myself against the car until it passed.

“Come on,” Elizabeth said, her voice urgent. “We've got to get out of here.”

“I'm coming.” I stumbled around to the side and climbed in the car, veering into the back door before squeezing past. She followed behind, pushing me in. “Did you shoot any of them?” I said, putting the car into gear.

“One, I think.”

I pulled out, trying for quiet. Instead the engine revved and the tires squealed. I nearly ran into the curb on the other side of the road.

“Let me drive, Will.”

“I'm okay.” I straightened out the car and drove up the street, keeping my speed down. “Did you hit either of the…” I forgot their names. “Brothers?”

“I don't think so, but I'm pretty certain you did.”

Now out to Jefferson, I opened it up and roared away. The streetlamps whizzed past on the sides of the empty street. My head felt like it was going to float up into the clouds. “I've got to make a stop,” I said, my voice thicker now, set in molasses.

“Where?”

“Dr. Miller's.”

“Why? What happened?”

“I got hit.”

“Hit? By a bullet?”

“Yeah.”

She leaned forward and looked at me. As we passed under a streetlamp, I heard a sharp intake of breath. “Oh, my God. You're really bleeding.”

“I'm not feeling so good,” I mumbled.

“Let me drive.”

“No, I'm…”

She grabbed the wheel, reached over, and pulled the throttle lever all the way up while maneuvering the car to the curb. Pulling back on the hand brake, she said, “All right, now move.” She helped me out and into the backseat, then climbed in again and pulled the car onto the road.

*   *   *

When I woke I was alone. I smelled chloroform and disinfectant. My right arm was in a sling taped to my chest. Using my left hand, I propped myself up on the bed and looked around at the understated blue wallpaper, the oil paintings of the countryside, the white cabinets full of medical supplies, and the vegetable garden through the window—Dr. Miller's office.

I was exhausted. My right shoulder hurt like a son of a bitch. My hand throbbed with the burning to which I'd become so accustomed. I looked at it, nestled into the white cloth of the sling. Someone had taken off my glove. The skin was mottled, burgundy and white. My fingers touched at the tips. I needed a smoke. I thought I would get up, find the doctor, but instead I lay back and slept again.

Some time later, Dr. Miller bustled into the room. “Will, my boy. How are you feeling?”

“Fine. Is Elizabeth all right?”

“Yes.” He worked the sling over my head and began peeling a layer of bandages off the front of my shoulder. “She's sleeping now. She's been staying here all along.”

“Oh.” It took a moment to register. “All along? What do you mean?”

“You've been here three days.”

“You're not serious.”

He stood up straight and looked me full in the face. “I nearly killed you with morphine before I operated. Elizabeth didn't know you'd already taken some. Almost enough to kill you, in fact.”

“Oh, right. I just happened to…” When I saw the look on the doctor's face, I trailed off.

He shook his head slowly. “I've seen no evidence of withdrawal symptoms, so obviously you're not as far gone as you were before. It's your call as to what you do. You can be a coward and continue to drug yourself. Or you can face your pain like a man.”

“Yes … well…” I looked away from him. I didn't know what to say.

“Morphine will kill you, you know.”

“I know. It's not what you think.”

He studied my face for a moment before saying, “She loves you.”

“What? She said that?”

He nodded. He finished changing the bandage on the front of my shoulder and began doing the same to the one on the back.

Could it be? Elizabeth loves me?

“You got hit pretty good, by the way,” Dr. Miller said. “The bullet nicked an artery. Had Elizabeth gotten you here ten minutes later, I don't think you'd have pulled through.”

“Will I have any long-term damage?”

“No. It should heal well. In a month or so you'll be able to use the arm again.”

“Do the police know about any of this?”

“Of course not. Elizabeth explained to me what you're dealing with. No one knows but me and my nurse. And she's discreet. Here now.” He worked the sling over my head and put one hand below my shoulder blades, the other on my chest, and gently pushed me back onto the bed. “Rest. I'll check on you in a while.”

“Could I have a cigarette?”

“Ah, you'll have to take that up with Elizabeth.”

“What? Why?”

Patting my arm, he said, “Talk to Elizabeth.” He left the room.

I lay back and thought. Could it possibly be true? Elizabeth still loved me? It was so unlikely. Certainly she had once, but that was long ago. An awful lot had occurred since, none of which I could remember with pride. It was ludicrous. Dr. Miller was raving.

Elizabeth walked into the room a few hours later, wearing a simple burgundy skirt and a white shirtwaist. I pulled the sheet over my hand.

She stood next to the bed, arms folded across her chest. “How are you?”

“Fine. Good. How are you?”

“I'm fine.” Her voice was frosty.

“Have you got a cigarette?”

“We've quit.”

“What?”

“We've quit,” she said. “It's bad for you. You haven't had any tobacco for three days now, so you've slept through the hard part. Now, have you got any other surprises you've forgotten to tell me? Or any more lies you'd like to retract?”

“No.”

“Are you sure? Get them out now, because the next time you lie to me will be the last. And from this moment forward, if I ever believe you're on drugs, we're finished. Forever. I walked into a gun battle with you—my only ally—on drugs.” She glared at me.

“I took the morphine
after
I got shot.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “You had two bottles in your pocket.”

“I'd … you were right the other night. I was taking morphine. It seemed to help. But the night at the coal yard, I didn't even realize I had it until we got there. I only took it after I got shot. You have to believe me.”

“I don't know why I should.”

“I don't either. But you have my word. I'll never lie to you again. And I'll never take drugs.”

“What about smoking?”

If I was going to be miserable anyway, what's the difference? “Sure. I'll quit that too.”

“Good.” Her face relaxed, but she didn't smile. “Your father escorted our mothers to Cape Cod and is on his way back.”

“Thank God they're safe. But my father's coming back?”

She nodded. “He told Dr. Miller he's not going to let a bunch of criminals dictate his life.”

“Damn.” I shook my head. “I wish he would stay away.”

“It might be all right. I don't think the Gianollas can afford to devote too much attention to us.”

“How do you mean?”

She gave me a grim smile. “The Adamos and Gianollas are in an all-out war. Every day the newspapers give the account of more shootings in Little Italy. Three men have been killed since our gunfight, and I don't know how many wounded. The Gianollas must have thought the Adamos shot Tony.”

I lowered my voice. “Tony? Is that who I shot?”

“He's
one
of the men you shot. The other was Vicente Scarpella, otherwise known as Three-Finger Vinnie. They fished him out of the river the next morning.”

The kidnapper. I killed him.
“I didn't hit Sam?”

She shook her head.

“Shit. Tell me at least that I killed Tony.”

“I don't know what happened to him,” she said. “The only reason I know it was Tony is I heard them say it. He was moving when they carried him back to the truck.” She smiled. “And cursing. He sounded like he was in a lot of pain. Hopefully you hit something critical. But Dr. Miller checked with all the hospitals within an hour of the city, and he hasn't been to any of them.”

“Has anyone been arrested for Joe's murder?”