Motor City Shakedown (35 page)

“No.”

“God
damn
it. What's Riordan doing?”

“Riordan,” a man said, an Irish accent coloring the name, “is doing everything he can to help you.”

I looked toward the door. Detective Riordan stood framed in the doorway, his scar a purple slash. “And I don't appreciate you taking the Lord's name in vain.”

“Sorry,” I said.

He walked up to us. “The doc said you were awake. Thought I'd come by and tell you what an imbecile you are.”

“Thanks.”

“You and Elizabeth taking on the Gianollas? Are you out of your mind, boy?”

My head pounded. “You could make a case for it, sure.”

“You—need—help.” He punctuated each word with a jab of his finger into my good shoulder.

“Okay, you're right. So what have you come up with?”

Elizabeth sat on the bed at my feet. Detective Riordan leaned against the wall at the head of the bed, pulled out a cigar, and stuffed it into his mouth. “First of all, the situation: It's clear that everyone in Little Italy knows who the Gianollas are—and because of that, no one will say a word, not even in places controlled by the Adamos or Pietro Mirabile. Nobody wants what happened to your friend happening to them.”

“Do you know if they're looking for us?” I asked.

“No way to know that. Some good news though—Pinsky's been arrested and extradited to Boston. We won't see him any time soon.”

“Boston? I thought you said he lived in New York.”

“An extortion beef with the Teamsters. Their headquarters is in Boston.”

“Well, that's a relief anyway.”

Riordan pulled the cigar from his mouth and looked at the soggy end. “I don't know how much more information I'll be privy to. I'm an eyelash away from suspension. The chief raked me over the coals for horning in on Rogers's investigation of the Gianollas. I'm on deskwork for the foreseeable future.” He took a deep breath. “However, Elizabeth and I talked about the possibility of trying the Adamos again.”

I looked at Elizabeth. “What's the sense? They told Abe they wouldn't meet with me.”

“Right,” she said. “They won't meet with
you
. Abe didn't say anything about me.”

I cocked an eye at Detective Riordan. “Assuming they cooperate, you'd work with Vito Adamo?”

He gave me a sad smile. “If the two of you can bury your feelings for the bastard, I guess I can overlook a statute or two.”

“All right,” I said. “I guess it's worth a try.”

“Good.” He pushed himself off the wall and turned for the door. “Glad you're feeling better,” he said on his way out of the room.

Elizabeth stood and stepped up to me. “Dr. Miller said you're going to need to rest for at least a few more days. They'll keep until then. So rest.”

I studied her face. The softness of her features had hardened—the lines of her brow, the cut of her mouth. She was suffering. I took her hand. “Thanks. For everything.”

She looked down at me, biting her lip. “You're welcome. But listen to me, Will. You better heed my warning. I've already given you a second chance. And a third. There won't be another.”

CHAPTER THIRTY

I was awakened the next morning by the door opening. My father peeked around the corner. When he saw my eyes open, he smiled and walked in. “How are you feeling?”

“Better.”

“Good.” He pulled up a chair and sat next to the bed. “Your mother and Mrs. Hume are fine.”

“Yes, thank goodness. Elizabeth told me.”

“I've made arrangements for you to join them in Cape Cod. The train—”

“No. I'm still going after the Gianollas.”

His eyes widened. “They almost killed you. You can't be serious.”

I looked away. “I am.”

“You're done with the drugs?”

“Yes.” The word didn't come out nearly as boldly as I thought it would.

“If it's the Teamsters you're worried about,” my father said, “you needn't be. Whatever reticence the EAD may have had, they're throwing us their full support now. The factory and our home are practically fortresses. I won't lie to you, though. Labor tensions are high all around the city. It feels like something is going to break.” He was quiet for a moment. “Let me bring in some Pinkertons to do the dirty work.”

“No. This is personal. They killed Joe and threatened to kill you and Mother.”

“You're as stubborn as Elizabeth. I tried talking her out of it, but she didn't listen either. You both seem bent on suicide. That's all this is, you know.”

“No, it's not. They're going to pay for killing Joe. It's as simple as that.”

“Lord.” Shaking his head, he stood. “I never knew I had raised such a complete idiot.” He turned and strode to the door before turning back to me. “You're actually going to do this?”

“I have to.”

He looked down at the floor and then met my eyes again. “Do you really want to die?”

“No. But what would you have me say to Gina Curtiss? Gosh, I'm sorry Joe's dead, but I'm afraid to do anything about it? They might hurt me?”

He looked into my eyes a moment longer, then gave the slightest of nods and walked out the door.

I wasn't sure if that nod was one of approval, or at least acceptance, but I decided to believe it was. They killed Joe. Surely my father understood. I had to stop them.

That evening, Dr. Miller took off my sling and began working my arm through a range of motion. It hurt, but I gritted my teeth and took it. I had to get better. When he finished I settled in for the night. Left alone with my thoughts, I felt a hunger deep within me that reminded me of my time in the Detroit City Jail. I craved the peace of morphine, but I was determined to stay sober. Against all odds, Elizabeth was giving me another chance, and I wasn't blowing it this time.

After two more days Dr. Miller declared me fit to leave so long as I took an extended rest. He offered to make a reservation for me at the Glen Springs Hotel, but I told him I'd take care of it myself. It wasn't completely a lie. Perhaps someday I'd have the time to experience their healing mineral springs.

I phoned Elizabeth with the news. When she showed up at Dr. Miller's, she was wearing a simple navy blue skirt and white shirtwaist, with a large blue handbag slung over her shoulder and a wide-brimmed blue hat—an outfit that would be inconspicuous in most places. After a surreptitious wink at me, she told Dr. Miller she'd keep an eye on me while I recuperated.

I tugged the glove onto my hand and got dressed. Elizabeth had bought me a suit while I was laid up, made of dark gray cloth in coarse fiber that fit tighter than was fashionable—more in keeping with the immigrant populations in which we'd be trafficking. I put that on with a white shirt that had an attached collar, which took a little getting used to, a blue-and-white striped tie, and a black derby. I left the sling on the bed. Looking at myself in the mirror, I thought I could fit in.

Dr. Miller asked me to join him in an examination room. The minute he saw me, he said, “Where's the sling?”

“I feel okay now. I don't need it.”

He put his hands on his hips. “Do you want to recover?”

“Yes.” There didn't seem to be any other answer.

He left the room and came back a few seconds later with the sling. While he was putting it on me, he said, “Don't take it off, except when you change clothes or sleep. Come back and see me in a week.” Giving me a bottle of aspirin, he said, “It's up to you now, Will.”

Even though the thought of aspirin gave me little comfort, I nodded and stuffed the bottle in my pocket. After Elizabeth and I thanked him repeatedly, he wished us luck and excused himself. Elizabeth pulled a .32-caliber Browning pistol from her duster and handed it to me butt first. “It's loaded, and the safety's on.”

“Is this the one I had?”

“No, I bought you another one. When we got here the only weapon you had was the switchblade. Which reminds me.” She pulled the knife from her duster and gave it to me. I slipped it into my pocket. “By the time I went back to the hotel, my bag was gone. Not surprising, since I didn't think of it until two days after we left.”

Tucking the gun into my belt, I said, “Thanks.”

“I talked to Mr. Markovitz. He said he'd get Abe to meet with us tonight at eight. Detective Riordan's going to meet us there.”

“Great.” I fished in the left-hand pockets of my trousers and duster for my car key. “Where's the car?”

“Out front.” She held up the key. “I'm driving.”

“So, back to the Cosmopolitan?” I asked as we walked outside. Only a few puffy clouds drifted across the bright blue sky, and I guessed the temperature to be in the low eighties. I actually felt pretty good—much more energetic than I expected. I breathed deeply. The breeze smelled of freshly mown grass.

“I suppose we could stay there again,” Elizabeth said. “It would be worth stopping there at least. Abe might have left us a message.”

She helped me into the Torpedo, then started it up and pulled away from the curb with perfect control. It was as if she had broken a wild palomino. She was a much better driver than I had ever been, even before my hand was damaged. That was a difficult realization, since driving was the only claim I could make to possessing a skill.

Along the way, people were hanging red, white, and blue bunting from the windows of a number of the buildings. I looked at Elizabeth, the wind riffling her short hair under the hat. “Is it July already?”

We were coming up on a long line of cars. She slowed the Torpedo and glanced over at me. “Tomorrow's the Fourth.”

I kept staring at her. She was so beautiful that, even after all these years, she still took my breath away.

Three blocks from Jefferson, traffic stopped dead. Horns blared, drivers shouted, and pedestrians cut between the automobiles. The traffic jam wasn't an unusual occurrence, but after ten minutes of sitting still, I got the attention of a man walking past, bent over from the weight of a canvas bag on his back. “Has there been an accident?” I shouted.

“Accident? It's the same all over town. Didn't you hear? The DUR's shut down—strike.”

I groaned. When the streetcars
were
running, traffic in Detroit was ridiculous. Now it would be impossible to get around. Every vehicle in the city would be on the streets, not to mention a hundred thousand angry pedestrians.

I looked at Elizabeth. “I'm going to grab a newspaper.” I eased out of the car and walked down to the corner, where I bought a
Free Press
from a newsboy. Front page center—
DUR MOTORMEN AND CONDUCTORS ON STRIKE!

I skimmed the article while walking back to the car. When I climbed in, Elizabeth said, “What's going on?”

With my head buried in the paper, I said, “Division twenty-six of the Amalgamated Association of Street and Electric Railway Employees has gone out on strike. The DUR fired a motorman for ‘careless operation.' He just happened to be on the union's executive committee.”

I read further. “Shit.” Looking up at Elizabeth, I said, “The Teamsters and the Hotel and Restaurant Employees Unions have already gone out in support of the DUR employees. Another half-dozen AFL unions are voting on it. This is what Pinsky was talking about. The Gianollas are making their move just in time for the Fourth of July. They're trying to shut down the city.”

*   *   *

“All right.” Elizabeth looked over her shoulder. “I'm turning around. We'll take the side streets.” She jockeyed the car back and forth until she was able to swing around to the other side of the street. “What should we do with the car?”

“I think we'll have to leave it at the garage. Assuming we can get there.”

She looked at me. “Can you handle the walk from the garage to the hotel?”

“If I can't walk for fifteen minutes, I'm certainly not going to be able to take on the Gianollas. What do you say we find out?”

Elizabeth drove past the cemetery before turning left on Charlevoix and zigzagging toward downtown. She forced the car through the intersections, squeezing around the myriad automobiles, trucks, wagons, carriages, coaches, horses, bicycles, and pedestrians all jockeying for position. My head pounded from the blaring horns and motorcar exhaust. It took an hour to make a ten-minute drive, but we finally arrived at the Detroit Electric garage. Elizabeth waited in the car while I walked inside to have someone open the overhead door.

Not a single person was in sight. Most of the charging bays were filled with Detroit Electrics, but there was none of the normal activity—chasers running cars in and out, chargers hooking them to the charging stations, prep men washing and waxing, cleaning the interiors. Even the grind of the air compressor had been silenced.

I opened the door, and Elizabeth drove in. She pulled the car off to the side, climbed out, and we exchanged a mystified look. I could just make out a voice in the back of the garage. Elizabeth and I began walking toward it.

“No, sir.” A pause. “I understand, sir. We're doing everything we can to locate it. We'll have it to you in no time.” It was Mr. Billings. We turned the corner to see him holding the telephone's candlestick to his mouth and the receiver to his ear. “Yes, sir. I'm sorry, sir.” He hung up the telephone and sighed.

“What's going on?” I said.

“Lord. ‘What isn't?' might be a better question. Most of my chasers disappeared right off the street—leaving the automobiles. I've got everybody else trying to find the cars and get them to their owners.” He glanced at my arm in the sling. “What'd you do?”

“Oh, sprained my shoulder. Nothing serious.”

He nodded. The telephone rang, and he gestured toward it. “Since the streetcars aren't running, every one of our customers wants their car—right now.”