Motor City Shakedown (41 page)

Afterwards, we lay side by side under the covers, the fingers of her left hand intertwined with the mangled fingers of my right. Even though I hurt all that much more, I remember thinking, just before I drifted off to sleep, that this was so much better than morphine.

*   *   *

The bell on my telephone trilled. Elizabeth and I sat bolt upright. I jumped out of bed and ran to the den. “Hello?”

“Anderson?” It was Abe.

I cleared my throat. “Yeah.” I felt logy and dull, that is until Elizabeth appeared in the doorway, draped in my sheet. I smiled at her, realizing I was standing naked in front of her and didn't care.

“What'cha need?” Abe sounded impatient.

I glanced up at the wall clock. It was almost eight. “I need your network,” I said. “Right away and maybe all night. I'll pay you fifty dollars.”

“Tonight? Fireworks are tonight.”

“I'll make it a hundred.”

He let out a low whistle. “A hundred, huh? Sounds dangerous.”

“Maybe. But I need all the eyes and ears I can get.” I explained to him what the Gianollas had planned. “I need your boys to spread out around their territory as well as Mirabile's, particularly around the restaurant. I'll be going to the meeting, and we need to know where the Gianollas are going to ambush us. You coordinate this with your boys and call me if they find anything. If we actually make it all the way to the restaurant, meet me there so you can fill me in on what they've seen.”

“I can get that done. I'll send Izzy over for the money. Just in case you screw this up, I want it all in advance.”

“That's fine. He should go to the back door. Tell him to jerk up on the handle while he's turning it, and it'll pop open.”

“Ya oughta get that lock fixed, Anderson. There's a lot a criminals in this town.”

“So I've noticed.”

Abe laughed. “Once he gets the money, I'll get the boys on the streets. It'll take about an hour.”

“Hurry.” As an afterthought, I added, “Thanks.”

“Just remember this when I ask
you
for a favor.”

I knew it would be costly, but what I was asking him to do wasn't without a price. “I'll remember. Tell the kids to be careful. By the end of the night there's going to be only one gang left.”

*   *   *

I hung up the phone.

“Detective Riordan should have been here an hour ago,” Elizabeth said.

“I just hope he wasn't picked up.”

She murmured her agreement. Though neither of us wanted to be the one to say it, we'd been counting on him to get us through the night. If he didn't come, well, I didn't want to think about it.

We dressed, and after I filled Elizabeth in on my conversation with Abe, we walked into the den. She sat in one of the chairs in front of my desk. I stood near the window, adjusting the gun in my belt while I looked through the blinds at the street in front of the building. Bursts of firecrackers shot out, some near, some far.

Without turning around, I said, “May I ask you a question?”

“Yes.” She sounded amused.

“You don't have to answer it,” I said, “and either way I won't hold it against you.”

“What is it?” She didn't sound amused anymore.

Still looking out the window, I said, “Your mother told me you got back in July. Moretti was killed in August. Were you here?”

She hesitated only a second. “Yes. I've been meaning to tell you, but it never seemed like the right time. I had nothing to do with—”

“Son of a bitch!”

“Will, let me explain.”

“No, not that,” I said. “Out there.” The blue Hudson, with two big men in the front, pulled to the curb across the street. The driver wore a straw boater, the passenger a derby. I couldn't tell if he was Sergeant Rogers, though that didn't much matter. It would have been a fine time to exit via the back door, but we couldn't leave the apartment. If they broke in, they had us.

Elizabeth walked over and spread the blinds with her fingers. “That's the car that followed us from Ford City.”

“Yeah. The Gang Squad.”

Both men turned and looked up at my apartment. Rogers was the man in the passenger seat. Elizabeth let go of the blinds, and we stepped back.

“What do we do?” she said.

“If they come up here, I'm not opening the door.”

Elizabeth took half a step closer to the window. “I guess we're going to see how they react to that.”

I looked. Both men were crossing the street. Rogers had his pistol out, checking the load.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

I ran to the door and turned the key in the lock, then hurried to the parlor and opened the window over the fire escape. “Watch the back,” I whispered to Elizabeth. “One of them might come around. If not, that's our escape route.”

She nodded but a second later pushed me farther away from the window. “The driver just came around the corner.”

Footsteps pounded up the stairs and then knocks sounded against my door.

I pulled the .32 from my belt and whispered to Elizabeth, “Have you got that gun handy?”

She nodded.

“You might need it.”

She took hold of my arm and led me back into my den—the farthest corner away from the door. “You want me to shoot a policeman?”

“No, but I'm not letting them stop us.”

She shook her head. “All right. Turn around.” She reached down and started to pull up her skirt. I watched as the fabric rose above her ankle to the curve of her calf, but when I arched an eyebrow she punched me in the arm. I grudgingly turned around until I no longer heard the sound of fabric rustling. I turned back to see that she had a little Mauser pistol, smaller than her hand.

The knocks got louder. Rogers called out, “Anderson! Don't make me break down the door!”

Elizabeth's forehead creased in concentration. She looked at the window. “Could we get up to the roof from here?”

“I don't know. I've never tried.”

Glancing out the front, she raised the blinds and threw open the window, then stuck her head out and twisted around. “The gutter is only a couple of feet above the top of the window,” she whispered. “Do you think you could pull yourself up?”

“With one arm?”

Something crashed against my front door. It held.

“I'll go up first and help you,” she said. “It's our only way out. Here.” She handed me her purse, then with no ceremony at all, she hiked up her skirt and slid the gun back into the holster. I put her purse inside the file drawer in my desk while Elizabeth climbed out on the windowsill and worked her feet onto the ledge, a chunk of stone that stuck out perhaps five inches.

“I don't know about this,” I said.

“Shh. Hold on to me.”

The door shuddered a second time. I held Elizabeth's arm as she eased up against the window.

“Give me a boost,” she whispered. I used my left arm to thrust her upward. Her feet dangled in front of the window for a moment, swaying back and forth, and then lowered back to the ledge. I wrapped my left arm around her thighs to hold her there. “Damn it,” she said. “I'm not strong enough.”

Another smash against the door. This time, it sounded like wood splintered.

“I'll help you,” I said. “Move over.”

Elizabeth slid to the end of the ledge, about a foot past the window. I climbed out, trying not to look down. Rogers hit the door again, and it crashed open, followed by another crash, this one brittle and sharp—something from my china cabinet hitting the floor. I eased myself to my feet, reaching up with my left hand for the gutter. “Quickly,” I said, edging across the ledge to Elizabeth.

I bent down to grasp her around her thighs. Quiet footsteps, heel to toe, were just audible. Rogers was close.

“Get away from the window,” I whispered, and slid back to the other side just as a shadow fell across the windowsill. We flattened ourselves against the bricks, trying to keep our weight back as our shoes hung over the edge.

The footsteps started up again, moving away, but returned perhaps thirty seconds later, stopping at the window. I held my breath. Then Rogers stepped away, his footsteps quieting as he moved from the den. A minute later, he yelled, “Seen anything?” It sounded like he was in the parlor.

“Nothing!” the other detective shouted back.

“All right. Stay back there and keep an eye out. I'm going to see if I can figure out what he's up to.” He started walking again, his shoes clomping across the floor this time, louder and louder. A chair—my desk chair—creaked. A drawer slid open, objects rattled around, and the drawer slammed shut. A few streets over, a string of firecrackers blew off, fifteen or twenty little bangs.

I glanced over at Elizabeth. Her eyes were closed, and the fingers of both her hands gripped the gutter.

Another drawer opened. “Huh,” Rogers said. A few seconds later, a number of objects clattered onto a hard surface.

My weight shifted the slightest bit forward, and I swayed out over the edge. I was just able to get my balance before taking a three-story drop. Something slapped onto the desk, and Rogers began riffling through papers.

From the corner of my eye, I caught a movement to our left. The detective in the straw boater was walking across the lawn, heading for the Hudson. I looked at Elizabeth again. Her eyes were still screwed shut, and she looked like she was trying to meld into the wall. The detective skipped onto the cobbles and crossed the street to the car.

My heart hammered. As soon as he turned around he would see us. Rogers sat at my desk, five feet from the window. We had nowhere to go.

The detective leaned over into the Hudson, grabbed something, and began to turn around.

*   *   *

“Harmon!” a man yelled. The detective's head jerked back, and he looked at the side of the house opposite my building. I followed his eyes.

Detective Riordan walked out from between the houses, both hands high in the air. “I'm giving myself up.”

What?
An instant later I understood. He was surrendering to keep Elizabeth and me from being caught.

The detective pulled his gun and leveled it at Riordan, who kept walking toward him. “Sergeant!” the cop called out, his eyes never leaving Riordan's form.

My desk chair creaked again. Rogers's shadow slid across the windowsill and stopped. “Riordan,” he muttered. “Will wonders never cease?” He walked briskly from the den, his footsteps pounding away.

“Elizabeth,” I hissed. “Inside. Now.”

She nodded. Her eyes were wide. We both grabbed hold of the underside of the window. She must have lost her balance because the window jerked down, pulling me into her. We both began falling off the ledge.

As I fell, I hooked my left arm over the sill and grabbed Elizabeth's shirtwaist with my right hand. She clawed for the ledge but missed. Bolts of pain shot up from my hand and shoulder, but I clamped my left arm against the inside wall and clenched my teeth, fighting through the pain, desperate to hold on to Elizabeth. She reached up, legs kicking, took hold of my belt, and began trying to climb up my body.

Three floors below, the front door opened, and Sergeant Rogers walked out, cutting across the lawn toward the two detectives standing in the street, one holding a gun on the other.

Elizabeth pulled herself up, one hand at a time. When she was finally able to take hold of the windowsill, I reached down with my right hand and helped boost her up. She fell inside, then jumped up and grabbed my shirt. We both pulled. I got a leg up on the ledge and then we tumbled onto the floor of the den.

Finally able to relax my muscles, I collapsed. Tidal waves of pain crashed onto me. The next thing I knew, Elizabeth was leaning over me, lightly slapping my face. “Will, wake up. Will.”

The pain came back, so intense I was sick to my stomach. I took a shuddering breath, and another, trying to push down the agony in my hand and shoulder.

Elizabeth peeked out the window. “They're coming back,” she whispered.

I fought my way to my knees. “Inside my wardrobe. He won't search the place again.”

She helped me to my feet, and we hurried to my bedroom and climbed inside the wardrobe, pushing back into the soft folds of clothing. Elizabeth pulled the door closed behind us, and the light extinguished. I thought I was going to be sick. “What'd they do,” I panted, “with Riordan?”

“The other detective cuffed him,” Elizabeth whispered. “I don't—”

Leather shoes slapped against the wooden floor, getting louder. They stopped. A moment later, muffled voices began talking. Rogers. And Riordan. I pushed the door open an inch.

“—should just take me in,” Riordan said. “Let the chief sort it out.”

“What's your story, anyway?” Rogers said. “I mean, I understand the whole ‘last cop with integrity' shtick, I appreciate that. But why always against the grain? Why can't you get along?”

Riordan barked out a laugh. “Tell me what grain I should be going with? The cops with their hands in everybody else's pockets? Or cops with their heads so far up the chief's ass they can smell his breath? Like you, for example. Now take me in or let me go.”

“All right,” Rogers said. “I'll be happy to have you brought in.”

“Then let's go.”

“I'm not going anywhere,” Rogers said, with a sneer in his voice. “Why'd you show up here, Riordan? Coincidence? I don't think so. I think you were meeting your buddy Anderson.”

“Why are you here, anyway?” Riordan said. “Why aren't you after the gangsters you're supposed to be catching?”

“Which one is he working with, Adamo or Gianolla?”

Riordan laughed again. “Rogers, you're not stupid enough to believe he's a gangster, are you?”

“Don't matter what I believe, Tommy.” One set of footsteps pounded across the wood floor and stopped abruptly. Rogers began talking a few moments later. He gave my address, asked for a patrol wagon, and hung up. Footsteps again. “Let's go outside,” he said. “Don't want to scare away your pal. I'd expect he's coming home soon.”