Motor City Shakedown (42 page)

The door slammed after them and rebounded against the wall. I pushed the wardrobe door the rest of the way open, and we climbed out and crept into the den. Staying in the shadows, we looked out the window.

Rogers and the other detective stuffed Riordan into the back of the Hudson. They conferred for a minute before the other detective cut around to the back of my building again.

“I'll see where he's going,” Elizabeth whispered. “Watch Rogers.” She tiptoed out of the den, heading up the hall to the parlor. Keeping my eyes focused on the detective, I sat in my desk chair. Elizabeth's purse lay upside down on the desk, the contents strewn across the top.

Rogers climbed into the Hudson, started it up, and drove down Peterboro to Third, pulling around the corner. After he got the car turned around, he parked where he had a full view of the front of the building but wouldn't be conspicuous.

Elizabeth tiptoed back into the den with the bottle of aspirin and a cup from my bathroom. “He's hiding behind the shed in back.” She unscrewed the top of the aspirin bottle and gave it to me.

I shook out five or six tablets and popped them in my mouth, then took the glass and washed them down. “Thanks.” I looked at the wall clock. It was eight thirty now. Two and a half hours until we had to be at the restaurant. Some time between now and then, one of the Gianolla brothers would call with instructions.

I hoped Rogers had somewhere to go tonight.

*   *   *

My front door creaked. I pulled the .32 out of my belt and stood by the den's doorway, listening. Shoes clomped across the wood. I tightened my grip on the pistol. Then a child's voice whispered, “Anderson. Anderson. You here?”

I looked around the corner. It was Izzy. He looked younger than his ten years. His black hair stuck out underneath his floppy newsboy cap, and his clothes were about two sizes too large. Smiling, I tucked the gun into my belt and waved him down the hall.

Elizabeth tiptoed out of the parlor and followed him. He turned to her. “Hey, doll.” I could hear the smile in his voice.

“Hello, Izzy.” She was smiling too. His obnoxiousness was endearing to her as well.

“Aw, why'd ya cut off the locks?” he said to her.

She shrugged. “Had to.”

“Well, I'd still take ya out on the town, sweetheart,” Izzy said as they walked up the hall. He nodded at me. “What was the circus act about?”

“Oh, out there?” I hooked my thumb toward the den.

Rolling his eyes, he said, “No, the elephant parade.” The Bernstein boys didn't suffer fools gladly.

“Just trying to stay out of sight.”

“Hanging out the fuckin' window prolly ain't the best way to do that, college boy.”

Elizabeth snickered.

“I'll try to remember that.” I could hear a siren now.

Izzy looked off toward the front door. “The bulls do the remodelin'?”

“Yep. How'd you get in without them seeing you?”

“Ya got some neighbors downstairs ain't too careful about latchin' their windows. Came in the side.”

Elizabeth whispered, “I'll keep an eye out,” and padded into the den.

Izzy held out his hand. “Abe says you got a hundred for me.”

“Oh, right. Wait here.” I crept into my bedroom and pulled half my remaining inheritance—five twenty-dollar bills—from the nightstand. When I turned around, Izzy was peering through the bedroom door. The siren kept getting louder.

“No use looking for valuables,” I said. He didn't even have the manners to look sheepish. I gave him the money. “Tell him to hurry.”

The siren was deafening. It shut off abruptly. Brakes squealed and springs creaked in front of the building. Seconds later the engine revved, and the vehicle pulled away.

Elizabeth stuck her head out of the den. “They took him. Rogers is sitting in the car.”

Izzy started down the hall before stopping in his tracks and turning back to me. “You gotta get out a here, right? What'cha gonna do about the cops?”

“I figured we'd sneak out after dark.”

His lips pursed, and he moved them back and forth while he thought. Looking up at me again, he said, “I could keep 'em from follering ya. Cost ya 'nother one a these.” He held up the twenties.

“And you would do what?”

“Got some taters?”

“Yeah.” He followed me into the kitchen, and I pulled a canvas bag of potatoes from the pantry.

He grabbed as many as he could fit into his pockets. “These oughtta do the job.” Holding out his hand, he said, “Awright. Hand it over.”

I went back to my bedroom for another twenty and gave it to him. He gestured toward the front of the building and grinned. “Just watch the buggy.”

“Get word to Abe right away that I paid you.”

“Yeah, this'll take two shakes. Turd'll never know I was there.” He headed for the foyer.

“Hey, Izzy,” Elizabeth said.

He stopped and turned around.

“Be careful.”

Wagging his eyebrows at her, he said, “I knew you'd come around. Come see me when you're ready for a real man.” He glanced at me. “No offense.” He walked out into the hallway without a good-bye.

Elizabeth and I shared a smile before we tiptoed to the den and took our places on either side of the window. Dusk was approaching. The street was bathed in a golden hue with elongated shadows cutting across the lawns, stealing the daylight. Rogers was slumped down in the seat.

Perhaps a minute later, Elizabeth nudged me and pointed down Third Street. Izzy was peeking around the corner of the house behind Rogers's car. He was just the depth of the front yard, perhaps forty feet, away from the Hudson. He moved stealthily across the lawn, staying in the shadows. When he reached the sidewalk he eased himself to the ground and crawled, soldier style, to the street behind the car. Rogers never moved.

Izzy pulled the potatoes out of his pockets and laid them on the cobbles. He selected one and pushed it into the tailpipe. It slipped right in. The next one took a little more work to fit in, and the last couple of them were much too large to fit easily. It was hard to see clearly from the third floor, but it looked like he was screwing the larger potatoes into the tailpipe.

I realized I'd been holding my breath. “You've done this before, haven't you, Izzy?” I whispered.

When he finished, he peeked out at Rogers from under the car and began crawling up toward the sidewalk, where he stood, sneaked back to the house, and disappeared behind it.

Sergeant Rogers never saw or felt a thing. He just sat there, staring idly at my building.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Elizabeth returned to the parlor, and I kept an eye on Rogers. The burning in my hand had turned into a deep bone ache, like an infected tooth. The aspirin was doing nothing to cut through it. The phone rang. I picked up the receiver and whispered, “Hello?”

“Sorry for what Sam did.” Tony Gianolla's gruff voice sounded almost kind. “He ain't much for controllin' his temper.”

“So I've noticed.”

“Yeah, I'm workin' on him. Anyways, just like we said, bring both Adamos to Giuseppe's at eleven o'clock. Pietro Mirabile will be there in case Vito thinks I'm tryin' to pull somethin'. Mirabile's guaranteein' their safety. His men are gonna frisk ever'body. Once you all are inside, my brothers and me'll come in. We'll get frisked too.”

Elizabeth stuck her head into the den.

“No,” I said. “You go in first. Better yet, I'll look the place over, then you come in, and
then
the Adamos come in.”

“Yeah, okay. Now listen to me, Anderson. This ain't no bullshit. We're both losin' too many men. Pretty soon neither side's gonna have any shooters, and somebody else'll step in. I'm tryin' to keep that from happenin'. Detroit's plenty big enough for both of us.”

“Okay.” If his nose grew when he lied, it would be about eighteen feet long by now.

“You tell him that. No tricks. We're comin' unarmed, and he better too.”

“I'll tell him.”

“And listen. Your ma and pa got nothin' to worry about from us. That was all a mistake.”

“Elizabeth as well?”

“Yeah. I'm tellin' ya. We just want this shit to stop so's we can get back to business.”

We rang off. I stared at the phone for a few moments after he hung up.

“What did he say?” Elizabeth whispered.

I recounted our conversation and added, “Tony acted conciliatory on the train, though I have to say the impact was lessened a bit when Sam threw me off. But this time he really sounded like he was trying to make peace.”

“Maybe they're hurting worse than we thought,” she said. “They've lost a lot of men. Could he be sincere?”

“Well, we certainly can't trust him. I hope the Adamos are prepared for the worst.”

The bangs and booms and whistles of firecrackers and fireworks sounded from all across the city. I glanced up at the wall clock. It was almost nine. “And speaking of the Adamos.” I picked up the telephone's receiver and asked the operator to connect me. Vito was there, and I filled him in on what Tony had said.

“So it is still Giuseppe's, eh?” Vito asked.

“So he says.”

“Hmm. Reports are that it is clean. I have spoken with Pietro as well. He told me the Gianollas have asked him to broker peace between us. I believe I can trust Don Mirabile.”

“Are you sure?”

“There is no ‘sure' in this life. As I said, I believe I can trust him. Let's meet fifteen minutes early.”

“At the restaurant?”

“No. Where my men picked you up yesterday.” He was quiet for a moment. “By the way, I discovered that Carlo Moretti was killed by someone known as ‘the Razor.'”

“The razor?”

“For his choice of weapons.”

I immediately thought of the two men who entered Moretti's apartment building ahead of him. One was medium height, medium build, the other short and thinner. I knew a pair of brothers who fit that description, and one of them always carried a straight razor. But … they were kids. At fifteen years old, could Joey already be known for his method of murder? It seemed unlikely but, given his temperament, not impossible.

“Mr. Anderson?”

I brought my attention back to Adamo. “Yes, I'm still here.”

“Do you know who that might be?”

“No … no, I don't.” I was not going to share my suspicion with him.

“Listen to me,” he said. “If they start shooting, cover Miss Hume with your body. They will be gunning for the Adamos, but I don't think they will be discriminating.” He laughed. “Do you like that? Now I can say words like ‘discriminating' without a stumble.”

I laughed with him. “You're becoming an American.”

“Oh, I don't think I can go that far, Mr. Anderson. But I am, what's the word? Assimilating?”

“That's the word.” The guy amazed me.

“I must go make preparations. Be careful. And tell Miss Hume the same. Good luck to you.”

“You too.” God help me, I meant it.

*   *   *

I hung up the receiver and sat back in my chair. After I thought for a moment, I called the Detroit Electric garage and told them to deliver the Torpedo to the corner of Charlotte and Cass as soon as possible. The man I talked to said it might take an hour, but they'd get it there.

I looked at Elizabeth. “Adamo says Moretti's killer was someone known as the Razor. You haven't spent a lot of time around Joey Bernstein, but he always carries a straight razor.”

She thought about it and shook her head. “No. It couldn't be him. That would mean Abe has been working with the Gianollas from the start. If that were the case, he never would have set us up to ambush them.”

“You're right. And Joey's fifteen, for crying out loud. Never mind.” I leaned forward. “Okay. Assuming Izzy's little trick works, we ought to be able to get out of here. But I don't know how much we can count on Adamo. We need an angle.”

She patted her leg. “I've got the twenty-five. And the knife in my shoe.”

“It's a start.”

“Why not leave a note for Detective Rogers?”

“What?”

Elizabeth crouched down next to me. “It will take the police a while to get to Giuseppe's. If we cut it close on the timing, maybe they could catch both the Adamos and the Gianollas—and get us out of there alive.”

“Good thinking. What else?”

Her forehead creased. After a few moments, she shook her head.

I stared at the desk in front of me. The contents of Elizabeth's purse were scattered across the surface from Rogers's search. The sight of the switchblade gave me an idea. I looked at my glove. “Maybe…” I pulled off the glove and reached inside, trying to work the cotton out of the fifth finger, but I couldn't hold on to the outside with my right hand. Elizabeth saw what I was trying to do and reached over, took the glove, and pulled out the cotton. She looked up at me.

I handed her the switchblade. “Fit that in there.”

“What are you going to do with your pinkie?”

“I'll just push it into the fourth hole.”

She took the switchblade and stuffed it inside. It wasn't exactly finger shaped, but the size was reasonably close—a little wider, and of course flat rather than rounded, but I thought inside the black glove it might pass.

Now for my fingers. I set my jaw and pulled the glove back on, with the stub of my little finger jammed into the fourth finger slot. The pain was about what I expected. When I'd gotten the glove all the way on, I held it up in front of me. Not bad. The knife wouldn't pass close scrutiny, but the Gianollas had seen me wearing the glove often enough that they might just overlook it.

When I finished, I removed the glove, a burst of air forcing from my mouth. While I did, Elizabeth pulled a notepad from my desk and wrote: