Sugar House (9780991192519) (29 page)

The Sugar House Gang had installed several high
capacity brewing plants and stills around the city to increase
their bootlegging revenues and had ventured into liquor hijacking
for themselves. The Bernstein brothers were put in charge of
hundreds of blind pigs and added kidnapping for ransom to their
resumes. Ray became known as the strong-arm of the brothers. He was
the one who brought in Gorilla Davis to help.

The gang developed a complicated system of
bribery and extortion across the city to ensure the safety of their
growing enterprise. Beat cops, sergeants, captains, judges,
councilmen, and lawyers all had different rates of pay for their
silence. Perhaps even the chief of police and the mayor were on the
take from the Sugar House. This system allowed the gang to haul
beer and whisky from breweries and distilleries and unload it right
on the docks in broad daylight. Several groups of men were assigned
to drive over the ice to Walkerville, Ontario, across from Belle
Isle at the north end of the city. They'd load their cars and
trucks with cases of Canadian Club, drive over the ice onto the
island park, and take the bridge back to the city. The Belle Isle
police, content to have their pockets lined with as much extra cash
as their yearly salary never saw anything.

That spring a rash of drownings were reported
in the Detroit newspaper when the ice on the river began to thaw,
but Cappie had the wherewithal to know when the ice was growing
thin. He ceased the daily runs to Canada; only the naive and
desperate continued to try their luck across the ice. In the
beginning, the Coast Guard rescued the rumrunners whose cars were
stuck and trapped in the ice, arrested them, and dumped their
liquor. But as the weather turned warmer and the ice thinner,
rescue efforts were aborted for the safety of the officers. Drivers
and their loads of hooch disappeared under the icy water; days
later, bloated bodies would be found drifting down the river. The
Coast Guard would haul them into their boats and bring the dead
back to the city to be identified. Often, bodies never turned up;
they were stuck in the sunken car, caught on the bottom of the
river. Others were found on the shores of Lake Erie, too decomposed
to identify.

Joe had grown a foot over the last four and a
half years. He was almost fifteen now but looked even older from
the years in the sun and wind on the river. Gone were the short
pants and soft cap that had helped Cappie and Joe portray their
father-and-son ruse. Leiter decided Joe would pilot his own boat
that spring, doubling his and Cappie's output, thereby doubling
Joe's pay to one hundred dollars a week. But the traffic on the
river was getting heavy, and with the ratification of the
Eighteenth Amendment Joe was concerned that federal agents would
become more assertive in their duties to uphold the law.

The week before he and Cappie were to
relocate to the Wyandotte house, he went to visit his childhood
friend Walt. Walt had followed his dream; he was working on the
docks and building speedboats on the side for a team of Gold Cup
racers.

"The damn things just make too much noise,"
Joe was saying to Walt at Jacoby's Bier Garden, a local hangout
near City Hall. "I don't know if there's anything you can do about
the engine, but the exhaust makes almost as much racket." They'd
ordered homemade Wiener schnitzel, spätzle, and potato pancakes and
were devouring the German fare as only two teenage boys can do.

"We don't usually try to make them quieter,
Joe. Actually we design them to be as loud as possible. The louder
the boats, the better the crowd likes it. Makes for a good show
while we're racing." Walt took another bite of noodles. "Hey, by
the way, how is this a 'beer garden' when they can't serve any
beer?"

"Oh, they've got beer upstairs if you want
it," Joe replied. "You thirsty? We can take our food up there and
drink if you want."

"No," Walt replied with a queer look on his
face, "I don't want any—I was just wondering. You sure have
changed, Joe."

"Not that much. You still see me at church,
doncha?" Joe grabbed the last potato pancake and put it on his
plate.

"Not very often—not that it's any of my
business. And you sure are dressing well too. Seems like last time
I saw you at St. Josaphat's you were wearing short pants and
stockings and now your all decked out in that fancy suit and
overcoat. Bet you didn't buy that at Kresge's or Hudson's."

"No, just this little shop where Leiter gets
all his suits. He sent me over there and told me to pick up a few…
said I looked like an immigrant just off the boat." Joe lowered his
voice slightly when he mentioned his boss's name and looked around
the crowded tavern. The air was so thick with smoke it almost hid
the customers in the corners of the room, and he wanted to make
sure he wasn't overheard by any unwelcome eavesdroppers.

"You're going to a tailor?" Walt said
incredulously. "Don't you think you'll stand out a little driving a
'fishing boat' back and forth in that getup?"

"I don't wear this on the boat. Come on Walt,
who cares about clothes? Whadda ya think you can do about the noise
from the boat?"

Walt had changed in the last five years also,
not so much in personality or street smarts but physically. He was
taller and broader, appearing very much like the seventeen-year-old
man he was. His hands were rough and callused from working on
boats. Yet his face still held some of the baby fat of pubescence,
and a strong Polish accent still permeated his speech. But Joe held
his opinions to himself.

"And you sound different too, Joe. I hope
you're not in over your head. People around here are talking a lot
about your boys."

"They're not my boys, Walt. Geez, you're so
serious. So about the boat…"

Walt drank a sip of Vernor's ginger ale and
thought for a minute. "Yeah, I have some ideas. I'd have to play
around a little."

"Great!" Joe replied. "Charlie said he'd pay
you fifty bucks a week to make the boats faster and fix them up
when they break down."

"Fifty dollars a week! That's more than twice
what I'm making now, and I already have a good job!"

"Hey Walt, keep your voice down, all right? I
told Charlie that you really know your stuff and he wants to hire
you on. He had someone look into the work you're doing for the Gold
Cup team, and he was real impressed."

"Now you're calling him Charlie, Joe? Nobody
calls Mr. Leiter Charlie. You talked to him about me? Why?" Walt
was getting agitated and Joe decided to try another tactic.

"Charlie was asking around the office the
other day if anybody knew a good boat mechanic. A couple of the
boats are looking rough from fighting the ice this winter, and they
need a little upkeep. The exhaust thing is my idea, and I haven't
mentioned it because I wasn't sure if you'd be able to do anything
about it. If you can swing it, take the idea. I won't say a
word."

"I don't want to work for gangsters, Joe. I
like my job, and the team is counting on my work for the race this
summer. I don't want to go to jail, and I definitely don't want to
get killed. Didn't that huckster Johnny Reid just get shot four
times in the head last week over in Corktown?" Walt was referring
to the area near Navin Field where many Irish immigrants had
settled.

"Oh, Johnny—he's got a problem with the women
is all. Some dame's husband came home while he was having himself a
little visit. Damn Mick was carrying a gun. I think his brother's a
cop or something… anyways, he got all crazy and started shooting
like he was out duck hunting! But Johnny's gonna be all right. He's
recuperating in some fancy hospital in New York now." Johnny Reid
had come to Detroit from the underworld in Missouri to seek his
fortune in bootlegging and had been introduced to the Sugar House
by an associate of the gang.

"Well, it doesn't matter, Joe. I'm not
interested."

Joe paid for their meal and they walked out
onto Brush Street. The sidewalk was crowded with businessmen and
shoppers on their way to and from lunch. Joe thought back to a few
years before, remembering the horse drawn carriages that had vied
for room on the streets with the trolleys and cars. Graceful horses
delivering wares and carting the rich around town had become a rare
sight on the streets of Detroit. Thankfully, so had what they left
behind in their path.

Joe finally managed to talk Walt into going
to the Sugar House with him to talk to Leiter. "Just hear him out"
was his final argument. Walt grudgingly followed him to the plant
and into Charlie's office. Joe introduced the two and set off for
the door. "Got a couple of errands to run, Walt… just listen to
Charlie. It's a good opportunity." Joe closed the door to the
office and walked home. He had some things to do before he and
Cappie set off for Wyandotte at the end of week.

Joe had saved almost half of his earnings
since receiving his raise that winter. He had over three hundred
dollars hidden under his mattress, and he took out half and went to
find his mother in the kitchen. He found her rolling meat into
cabbage rolls and humming an old Polish folk tune. Her face had
filled out again, but she remained extremely thin. Joe worried that
she'd never truly get over the loss of his father.

"Cześć, Matka." He greeted her in Polish.

"Joe, you are home early. I didn't hear you
come in. Did Mr. Leiter give you the afternoon off?"

"Things were slow today… Matka, you know I
have to go to a house down-river in a couple of days, right?" He
washed his hands in the sink and grabbed a leaf of cabbage from the
boiling pot to help roll the golabki.

"Yes, I know, but I wish you could stay here.
I don't understand why Mr. Leiter has to make a young boy go off
and live away from his family."

"I told you, Matka, he isn't
making
me
do anything. It's just part of the job, and that's where they need
me. But I might be gone for a while. I'm not sure when I'll be able
to get back. It might be a month or more, so you'll need to send
Frank to the Sugar House on Fridays for my pay. It's all arranged,
and they'll have it waiting for him." Thirty dollars would be
waiting for his brother at the end of every week at the office, and
the remainder of his pay would be held until he returned. Joe
didn't want his mother to know about his recent pay increase, so as
not to arouse any suspicions regarding the increased danger of his
job.

"But Joe, that means you'll be gone for
Easter! You can't miss Mass. It's a sin to miss on the holiest day
of the year! And you'll miss Easter dinner… no, you tell that Mr.
Leiter that you must be home for Easter."

"Sorry, Matka, it's already been decided. But
don't worry; I'll go to Mass. I'll find a church nearby." Joe
filled the last leaf of cabbage with the ground pork and beef
mixture and placed it in the Dutch oven. He rinsed off his hands
and reached into his pocket for the money he'd saved. "Here's some
extra money for Easter dinner and to buy new suits for Frank and
Stephan to wear to church."

"Joe, this is eighty dollars! Easter dinner
and new suits don't cost eighty dollars. I can't take all of
this!"

"Then buy a new dress or save it, Matka.
Please take the money. I'll feel better leaving if I know you have
enough to get by for a while." Joe pressed the bills into his
mother's hand. "I have a few errands to run, but I'll be back for
supper. I can't wait to eat your golabki—Cappie's cooking is
terrible!" Joe kissed Matka on the cheek, grabbed his communion
rosary from his bedroom and left out the front door.

He walked the two blocks to St. Josaphat's
and entered the quiet cathedral. The school children were in class
next door, and the church was empty. He walked down the long aisle
to the front of the church and placed five dollars in the offertory
box to pay for his prayer candles. He lit five tall red candles;
one each for Matka, Frank, and Stephan so God would watch over them
while he was away and one each for Cappie and himself to ensure
their safety on the river. Joe was sure Cappie wouldn't want a
candle lit for him, but he wasn't planning on telling him. He'd had
grown close to the man and didn't want anything to happen to him.
Lastly he walked over to the candles meant to remember the dead and
lit a tall pillar for Ojciec.

"I know God has heard our prayers and you are
in heaven Ojciec," Joe whispered. " Matka misses you so much, and
so do I. Every day I wish you were here with us, but I'm trying my
best to take care of Matka and my brothers. I hope you are proud of
me… and will you ask God to forgive me for the bootlegging? Take
care." Joe crossed himself and out of habit walked to pew number
273 and knelt down on the padded kneeler to pray. Head bowed, he
began reciting the rosary. Joe heard the sound of soft footsteps
and turned to see Father Gatowski approaching.

"Nice to see you here, Joe," he said, sitting
next to him on the hard bench. Joe rose from the kneeler and sat
next to the old priest.

"Nice to see you, Father… I'm glad you're
here. I was about to come look for you. I wanted to make a
contribution to the church in honor of my father. Will you say a
Mass in his remembrance?" Joe handed Father Gatowski the remaining
sixty-five dollars in his pocket.

"That's quite a large donation for a
remembrance Mass, Joe."

"Oh, well… give the rest to the church,
Father. For all they've done for me and my family, I mean."

"All right son, thank you." The priest sat
back in the pew and looked at the altar. "You know ,Joe, things are
changing quickly in this city. I'm not sure banning alcohol was the
best idea our government has ever had. The church is already having
difficulties with Prohibition."

"Why is that, Father? I thought the
Eighteenth Amendment allowed for sacramental wine?"