The Detroit Electric Scheme (21 page)

I tightened my grip on the Colt.

Judge Hume spoke, his voice weak and broken. “What do you want?”

“As I said, I would be pleased to join in the search for your daughter. I want only for you to show your gratitude, should I be able to find her.”

“All right, I will. Just give her back to me.”

The Italian man said, “I'll do what I can, Your Honor. It will be a privilege to call a distinguished man such as you a friend. Now, please. I have other business to attend to.” He turned the judge around and steered him toward the door.

I stepped out in front of them, leveling the gun at the Italian. “Where is she?”

Judge Hume's eyes widened. “Will?”

The Italian man straightened the jacket of his dark gray sack suit and tilted his head to the side. “Will? Ah, Mr. Anderson. I should have recognized you before. It is indeed a pleasure to meet such a celebrity. Do you intend to add me to your list of victims?”

“Where is she?” I repeated.

“As I told the judge, I do not know. And with all this rudeness, I'm not certain I will even look.”

The judge stepped in front of me, anger flaring on his face. “Anderson, get out of here. You're just getting in the way.”

“No,” the Italian said. “Perhaps it is you who should leave, Judge Hume. I would like to speak with Mr. Anderson.”

The judge spun back to the Italian. “But—”

“I'll contact you if I hear anything. Good-bye.”

“But . . . I . . .” The judge again turned toward me. The anguish of a frightened father was etched into his face. It was unsettling. I'd never seen him like this. “Find her.”

Narrowing my eyes at the Italian, I nodded. The judge staggered past me. Music poured in for a moment and then quieted as the door closed behind him.

“Come to my office, please.” The Italian man stepped aside, sweeping his arm toward the back.

I motioned with the gun. “After you.”

“If you insist.” He strolled to the door, opened it, and walked around a small wooden desk to a chair set against the back wall. The office was small and cramped, lit by a pair of gas lamps mounted on either side of the room. The Italian unbuttoned his coat and sat at the desk, empty save for a telephone, and gestured toward one of the chairs facing him. “Please, sit.”

I stepped to the side of the door, keeping the gun pointed at him. The barrel was trembling. “I'll stand, thanks. And keep your hands where I can see them.”

He looked amused, but his hands stayed on top of the desk. “My name is Vito Adamo. I would like to speak with you about Miss Hume.”

“What have you done to her?”

“Done? Nothing. I have not seen her since you took her away.”

“Look, I'm fairly certain you killed John Cooper and the Doyles, or had one of your men do it. I know you blackmailed me. But I don't care about any of that. I just want to find Elizabeth.”

He twisted the ends of his waxed mustaches and squinted at me for
a moment, as if trying to understand a new language. Then he broke out in laughter. “The newspapers say you killed John Cooper. I did not. I do not know of the Doyles, and I know nothing of any blackmail.”

He seemed sincere, but I had no idea how good an actor he was. I wouldn't give him the benefit of the doubt. “Where is Elizabeth?”

“What business is it of yours?”

I walked around the desk and stuck the barrel of the gun against his forehead. “Tell me.”

“If you are going to kill me, please, do so. Otherwise, I would like to change the topic.”

Pulling the trigger wouldn't help me find Elizabeth. I stepped back, keeping the gun trained on him. “So talk.”

He pushed back his chair and crossed his legs, tugging at his trousers until the crease was straight. “As you are no doubt aware, the judge can be a most difficult man. I do not trust him. Even if I do find his daughter, I still need some, what is the word?
Lev-er-age?
” He spoke carefully, feeling the word in his mouth. “Is this it?”

“Yes. Something you can use against him.”

He clapped his hands together one time. “
Esattamente.
Leverage.”

“Like what?”

“Information that might cause him distress should it become public. I could use Miss Hume's situation, but I am trying to keep family out of this. It's not . . .
professionale.
”

“I don't know anything.”

“I did not expect so. But Miss Hume does.”

“How could you possibly know that?”

“I have an excellent source of information.”

“I don't believe you.”

Adamo sighed. “John Cooper told me.”

“What? How do—did—you know John Cooper?”

“That is not important,” he said. “Suffice it to say that Mr. Cooper and I were acquainted.”

“Why would he tell you anything about Elizabeth?”

“He did not want Miss Hume's situation to become public. I helped him, he helped me.”

The office door burst open and slammed against the wall. Big Boy stood in the doorway, his body stiff, eyes darting between Adamo and me. I swung the gun over to him.

Behind him, Wesley said, “Easy there, big fella.” He pushed the giant into the room.

A blade pressed against my neck. Startled, I cut my eyes toward Adamo's chair. It was empty.

“Give me the gun, Mr. Anderson,” he purred from behind me.

Wesley held his revolver up to the base of Big Boy's skull, his middle finger against the trigger. He was grimacing from the pain in his hand. “Let him go, or I'll blow your pet giant's brains all over this room.”

“I do not think so,” Adamo said. “You are a friend of Mr. Anderson?”

Wesley didn't respond.

“Well, no matter.” The Italian's voice was cool and steady. “I will kill him unless you lay your gun on the floor.”

“Let him go,” Wesley said.

I felt a sharp sting as he pressed the blade into my neck. “Wes, get out of here. I'll handle this.” I kept the gun pointed at Big Boy, but I couldn't hold it still. My guts were roiling.

“No, sorry,” Wesley said.

Warm blood began to run down my neck. “I'm giving him the gun, Wes.” I tried to steady the trembling in my voice. “Now get out of here.”

He glanced around Big Boy. When he saw the blade cutting into my neck, he shoved the big man against the desk and aimed his gun over my shoulder.

“You'll be killing your friend,” Adamo said.

“But I'll be killing you, too,” Wesley said. “And muscle-boy.”

Big Boy glared at Wesley, but stayed by the desk. The room was small enough that he could almost reach Wesley from where he was.

“I'm going to count to three,” Adamo said, his voice coming from directly behind me, “and if you don't drop your gun I'm going to slit Mr. Anderson's throat. Of course, if you try to shoot me or Big Boy before that, I'll do it sooner.”

I held both hands in front of me, palms out, the Colt dangling off my thumb. “Wes, leave.” I couldn't put him in any more danger.

“One,” Adamo said.

Wesley took a step toward us, trying to keep an eye on Big Boy at the same time. His eyes were wide, his confusion apparent.

The blade cut deeper into my neck. Blood ran down my chest. “Wes, get out of here.”

“Two.”

Wesley's mouth opened and closed. He finally shouted, “All right!” and set his Colt on the floor.

Adamo reached around and relieved me of my pistol. Big Boy picked up the other gun, turned to Wesley and, with a short chopping motion, hit him in the forehead with the pistol's grip. It made a sickening
thud.
Wesley staggered but didn't fall. Blood streamed down his face from a ragged cut above his left eyebrow. Big Boy raised the gun a second time.

“That's enough,” Adamo said. “I have a need for these gentlemen.”

The giant frowned at him but lowered the weapon.

“Now, to business.” Adamo walked around the desk and sat. He opened a drawer and placed the gun in it. “Please, sit, both of you.”

Big Boy shoved Wesley toward the desk. Wincing, he caught his balance and turned back to the giant.

“Wes,” I said. “Sit. Please.”

He glared at Big Boy a moment longer before sliding into the chair. I sat next to him, pulled out my handkerchief, and pressed it against the wound on my neck. Wesley did the same with the cut on his forehead.

Adamo clasped his hands on the desk in front of him. “Now, Mr. Anderson. The newspapers say you and Miss Hume were engaged. Is this correct?”

“Yes.”

“And then she fell in love with John Cooper.”

“Yes.”

“What is she to you now?”

“She's my . . . friend.”

Smiling, Adamo looked over our heads at the giant. “You would face Big Boy—twice—for a friend? No, I don't think so.” He thought for a moment. “Does Miss Hume still love you?”

I grunted out a laugh. “Hardly.”

“I have a proposition for you, Mr. Anderson. You have heard the phrase, ‘One hand will wash the other'?”

I nodded.

“I will find Miss Hume for you, but I need something in return.”

“What?”

“Of course I'm talking about her father's secret. She wasn't willing to tell me, even to get her drugs.” Vito Adamo raised a finger to his chin, and his head inclined toward me. “Perhaps you would get it from her to save her life.”

 

I wiggled around and blew into my hands. It was freezing. The cots in the Bucket's basement were hard and threadbare, and we had no blankets. The bleeding from my throat had stopped, but not before my shirt was glued to my chest. My teeth were chattering, from more than the cold.

Wesley and I lay, our hands and feet bound, on cots surrounded by dozens of others, all empty. Hundreds of cases of liquor and kegs of beer lined the walls. From time to time the newspapers alleged that Italian criminals brought in illegal liquor and immigrants without papers from Canada—this looked to be a way station, and the fact that Adamo was letting us see it made me very nervous.

A rumbling cacophony of music, shouts, and laughter poured down the steps, while playing cards splatted against a table near my cot. A swarthy young man with dark eyes glittering over sunken cheeks sat at the table with a deck of cards, practicing dealing off the bottom of the deck. It wasn't the first time he'd tried it.

I glanced over at Wesley. The blood on his forehead had dried in a crust on his skin, and his blond hair was matted and dark. “I'm sorry I got you into this,” I whispered.

He frowned. “If you don't stop apologizing, I'm going to whack you a good one.”

“Sorr—” I stopped myself. “Are you all right?”

He nodded. With a grim set to his mouth, he said, “But when I get out of here, these guys won't be.”

“Remember,” I whispered. “Elizabeth.” In the back of my mind, I envied his confidence. I was too frightened to think about revenge.

“I know.” He looked over the top of me at our guard and then met my eyes again. “When I saw Judge Hume walk out of that back room I just about went apoplectic. If he's involved in this, it can't be good.”

“You know the judge?”

“I've been a guest in his courtroom. What was he doing here?”

“I think he was just trying to get Adamo to give him Elizabeth.”

Wesley raised his bound hands to his forehead and tried to push a lock of hair out of his face. It didn't move, stuck in place by the blood. “How would he even know Adamo?”

The young Italian man shouted,
“Zitto!”

I lowered my voice. “Adamo is p-paying him off.” My teeth were chattering again. I clenched my jaw.

Wesley's eyes widened. “For what?”

“I don't know. But I think Adamo has Elizabeth stashed somewhere. I'm certain he's not going to hurt her, though. She's his bargaining chip.”

A chair scraped. My cot flipped over on its side, and I tumbled onto the cold concrete floor.

The young Italian man stood over me, eyes blazing.
“Zitto!”

“Settle down there, Michelangelo,” Wesley said. “We were just chatting.”

Without a word, the man walked around my cot and flipped Wesley's over. When he hit the floor, he groaned, followed by a sharp intake of breath. The Italian man kicked him in the side. Wesley cried out in pain.

“Hey!” I yelled. I rolled over, wedging myself between the two of them. “Leave him alone!” The Italian just walked back to the table and began dealing cards again. It wasn't likely that he even spoke English. The majority of Detroit residents were immigrants, and most lived in enclaves with their countrymen, so learning the language wasn't a necessity.

“I'm all right,” Wesley said with a grimace. “Listen, Will, we'd better try to sleep. Who knows when we're getting out of here?”

I agreed. Wesley rolled over onto his side with his hands under his head and soon was snoring softly. I didn't expect sleep to overtake me tonight. Surrounded by a thousand bottles of liquor, I had nothing to drink.

Instead, I thought.

I was pathetic. The woman I loved and the man who'd helped me beyond all reason were both in the clutches of a ruthless criminal. I had to do something, but I couldn't concentrate. I couldn't even stop shivering. Fear had become my normal state. Since the moment I found John's body, I'd been afraid. Afraid of the police, the blackmailer, Judge Hume, the criminals in jail, John Dodge, Big Boy, and now Vito Adamo. And when I listed them off, I conceded I had very good reason to be afraid. But this wasn't anything new. It was simply a variation of the fear I had lived with since I could remember.

I had always been afraid of not living up to my parents' expectations, or Elizabeth's expectations, of letting down the people I loved. But as I considered the events of the past week, it occurred to me that the problem was something else entirely. It wasn't that I was afraid to look like an idiot to everyone else. The problem was that I wouldn't risk a serious effort toward a goal, for fear I would fail and prove to
myself
I wasn't good enough. Instead, I complained, threw blame elsewhere, and raised my eyebrows at the mistakes of others, all the while making it clear to everyone that I wasn't trying. If I didn't try, I couldn't fail. Everything I'd ever done had been motivated by the fear of failure.