Motor City Shakedown (10 page)

I glanced at his brother, who pulled the knife from his belt and tested the edge with a fingertip. I looked again at the first man, but I didn't spit.

“Awright.” He straightened. “Why don' I start. My name is Tony Gianolla, and this”—he used his thumb to point at the shorter man next to him—“is my brother Sam.”

“Why would I care?”

“Listen,
stronzo,
” Tony Gianolla said to me, visibly fighting his temper. “Vito Adamo is your enemy, yes?”

“Like you don't know that?”

His mouth turned up in an amused smile. A tiny ball of white saliva perched at the center of his lower lip. “Just didn' pitcher you this way. Tough guy.” He shook his head. “We need to get Adamo off our asses. And you're helpin' us.”

“You're not with Adamo?”

He laughed. “Not hardly.”

That explained why I was still alive. “Why would I help you?”

“'Cause I'm the only reason you not behind bars.”

I stared into Tony Gianolla's hooded eyes. “What are you talking about?”

“Giovanni Esposito owed me a favor. He paid it back. Now
you
owe me.”

“I didn't kill anybody. I don't owe you anything.”

Tony smiled. “Don' matter if you killed Adamo's boy or not. You were goin' down for it. I got you sprung.”

“So are you saying Esposito was the killer?”

“No, what I'm sayin' is you owe me. Big.”

A cold dread filled me. “What do you want?”

“A lot less than I wanted from Esposito.” The brothers laughed and then Tony got serious again. “Vito Adamo killed a friend of mine a couple days ago. He won't let us alone. You gonna bring him a gift from us. We need peace with him.”

“The minute he sees me, he'll shoot me down. Get someone else.”

“No. We can give him somethin' he can' get from anybody else. He'll be grateful, an' it'll make sense comin' from you.”

I clenched my fists behind me to keep my hands from trembling. “What are you talking about?”

“Me and my brother got a little arrangement with the Teamsters Union. You gonna offer Adamo our cut of a car company.”

“Why me?” I was afraid I knew the answer.

“'Cause it's your company.”

Of course it is.
“I can't do that. Look, I don't even know where Adamo is. And I don't have any control over what they do at the company. I don't even think I still have a job there.”

He reached down and patted my cheek with a very large hand. “We give you a couple addresses. You gonna figure out where he's hidin'. Otherwise”—he hooked a thumb toward his brother—“Sam here's gonna pay you a visit. You won' like that. And if you still think you're a tough guy, maybe he'll go see your mama and papa. Or your girl.”

I looked into Tony's eyes and then Sam's. “You stay away from my family. If you do anything to them, I'll kill you. And I don't have a girl.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Tony gave me a smile that reached nowhere near his eyes. “We ain't gonna have to see your family, 'cause you gonna want this as much as we do.”

“Why's that?”

He tilted his head at me. “'Cause I'm gonna help you kill Adamo.”

*   *   *

He went on to explain that the Teamsters had deals with the employees of a number of delivery and moving companies, as well as drivers in the ice, coal, and milk industries.

They had yet to get their claws into the automobile business.

“That's where the money is,” Tony said. “Adamo knows that. He'll understan' you bringin' him the offer. You want him to call off the dogs, we want him to call off the dogs—he wins. Then he can start musclin' us out of our own thing.” Tony Gianolla smiled for real, and his upper canines dented his lower lip. It transformed him from a pudgy, overgrown boy into a dangerous carnivore. “But that ain't what's gonna happen. Once't he settles in a bit, you gonna off him.”

“Listen,” I said. “As much as I want Adamo dead, I can't do this. It's my father's company, and he reports to a board of directors. When I worked there, I was an assistant in the engineering department. I have no say in running the business. And why the hell would they let a union in anyway? The Employers Association will just run them out. This won't work.”

Tony shook his head, all the while looking amused. “Not my problem.” He gave the big man an order, and he bent down and untied my hands. Tony motioned for me to stand. When I did, he put his arm around me and walked me back to the car. “Giovanni Esposito gave his life for your sins. There's no getting it back. To you I am God.” He stopped and looked me full in the face. “If you run, I'll kill your family. If you fail, I'll kill your family. If you go to the cops, I'll kill your family. And I'll kill you too. You want ev'body healthy when this is over, you do your job.”

He patted my cheek and then cupped my chin in his meaty hand. “We got all kinds a cops on the payroll—city, sheriffs, state.” He gave my head a shake. “Get this inta that thick skull a yours. You talk to anybody—anybody—and ev'body dies. You and me is partners. My partners make me happy. You don't”—he shook his head and smiled at his brother—“Sam's gonna pay you a visit. Right after he sees your ma.”

“Who are you guys?” I said.

“Hey.” He spread his hands in front of him. “We just poor immigrants tryin' to make our way in America, huh, Sam?”

His brother grunted out a laugh. “
Sì,
just tryin' to make our way.”

I folded my arms over my chest. Another Black Hand gang. “So this is just a shakedown?”

“‘
Shakedown'
is a ugly word,” Tony said. “We did you a favor, now it's your turn. So get to work.” He handed me a folded piece of paper and pushed me toward the car. “Be lookin' for a visit from the Teamsters.”

The side door opened, and a woman walked in. At first she was silhouetted against the sunlight, and I couldn't make out her features. She walked over to Sam Gianolla and nuzzled him, and I saw her clearly.

It was the auburn-haired woman from the trial.

*   *   *

She wore a low-cut red silk dress that stopped above her ankles, with white button-top boots and a white, wide-brimmed hat. She kissed Sam on the cheek and took his arm. It was like watching a butterfly light on a piece of shit.

“Who's that?” I said to Tony, gesturing toward the woman.

Tony glanced behind him. “Sammy's girl. Why do you care?”

“Just curious.”

He turned to the driver and rattled off some quick Italian. The other man eyed me.

“What was that about?” I asked.

“I was just tellin' him what to do wit' you,” Tony said.

I stared at him.

He laughed. “Don' worry.” He held my eyes. “At least not yet.”

The kidnappers forced me to climb into the trunk again. In the dark of the trunk, knees against my chest and head bent forward, I considered what I knew. The Gianollas, assisted by the albino and Sam's girlfriend, had orchestrated Esposito's confession. Was it simply so they could blackmail me?

Tony Gianolla must have ordered Carlo Moretti's death. If I were a betting man, I'd say Sam Gianolla killed Moretti, though I supposed either one of the thugs driving me could have done it as well. Or perhaps Giovanni Esposito was actually in jail for a crime he committed. Sam's girlfriend could very well have been the prostitute—or at least played the role. It didn't really matter. The Gianollas had me over a barrel.

So what alternatives did I have?

Somehow finagle my father into accepting a union? It was laughable, unprecedented, not to mention impossible. Not only had no Detroit automobile company ever allowed a union through its doors, the Employers Association of Detroit existed for no purpose other than to keep the unions out. Anderson Electric Car Company wrote a big check every month to pay the EAD's thugs and strikebreakers for protection—not so different from the Black Hand, now that I thought about it.

What else could I do? Go after the Gianollas?

My family would be dead before I could kill the second brother.

Go to the police?

Hah. Other than Detective Riordan, every cop I'd met in this town was a crook. I'd bet dollars to buttons that Tony was telling the truth—they had cops on their payroll. I'd have better luck bringing in the Boy Scouts. But … Detective Riordan. It might be worth talking to him. If worse came to worst, I'd have to go along with the Gianollas' scheme until I could turn the tables on them. If it got me Vito Adamo, so much the better.

Finally the car stopped, and the trunk opened. The kidnappers pulled me out feetfirst and dumped me into the dirt. Sharing a grin, they climbed back into the roadster and drove away.

I lay on the ground with my hands over my face. My head pounded; sharp pains pulsated behind my eyes. I massaged the tight muscles in my forehead and felt deep wrinkles between my eyebrows. When I climbed to my feet, I saw I was in an alley between a pair of redbrick three-story houses. I worked the kinks out of various parts of my body and walked out to the road. I was on Second Street, only a few blocks from home.

I hurried to my apartment, locked myself in, and ran a bath—as hot as I could stand. When I lay back in the steaming water, I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. I would see if Detective Riordan could pull any miracles from his sleeve. Then I'd speak with my father about getting my job back. Assuming Riordan wasn't a miracle worker, the Gianollas would have to be convinced that I really was going to help them.

And what of Elizabeth? I couldn't put her in the crosshairs.

I couldn't see her.

*   *   *

The next morning I emptied the pockets of my trousers and found the piece of paper Tony Gianolla had given me. Unfolding it, I saw two addresses—one in Ford City, down by Wyandotte, the second an address on Hastings, which I was certain was Adamo's saloon, the Bucket. I was plenty familiar with that location. It seemed likely that the first was a home address.

They wanted Adamo dead. I shared their desire. Perhaps if I killed him, I could hold the Gianollas and the Teamsters at bay. It would at least lessen the urgency of their request. But I'd try Riordan first.

I walked down Peterboro toward Woodward. The morning was warm, with only a few clouds to mar a brilliant blue sky. As I approached the streetcar stop, the dozen people already standing there started shouting. When I got closer, I saw a pair of newsboys scuffling on the sidewalk, while the men in the crowd rooted them on. The boys looked to be about ten years old. One of them, a freckled redhead, was a foot taller than the little dark-haired boy he was fighting, but he was stymied by jabs and kicks that kept him from getting inside.

Everything turned quickly when the smaller boy wound up and missed a kick to the redhead's groin, and in return received a haymaker that knocked him straight over backwards. The redhead dived on top of him and began throwing punch after punch into the smaller boy's face, which was quickly spattered with blood. The adults just kept cheering.

Adrenaline pumped through me. I ran the last thirty feet, pulled the redhead off, and shoved him away. He snarled and tried to jump back on the other kid, but I held on to him. He fought me, but finally spat at the boy and stomped away. I wheeled on the crowd. “What the hell is wrong with you people? These are kids.”

A distinguished-looking man of about sixty gave me a disgusted wave with his shiny black cane and turned his back. Another man jutted out his jaw and said, “You just cost me two bits. That Mick was gonna kill the Jew.”

I shook my head and turned to the boy on the ground. Through the blood I could make out a long narrow face, large hooked nose, dark eyes, and thick black hair. He pushed himself up to a seated position, his face contorted as he tried not to cry. Blood and mucus ran from his nose. He had a cut over one eye that bled down his face, but it didn't look too serious. His white shirt was dirty and torn at the collar.

Looking at him made me want to cry, which surprised me. I'd seen my share of fights. At times I'd been exhilarated, other times horrified. But this boy filled me with sadness. Maybe it was too close—a smaller person brutalized by a larger one. Regardless, I really felt for the boy. I gave him my handkerchief and helped him to his feet. “You all right?” I asked quietly.

He shoved away from me. “I'm okay. But he's not gonna be.”

“Forget about it,” I said. “That kid is half again your size.”

The boy glared at me. “This is
my
corner.” He picked up a white bag with perhaps half a dozen
Detroit Herald
newspapers inside. “Sonuvabitch!” He spun around toward the crowd. “Who stole'd my goddamn papers?”

A couple of people turned around, but no one said anything.

“I gotta pay for those fuckin' papers, you cocksuckers.”

The distinguished-looking man waved his cane at the boy. “You watch your mouth, you young whelp, or I'll give you a good caning.”

The boy's mouth puckered like he was eating a lemon. He stared back at the man for a moment before saying, “Just like I gave your ol' lady this mornin' after she sucked my dick?”

The man raised his cane and advanced on the boy, but I stepped between them. “Get out of here,” I said over my shoulder.

The man poked his cane into my chest. “Mind your own business, sir, or I'll turn my cane on you.”

I grabbed the cane, twisted it out of his hand, and gave him a shove. He fell to the sidewalk. I jabbed the cane toward him and was only just able to stop short of his face. I wanted to run him through or pound him into mush. My face must have shown it, because he didn't move.

The trolley rattled up the street, almost at the stop. I threw the cane to the ground and shoved my way onto the car, which already had people hanging off the sides. After I dropped my nickel into the coin box, I remembered the boy. I looked out at the sidewalk again. He was gone. Good. I hoped he wouldn't reappear until the older man had left.