Motor City Shakedown (20 page)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

When my father and I left the saloon, I pulled out Esposito's address and took a streetcar up Gratiot into the Russian ghetto, by the open-air Eastern Market, the block-long old-world bazaar filled with stall after stall of goods. Food dominated the offerings, though if someone would pay money for a thing, it was here.

I skirted the market and walked the few blocks out of the ghetto into a section of Little Italy. Esposito's address was on the second floor of a crumbling redbrick apartment building on Wilkins. I pushed open the battered door and climbed the stairs, breathing the stink of fried fish and chamber pots. The smell brought me back to the apartment in which Elizabeth and I had spent a week while she was in withdrawals. Walking into the second-floor hallway, I shook my head. Though we'd been there less than two years earlier, it seemed a lifetime had passed.

I knocked on Esposito's door. A young man opened it and looked at me expectantly. A young woman, presumably his wife, stood inside, a baby in her arms. I asked the man if this was Giovanni Esposito's apartment, to which he responded in heavily accented English that he and his wife had moved in the week before. He did not know Esposito or whether he had a family.

No one was home at the apartment across the hall or to the right of Esposito's apartment, but an old woman in a heavy black dress answered the door on the left.

“Good evening,” I said, doffing my hat. “Could you tell me if Giovanni Esposito used to live in the apartment next door?”

She crossed herself and said,
“Sì,”
then reached out and took hold of my forearm. “He is killer,
assassino.
”

I nodded, though I thought I knew otherwise. “Did he have a family?”

“No. Just him,” she replied, a scowl on her face.

I thanked her and turned from the doorway, but her expression made me stop and ask her what sort of man he was.

“Bah!” she said. “Bad man. Gambling, up all night. And he kill man!”

“Yes, I've heard that,” I said. “Thank you very much.” As I returned to the street, I felt somewhat relieved. Even though I was no closer to gaining Adamo's help, at least the man in prison wasn't a saint with eight young children to feed.

My next stop was to see Elizabeth. As much as I missed her, I didn't look forward to delivering this message. But she needed to know the truth. I took a streetcar down to Jefferson and walked the last half mile. Alberts again showed me to the living room, where I waited for Elizabeth, lost in my thoughts.

“Hello, Will.” Elizabeth stood only a few feet away from me. I hadn't even heard her enter the room.

“Good evening, Elizabeth. How've you been?”

“I'm fine. You?”

“Oh. Fine.”

Biting her lip, she tilted her head to the side. “What's on your mind?”

I didn't know how to start. Finally I said, “Did you see the news about Adamo?”

She nodded, her face grim. “Locked up. Hopefully for the rest of his life.”

“Yes.” I looked away for a moment before meeting her eyes. “But that's not why I'm here. I'm afraid I've put you in danger again.”

“Does this have something to do with Adamo?”

“No. Well, not directly, anyway.” I saw no reason to bring up my visit to the jail that morning.

She stared at me. “This is why you haven't called?”

I nodded. “Can we sit?”

Without a word, she walked to the sofa and perched on the edge. I followed and sat back, sinking into the soft cushion. “I've been threatened by a group of Sicilian criminals. If Anderson Electric doesn't either pay them fifty thousand dollars or allow the Teamsters Union to represent their drivers and mechanics, they've threatened to kill my mother and father, and you.”

Her face was guarded. I couldn't discern her reaction. “It's not Adamo.”

“No. The men threatening me are a different Black Hand gang—the Gianolla brothers. I didn't think they knew about you but found out otherwise. They specifically threatened you.”

She shook her head slowly while she gazed at me. “It doesn't end, does it?”

“I'd like you and your mother to leave town again. Just until this is over.”

“Did they threaten my mother?”

I thought about lying, but there'd already been too much of that. “No, but I doubt they'll bother to aim too carefully.”

“Wait. Didn't you say they threatened us
if
the company didn't take on the Teamsters or give them the money?”

“Yes.”

“So you presumably have some time to respond.”

“Yes.”

“How much?”

“A week.”

“So there's no immediate danger.”

“Well … it's hard to say. If they actually do what they said they would, then no. But these aren't clergymen; they're criminals.”

“Tell me if this escalates. Until then I'm not taking my mother away from this house.”

“Elizabeth, you've got to go! These men are even worse than the Adamos.”

She was quiet for a moment. Finally she looked at me with smoldering eyes and said, “No. She needs to be here.”

“Look, the Employers Association is going to help us. We'll get rid of the Gianollas.”

“No, you look. My mother is finally acting like herself. The entire time we were in Europe she may as well have been an automaton. I can't take her away again.”

I pursed my lips, trying to frame an argument that would change her mind.

“Maybe I could help,” she said.

“Lizzie, come on. This is nowhere for a woman to be.”

Her eyes widened. “This isn't, but the other places you've led me are?”

In a voice as wretched as I felt, I said, “I don't want you hurt.”

Her lower lip quivered. “This isn't about me being hurt. It's about keeping your parents and me from being murdered.”

“I won't allow it.”

Her face was tight, eyes shining. “Do you know what it's like to have to sleep with the light on every night? Do you know what it's like to be afraid the bogeyman is hiding around every corner?” She looked away. “I never would have come back if I thought Mother could recover anywhere else.” Shaking her head, she glanced at me again. “And I
can
help. I'm not who I was.”

“How do you mean?”

“No man will ever brutalize me again.” Her words carried a threat. “I'll do what's necessary.”

“Elizabeth, be realistic. These men are murderers, and you're a society girl.”

Her eyes flashed. “First of all, don't call me a girl. I'm a woman. And listen to me with both ears. If I ever again need to defend myself—or a loved one—not only will I have the means, I'll have the fortitude. I will kill before I'll let— Oh, forget it. You'll never understand.”

“I know you think you can, but—”

“But nothing. I'm more fit and stronger than I've ever been. I hired a military man in Paris to teach me how to defend myself, and I've been shooting nearly every day.”

“Shooting? You?”

“Elizabeth? Are you all right?” Mrs. Hume stood in the doorway. She looked healthy but had aged a great deal since I'd last seen her. She no longer looked like Elizabeth's older sister. “Oh, hello, Will.”

I stood. “Good evening, Mrs. Hume. How are you today?”

She smiled, and her face lit up. “I'm fine, thank you. It's nice to see you, Will. My gosh, how long has it been?”

I thought about it. “Nearly a year and a half.”

“You look good. How's your hand?”

“It's fine, thank you.”

“You should come by more often, Will. We've been back since last July, and this is the first time I see you?”

“Yes, sorry. I've been awfully busy.”

“Oh. Right. Sorry.” Her face turned gray. “I forgot. I'm glad you're back with us.”

“Me too,” I said.

“Will and I were just saying good night, Mother. I'll be up in a moment.” Elizabeth smiled as her mother walked away. “Unbelievable. She's even happy to see you. That settles it. We're not going anywhere.” I could see in her eyes that she'd come to some sort of decision. “You'd better involve me in your planning.” She gave me a grim smile. “You and I are going to be partners.”

*   *   *

The next morning, I woke with the oddest thought—Mrs. Hume said they had been back since July. If she was right, Elizabeth was in town when Moretti was murdered. It would also mean Elizabeth lied to me, about a subject that should have made little difference to either of us. Why would I care that they got back a month earlier than she claimed they did? If I could rely on her mother's memory, Elizabeth was hiding something. And I was afraid I knew what that something was.

I certainly wasn't going to try to prove to Adamo that Elizabeth killed Moretti. That put me at an apparent dead end with the Adamo gang. But … Elizabeth a killer? Yes, she had changed, but I couldn't imagine she'd changed that much. Still, it was just enough of a possibility that I couldn't speak about this with the police or anyone affiliated with Vito Adamo. I had to protect her. This series of events started with my stupidity, and I owed her my life.

But could she be serious that we'd be partners? She seemed it last night. I hoped the dawning of another day had helped her to see what a ridiculous idea that was. I was all for women's suffrage—from my experience, women on the whole were less stupid than men—but when it came to putting a woman in danger, particularly Elizabeth, I had a much less progressive view. Should she continue to try to be involved, I would have to put my foot down.

After two cups of coffee, I went out to the corner of Woodward and Peterboro, looking for Izzy Bernstein. He stood on the corner, bawling out the headlines—Roosevelt may run as an independent, U.S. Marines land in Cuba, eight-hour workday vote in Congress today. It was a Monday-morning blur. Pedestrians hurried across the streets, men and women packed onto streetcars, horns honked, and those with vehicles or horses fought through the overwhelming traffic. Izzy stood there with his bag of papers, an island of hostility.

I walked up behind him. “Hey.”

He turned around, a paper in his hand. His right eye was puffy, the skin around it bruised a mottled blue.

“What happened to you?”

He gave me a disgusted look and turned his back on me. “Marines in Cuba! Read it!”

“Izzy, what happened to you?”

He looked back at me and spat, “I told ya Abe wanted the fuckin' money.”

“He hit you?”

“Yeah, he hit me. Whattaya think?”

“Shit. Sorry. I've got the money.”

“Hang on to it. Abe's gonna collect.”

I took the envelope out of my pocket. “Here. You give it to him.”

He snorted out a laugh. “Nah, he wants to talk to ya.”

“All right. I guess he knows where to find me.”

“He'll find ya. Hit the bricks.” He turned around and shouted, “Roosevelt running again! Read it!”

“I'm really sorry, Izzy,” I said. “I know it was my fault.” He ignored me. Shaking my head, I queued up for a southbound streetcar. Abe beat Izzy because of me. I had thought I was being clever holding back half the money, but the Bernstein brothers were growing up in a very different environment than I had. I should have known there would be consequences for Izzy not bringing all the money back. Still, I'd speak to Abe about it.

I was finally able to push my way on board a streetcar. I stuck my nickel in the box and grabbed hold of a railing. The car started up, heading for downtown. I jumped off by the Detroit Electric garage. When I walked in under the red iron archway, I saw Joe Curtiss standing with Mr. Billings, the day manager, next to a maroon Detroit Electric brougham. The fresh air scent of ozone hit me the second I stepped inside. The walls were lined with gleaming Detroit Electrics in blue, green, and maroon, along with a variety of special order colors like midnight black, canary yellow, and fire engine red. The garage buzzed with the sound of stored electricity.

Mr. Billings handed Joe a clipboard, clapped him on the back, and walked toward the office. I caught Joe's eye. He glanced around nervously before nodding toward the back of the garage and strolling in that direction. I followed him.

He stopped at the base of the stairway that led to the second floor and looked around again. “Did you talk to Pinsky?”

I nodded.

“And?”

Joe didn't need to know. “Well,” I said, “it's a delicate issue. I've brought it up with my father, and I think I can get him to meet with Pinsky.” I shrugged. “You know how tough this is going to be. It's going to take time.”

“I don't know how much time we've got.” Joe tugged at his collar.

I couldn't meet his eyes. “I'm working on it, Joe. I'm doing the best I can.”

“Yeah,” he said. “All right. I guess that's all you can do.”

“Is there somewhere your family could go until this is over? Relatives, perhaps?”

“I don't know.…”

“Figure out somewhere for your family to stay. What about a hotel? I'll pay for it. Have them register under another name. They could even get out of town if you want.”

“Yeah?”

“Sure.”

“Well…” Joe toed the floor in front of him. “I'll talk to Gina. See what she wants to do.”

“Okay. Just let me know.”

“All right.” I turned to walk to the front, but Joe caught my arm. “Will?”

I stopped and looked at him.

“Thanks. I know this isn't your fault, and it shouldn't be your problem. But thanks.”

I thought back to Wesley, his selflessness. “What are friends for, Joe? If I can help, I will.”

We said our good-byes, and he climbed the stairs while I headed toward the front of the garage. My Torpedo sat between a pair of brewster green extension broughams. Since I hadn't done it before, I pulled the tool kit from the trunk and began inspecting the car. I had no doubt that Edsel had kept it in tip-top condition, but I needed to go through the pre-start routine at least once a week anyway, and I had the time to do it now. I examined the carburetor, inspected the ignition, lubricated the dynamo, pump, and fan, tightened the chains and belts, and finally checked the water and oil. These internal combustion motorcars were certainly complicated, but everything was perfect.