Motor City Shakedown (22 page)

The morphine from the first drink I'd taken began to roar through me, and I lay there, luxuriating in the beautiful colors the drug painted in my mind. After not taking morphine for so long, the soaring high was sharp and powerful.

Pain? It was barely there, no more than a minor distraction.

*   *   *

Someone was knocking. Shivering, I blinked and sat up. My trousers were wet. The city lights spilled in through my parlor windows. My mind kicked into gear, and I felt a jolt of fear in my gut.
The Gianollas?

No, I told myself. They wouldn't knock. Whoever it was would go away. My hand throbbed with pain.
Why are my trousers—?… Right. The ice.
I picked up the towel and slid off the wet cushion to the floor, my back propped against the front of the sofa.

When the knocking stopped, I stretched and rolled my neck, trying to get the kinks out. The knocking started up again. I pulled my watch from my waistcoat. Almost nine. Who would be calling at this hour?

When the knocking started for the third time, I decided to see who it was. I stood and walked into the foyer, only wobbling a little. The high had faded to a place in the background, and now my head felt heavy, my mind dull.

I braced myself against the door with my left hand and looked through the peephole. Standing in the hallway staring directly at me was a big man in a black suit, derby, and a thin flowered tie pulled tightly against a winged collar. He looked deranged. I decided to sneak back to the parlor.

“Police!” he called. “I know you're in there. I'll bust it down if I have to.”

Shit.
I stepped to the side of the door and said, “Who is it?”

“Sergeant Rogers of the Detroit Police,” he called back.

“Jesus Christ,” I muttered. “Now what?” I raised my voice. “Show me your badge.” I looked through the peephole again. He pulled out his badge and held it up so I could see. It looked legitimate. I unlocked the door and opened it.

He took off his derby and held it in his hands. With a piercing stare, he said, “May I come in?”

“Fine.” He walked into the foyer, brushing past me as he did, first peeking into the kitchen and then sticking his head into the parlor. He was an odd-looking character, with a bullet-shaped head, a big nose and ears, and a recessed chin.

“Mr. Anderson, I'm not one for wasting time, so I'll get to the point.” He spoke in clipped bursts of words. “I'm heading the new Detroit Police Gang Squad, and my object is to eliminate the gangs in this city—starting with the Sicilians. You have an association with the Gianolla brothers, and I mean to find out what it is.” He stared at me.

I stared back. I had no idea who this man was. I didn't know if he was in charge of a gang squad or, Detroit policeman or not, if he was actually an associate of the Gianollas. I couldn't talk to him. So I used my standard line when it came to conversations with cops. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

He smiled. It simply distracted from the annoyance that filled the rest of his face. “Mmm. That wasn't really the answer I was hoping for.” He picked a spot of lint off the lapel of his jacket and looked back up at me. “They were here this afternoon. You met with them. Why?”

“You must have me mistaken with someone else.” The pain in my hand was returning with a fury.

His gaze intensified. “I know who you are.”

“I'm sorry, you're wrong, Sergeant … Rogers, is it?”

He took a step toward me. “This is the only courtesy call you will be afforded, Mr. Anderson. If you do not cease any and all contact with the Gianollas, or if you run afoul of my investigation in any way, you will be very sorry.” He marched to the front door. I followed behind.

When he opened the door, he turned back to me. “And just so you know, I don't play fair.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

I slept through the night and woke the next morning with an aching hand and an itch that needed to be scratched. I glanced at the little bottle on the nightstand and looked away just as quickly. I couldn't go through this again. Last night it was medicine I needed. Now it was nothing more than a drug. A drug I wanted more than anything I could think of.

After a good dose of aspirin, a bowl of toasted cornflakes, and a pot of coffee, I phoned my father at the office. “The Gianollas have a spy in the Employers Association. They knew I was there yesterday.”

“Damnation!” my father exclaimed. He was quiet for a moment. “Could it be Finnegan?”

I thought about it. “No. They knew we were there, but they seemed to buy it when I told them it was because we're closing down part of the carriage plant. If Finnegan were the rat, they'd have known otherwise.”

“I think we're going to have to leave the EAD out of this too. I'm calling the Pinkertons.”

“Let me try Riordan again first. From what I hear, the Pinks are as full of holes as the cops. Maybe more so.”

“Do you want me to go with you? I don't know how much luck you're going to have.”

“No. This is my problem. I'll take care of it.”

He sighed heavily. “All right. But you have to convince him. We need help.”

“Right. From someone who won't let the Gianollas know what we're doing. It's a short list, I'm afraid.”

*   *   *

I stuffed the morphine bottle into the nightstand drawer and got dressed, then phoned the Bethune Street police station. Disguising my voice, I told the man I had information about a crime that I would share only with Detective Riordan. The man argued with me but finally got Riordan on the phone.

“Who is this?” he said.

“It's Will Anderson. Don't hang up.”

I heard nothing but ghostly voices in the background. Finally he said, “What do you want?”

“I need to speak with you. I know you don't trust me. And that you think I'm a killer. But you know my parents aren't. Nor is Elizabeth Hume. If you don't help me, all three of them will probably be murdered.” That was my best shot.

The silence was longer this time. “Cybulski's saloon in Hamtramck. Four o'clock.” The receiver clicked onto the hook.

I loitered around my apartment until shortly after three and then hopped a streetcar, connected twice, and walked the last two blocks. It was nearly four when I pushed open the door and went inside. Cybulski's was a dive near the Dodge Main plant, the lower level of a brick two-story, sawdust on the floor to collect beer and vomit. The stink of the place indicated to me that the sawdust hadn't been changed recently. The windows were small and high on the wall, probably more to discourage wives from prying than to keep out thieves.

Every stool at the bar was occupied, but most of the tables were open. The only sounds were low conversation and glasses clinking on the bar—the murmur of a saloon dedicated to serious drinking. I ordered a Vernor's from the bartender and carried it to a table in the back. Ten minutes later, Detective Riordan walked in, glanced around the place, and strode back to me. He stood next to the table. “What do you want?”

“Would you sit, please?”

He studied me for a moment before taking off his fedora, setting it on the table, and dropping into the chair across from me.

“Thank you. Can I get you a drink?”

He shook his head.

I leaned in and spoke quietly. “The problem with the Gianollas is escalating. They have men inside the Employers Association as well as the police department. They
will
kill my parents and Elizabeth if I don't get the Teamsters in or pay them fifty thousand dollars. Both are impossible.” I looked down at the table. “I know you think I'm a rich, spoiled ass. And you're right.” I met his gaze again. “But this isn't about me. My parents and Elizabeth need your help. They haven't done anything wrong.”

He pulled a cigar from his waistcoat, bit off the end, and spit it on the floor. Stuffing the cigar into the corner of his mouth, he said, “Why am I the lucky one?”

“Because you might be the only honest cop in Detroit. Because if I talk to anyone else, I may be killing the people I love.”

He scratched a match over the top of the table and lit his cigar, puffing away with what appeared to be his complete concentration. When he finished, he pursed his lips and looked out one of the windows. Finally he glanced back at me. “Maybe you ought to fill me in. From the start.”

Over the next half hour I told him almost everything. I started with the Gianollas kidnapping me and their threats, my concerns about the police and the Employers Association, and finally, my meeting with Ethan Pinsky. The only thing I left out was my backup plan—to use the Adamo gang to deal with the Gianollas. He didn't need to know.

“And that's everything?”

I nodded.

His ice blue eyes appraised me from across the table. He ground out his cigar in the ashtray, picked up his fedora, and fitted it onto his head. I held my breath, expecting him to leave. Instead he said, “What do you want me to do?”

I breathed a sigh of relief. “Ideally, I'd like the Gianollas taken off the street and Ethan Pinsky sent packing. Short of that, I could use any information you can find on any of them, including if Pinsky or his daughter were in Detroit when Moretti was murdered.”

“I could look into it.”

“And keep it quiet?”

He chewed on the inside of his cheek for a moment before nodding and taking a notepad from his pocket. “Give me names, descriptions. Whatever you think might help.”

I did. When I finished, he put away the notepad and said, “Anything else?”

“Yes.” I had been wavering on asking him about Moretti's killer, but I had to find out who it was. I would almost certainly need Vito Adamo's help to deal with the Gianollas, and finding out who killed Moretti was the only way I could accomplish that. And anyway, it
couldn't
have been Elizabeth. “Two things,” I said. “First, Moretti's murder. I know you think I did it, but I—”

“No,” he said. “You don't lie nearly well enough to have kept me wondering this long.”

“Well … good.” I smiled. Detective Riordan actually believed me. It would have been nice for the change to be due to something other than my inability to tell convincing falsehoods, but I'd take it. “Do you think Esposito killed him? I've heard otherwise.”

“He could have. Either way, he's where he belongs.”

“I trust your instincts,” I said. “What do you believe?”

He shook his head. “Tell you the truth, I don't think he did it.”

“Did any other names come up in the investigation?” I'd seen nothing in the file, but that didn't mean much.

“No. It was you and then it was him. As I recall it, Moretti came home when he normally did. Some time later, the neighbor saw you outside his door.”

“Did anyone say that Moretti brought someone home with him that night?”

“No. Not that I recall.”

“Okay.” I shook my head. No help.

“You mentioned there were two things?” he said.

“Oh. Right. What can you tell me about Sergeant Rogers and the Detroit Gang Squad?”

“What do you want to know?”

“He says he's going after the Gianollas. Is he straight up? Can I trust him?”

“Let me put it this way: I don't think he's taking money from mobsters. But he'd sell his own mother for a promotion. So do I trust him?” Riordan pushed back his chair and stood. “Not even a little bit.”

*   *   *

Around seven I went out to get some dinner at the café around the corner. It was on the first floor of a three-story redbrick building, a small place with a dozen tables, a hardwood floor, and a large window overlooking Woodward Avenue. I ate there often, not because the food was good, but because they cut the meat for me without me asking. I was polishing off the remains of a steak when Abe and Joey Bernstein pulled out the chairs across from me and sat. They hadn't dressed for this part of town—both wore dark wool trousers held up by black suspenders, dirty white shirts, and leather boots.

Abe took a deep drag off the half-smoked cigarette in his hand. Joey pulled the bone-handled straight razor from his pocket and began cleaning his fingernails. He shifted the toothpick in his mouth from one side to the other and looked up at me under half-closed lids.

I got ready to run, even though I thought he was just trying to intimidate me. This was too public a place to attack me and expect to get away with it. But then again, I'd gotten the impression the Bernstein brothers were a bit on the impulsive side. Keeping my eyes on them, I chewed the piece of meat in my mouth and swallowed. Abe just looked at me with those bright blue eyes while I did. “Abe. Joey.” I nodded. “You hungry?”

Abe stared at me. “You'd break bread with us?”

“Why not?”

“We got somethin' to talk about, you and me.”

“Yeah, we do,” I said. “Why'd you hit Izzy?”

He cocked his head. “'Cause you weren't there to hit.”

“It wasn't his fault.”

“Ain't none of your business. I want my money.”

I tapped my jacket over the breast pocket. “I've got it. And I'm buying dinner.”

He picked up the napkin in front of him and tucked it into his shirt. “Then let's eat.” He nodded at Joey, who slapped the razor closed and slid it into his pocket. When the waitress came over, Abe said, “We'll have what he's havin'.” As soon as she left, he leaned toward me. “That wasn't too smart, not payin' us what you owed.”

I shrugged. “Like I told Izzy, I wasn't welshing. I tried to pay him the next time I saw him, but he said you'd collect.”

“Yeah,” he said. He took a puff on the cigarette, sat back in his chair, and leveled his gaze at me. “I don't like playin' bill collector.”

I shrugged again. The waitress came back and filled coffee cups for the brothers before warming up mine. When she left, I said, “How'd you know I was here?”