Motor City Shakedown (23 page)

Joey snorted. “You think you can hide from us?”

Abe glared at him. “Shut up, Joey. I told ya.” He stubbed out his cigarette, turned back to me, and smiled. “Got friends in low places.”

“Yeah? Who?”

“My brothers. My friends. We got a little … business group. People don't pay much attention to kids.”

“Is that right?” It occurred to me that I could use some unnoticed eyes and ears. “You ever hire yourselves out?”

He didn't bat an eye. “Sure. If the price is right.”

I slipped my cigarette case from my pocket and held it out. The brothers each took one. Joey spit his toothpick on the floor. While lighting their cigarettes, I said, “What do you consider the right price?”

Abe took a puff off the cigarette. Eyeing my lighter, he said, “That'd be a good start.”

“No, my father gave it to me for my college graduation. But I'll get you one just like it, if that's what it takes.”

“I don't know.” He shook his head. “There's a lot of guys in the gang—business group.” He glanced at Joey before shaking his head sheepishly. He'd inadvertently told the truth, probably not a normal occurrence for him.

“I don't think I'd need all of you.”

“All or none,” Abe said. “We stick together.”

“All right, I'll tell you what. I'll pay you ten bucks a day. You split it up how you'd like.”

He guffawed. “We don't cross the street for ten bucks.”

I leaned over the table. “Listen, Abe. My father's got money, I don't. The only reason I could pay you the last time is because I inherited some money. It's almost gone. Ten bucks a day or I'll find someone else.”

He crossed his arms. A wisp of smoke curled up past his face. “I'll think about it.”

“Think fast. I want to hire you to ask around about something.”

“What's that?”

“Ten bucks a day?”

He shrugged. “I guess.”

“I want to know who really killed Carlo Moretti.”

“Who?”

I leaned in toward him again. “I was accused of killing him. Another man confessed, but I'm sure he didn't do it.”

He gave me another shrug. “Sure. Why not? Thirty up front.”

“Okay. How can I get hold of you?”

“See Izzy. He's gonna be on the corner every mornin' now.”

“What happened to the Irish kid?”

“Irish kid?”

“Yeah. He and Izzy got into a fight over the corner.”

“Oh, him. Joey convinced him the newspaper business was bad for his health.”

Joey's lip curled up on one side in a cruel smile, but he didn't add anything to Abe's explanation.

“Huh.” Thinking about the corner put me in mind of another question. I looked at Joey. “Who is it you pay off for the craps game?”

Joey glanced at his brother. A cloud passed over Abe's face. “Why do you want to know?”

“Well, I'm curious if he's one of Adamo's men. Since you've worked together on other things—”

“Ain't your business.”

“If it's one of Adamo's men, it is my business.”

“We ain't working together on dice, so it ain't your business.” Abe's voice was heated. “Tell ya what. You don't ask about my other business, I won't ask about yours.”

“Just tell me if it's Adamo.”

He sat back and took a deep drag on his cigarette, giving me a smoldering glare over the back of his hand. Finally he said, “It ain't Adamo.”

“Fine. Then you're right. It's not my business. Did you hear he turned himself in?”

“Yeah. People sayin' some other wop's after him.”

I nodded. “I'd guess that's true. So what does that do to your business with him?”

“Nothin'. Ain't had no business with him for a while now.”

I thought of something else that had puzzled me. “Joey called Adamo ‘the White Hand.' What does that mean?”

“Well, you got the White Hand Society, which supposably's the honest businessmen fightin' the Black Hand.” Abe laughed. “But Adamo's angle is the Black Hand comes around and tells the guy he's gotta pay or else. The guy pays. Then the White Hand comes around and tells him they'll protect him from the Black Hand. He pays them.”

“Yeah?”

“Don't you get it? Both of 'em are Adamo's guys.” He roared with laughter. I kept myself from looking around to see how badly he was upsetting everyone's dinner. We talked about Adamo for a minute or two and quieted when the waitress brought two more plates. The brothers tucked right into their dinners.

To make conversation, I said, “You're a bright guy, Abe. Why aren't you in school?”

He spoke around the food in his mouth. “School? Ain't been in what, three years? I'm seventeen, for Christ's sake. Gotta help out my ma and pa. 'Sides, when I'm not doin' somethin' more profitable, I schlep stuff around the Ford factory.”

“Really?” I laughed. “You work for Ford?”

His fork and knife clanked onto his plate. He leaned in toward me, eyes narrowed, scowl fixed on his face. “What's so funny about that?” His mood had turned stormy in a second.

“Nothing. It's just … you don't seem like an autoworker.”

After a long moment, his face finally relaxed. “Nah, I'm not. Boostin' parts more'n workin' anyway. Just waitin' for some stuff to come together.” He went back to eating.

Inwardly, I breathed a sigh of relief. I had thought he was coming over the table at me. While he and Joey ate, I lit another cigarette and smoked.

Joey finished first. When Abe was done, he pushed away his plate and said, “Now how 'bout the dough?”

I pulled thirty dollars from my wallet and handed him the bills, along with the envelope containing the fifteen dollars I owed him.

He counted the money, tucked it into his pocket, and gestured toward my right hand. “What's the story with the glove?”

“I had an accident. My hand doesn't look too pretty.”

“Doesn't seem to work too well, either.”

“No, it doesn't.”

Joey stood. The yellow handle of the razor stuck up from his pocket. Abe pushed back his chair, but before he got to his feet, he said, “Don't forget what I said about the dagos. If Adamo finds out we ratted him, I'm gonna kill ya.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

The doorbell rang. I tiptoed into the foyer, hoping it was Detective Riordan. I looked through the peephole and wasn't disappointed to see Elizabeth. Opening the door, I said, “What a pleasant surprise,” and stepped aside. She walked into the foyer and set her purse on the table. She wore a robin's-egg-blue coat and a matching wide-brimmed hat with a plume of egret feathers, and looked wonderful, as always.

Right hand behind my back, I held out my left for her hat and coat. When she gave me the coat, I saw she was wearing a burgundy shirtwaist and tan knee breeches.

I looked her over. “Are you going riding?”

“At night?”

“Well, I'm glad it's night. That outfit would cause car accidents in the daytime.”

She smiled. “Why can't women be comfortable too? All this spending hours getting primped and perfumed—just to be seen by men? It's silly.” She pulled out her hatpin, lifted her chapeau from her head, and removed a strategically placed comb. Her hair fell in an auburn cascade around her head. She looked fetching, dangerous.

“Would you like something to drink?” I said.

“Do you have soda pop?”

“Ginger ale. Why don't you sit in the parlor, and I'll get it.”

She headed in. A second later, she exclaimed, “What happened to your wall?”

“What? Oh.” I followed her in. The wall was pocked with dozens of holes, most of them inside of or surrounding the paltry remains of the dartboard. Some of the holes were only chinks, while others were inches across. I hadn't really thought about it for a while. I shrugged. “Knife-throwing.”

“At your wall?”

“Have to practice somewhere.”

She eyed me for a moment. “You know, I have to say you're looking fit. It can't be this.” She waved toward the wall.

“No, I've been exercising too.”

“Really? Will Anderson exercising? Stop the presses.”

“Well, I can't trade on my rugged good looks my whole life, now, can I? At some point, I may actually have to do something.”

She raised her eyebrows at the “rugged good looks” remark but also gave me the hint of a smile.

“I'll be right back.” I headed to the kitchen and chipped off some ice, then poured us each a glass of Vernor's and set them on a tray. When I walked into the parlor, Elizabeth was standing with her arms folded across her chest, looking out the back window toward downtown. The electric lights of the city lit the horizon to a soft white glow, and the spotlights at the top of the downtown skyscrapers emphasized their grandeur. I stood next to her and took in the view.

The lights represented the Detroit I had loved. I was born into the modern age, growing up alongside electricity. When I was a child, electric lights were barely more than a novelty. Electric service was just beginning to spread outside of downtown. The only electric streetlamps were the 125-foot-tall monstrosities Mr. Edison had sold the city. Otherwise, all the outside lights, and the vast majority of inside ones, were lit by gas. There were no electrical contraptions—toasters, mixers, and the like.

Detroit was prosperous and desperately competing to be one of the titans of the United States, next to New York, Philadelphia, Boston, and Chicago. But the last few years had taught me that this prosperity was nothing more than gilding, a thin layer of gold over rusting pig iron, hiding what the city really was. What all cities were.

I nudged Elizabeth's arm, and she took one of the glasses. “Thank you.” After taking a sip, she turned toward me. “Are you all right?”

“I'm fine.” I set the tray on the coffee table and took the other glass. “Why?”

She pointed at the wall. “This might indicate a psychological problem.”

“No.” I took a sip. “I'm just practicing. It's safe. There's no one here but me.”

She turned me toward her. “Look at your wall. What would your landlord think? What would anyone think?”

I chuckled at that. “And why exactly would I care? Is this why you came here? To discuss my mental health?”

She took a deep breath. I could see she was trying to control her temper. “No. I'm here because you haven't called.”

“About?”

“We're partners, remember?”

“Elizabeth, we talked two days ago. I don't have any information yet.”

“Bullshit.”

I cocked my head at her. “That's quite a vocabulary you developed in France.”

“How else am I going to get your attention? Anyway, it's only a word. Words hold no power of their own, and, contrary to what you might think, curse words are not the exclusive property of men. Now, tell me what you've been up to.”

I sighed. She wasn't going to give up. “To be truthful, it isn't much so far. I have to set up a meeting between my father and a man named Ethan Pinsky, who's negotiating for the Teamsters and the Gianollas.”

“And what am I going to be doing to help?”

“Elizabeth.” Our eyes locked. I'd seen this look before. She wasn't going to let this be.

“And no secrets, either,” she said. “I'm in all the way, or I'll do this on my own.”

I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. I was going to have to string her along and hope she didn't see it. “Okay. Partners?”

She held out her right hand. “Partners.”

I shook it with my left. “All right then.”

“Tell me everything,” Elizabeth said.

It seemed I was at a crossroads. My choices were to let her go out on her own looking for revenge or to work with her. Working with her, I at least had a chance to protect her, so I nodded toward the sofa, and we sat. And, once again, I laid out the story of my trials with the Gianollas and Ethan Pinsky.

When I finished, she was studying me intently. “You didn't kill Carlo Moretti?”

“No. I was there, but I didn't kill him.”

She stared off into the distance. “I can't imagine what it would feel like to kill someone.”

The image of the auburn-haired woman with Moretti crossed my mind, but I banished the thought and said, “I hope you never have to find out.”

She pursed her lips.

“What?” I said.

“I think I could kill Vito Adamo—and Big Boy.” She shook her head. “I feel ridiculous calling him that. You never found out what his real name is, did you?”

“No, but it's probably something like Myron Featherbottom.”

She laughed and took a sip of ginger ale. “Could I have a cigarette, please?”

“Of course.” I pulled the case from my pocket and held it out to her. It was time to broach a subject I didn't think she'd be happy about. “If Detective Riordan can't help me get rid of the Gianollas, I'm going to try to get the Adamo gang to help.”

She looked up at me in shock, her hand still hovering over the case. “What? Why?”

“We can't get help from the EAD or the police. The Gianollas represent much more of a threat to us than do the Adamos. If I set up the Gianollas
for
the Adamos, instead of vice versa, they can take care of our problem.”

She took a cigarette, and I lit it for her. “The Gianollas may be the bigger problem, but they didn't help kill my father and Wesley. Vito Adamo did.” She took a deep drag on the cigarette.

“I know that, and I'm sorry. But if you want to work with me on this, you have to agree to put your feelings about Adamo aside.”

“Why do you think they would work with
us,
anyway?”

I hesitated. “I don't know if they would. I already talked with him—Vito.”