Motor City Shakedown (4 page)

“You
have
to take a vacation?” He sighed and sat on the edge of his desk. “This is about Wesley, isn't it? You're going after them.”

I looked away and then met his gaze again. “No. It has nothing to do with Wesley.”

He stared into my eyes. “Will. You can't bring him back. Let the police do their job.” His tone turned to pleading. “You have important duties here. The engineering department needs you.”

Even he had to know what a stretch that was. The engineering department hadn't been impacted in the least by my presence. “I'm sorry, Father.”

He looked down at the wooden floor. When he met my eyes again he looked older than his fifty-nine years. “All right, son. But take care of yourself.”

I thanked him and left his office with a feeling of regret. I'd been a disappointment to my father since I'd come to work for the company two years earlier, due to my drinking and the personal problems I'd allowed to interfere with my work. I had no doubt he'd already given a great deal of consideration to who would take his place as president of the company when he retired. There were many candidates more qualified—and infinitely more reliable—than I.

I got my hair cut and then rode down to the towering Penobscot Building and the Peoples State Bank, where I withdrew a hundred dollars in cash. Assuming I could find the prostitute, it was unlikely I'd be able to get any of her time without paying for it. If I couldn't find her, I'd have to spread some money around, bribe some people.

When I returned home, I thought about my next move. It seemed all I could do was find the prostitute and get the truth out of her, a task I viewed with a great deal of trepidation. Finding this woman among the denizens of Detroit's “Paradise Valley” would be both difficult and dangerous.

At five o'clock I stuck the .32 into my belt at the small of my back and squeezed onto a trolley. I got off at Grand Circus Park and worked my way over to the unsavory climes of Detroit's three-block run of brothels, dives, after-hours clubs, and sex show establishments. Thousands of prostitutes called Detroit home, and most of them could be found here in Paradise Valley.

Every address in this section of Hastings Street was a likely spot to have your pocket picked or your throat cut, none of them more so than the Bucket, Vito Adamo's saloon that slouched on the corner of Hastings and Clinton. There was no reason for me to go there. Anyone who had participated in killing one of Adamo's men would be insane to walk into the Bucket—and it wasn't safe for me either.

I figured I'd start at the obvious spots—the brothels. First up was Fanny's Men's Club, a narrow redbrick three-story with large wooden doors at the top of a brick staircase. Stained glass windows on either side of the entryway depicted winged nymphs feeding grapes to a young man whose robe had been thrown casually (and strategically) across his lap. Subtle, it wasn't.

I climbed the steps and rang the bell. A large black man with a completely bald scalp answered the door, took my derby, and ushered me down a dusty hallway. Laughter and the murmur of conversation became louder as I walked farther inside. Turning the corner into the parlor, I came upon half a dozen men—all of whom looked well-to-do—lounging around the room. Seven or eight young women, wearing low-cut evening dresses, circulated among them. I looked them over. Three of the girls had auburn hair. One was plump, the other two of a slender build. I saw nothing that gave me a hint that they were—or were not—the prostitute I'd seen.

A woman of about fifty in a red evening gown stood at the base of the stairway, speaking quietly with a pair of men. When she noticed me, she excused herself and sashayed in my direction. “May I help ya?” Her face was heart shaped with sharp lines, and her voice carried a strong Irish lilt.

“Yes, I'm…” It was hard to get out. “I'm looking for some entertainment. With a woman.”

She chuckled at my naïveté. “We do provide that service.”

“But I have strict requirements,” I said. “I'd like to see all of your taller, slender women with auburn hair.” I took my wallet from my inside coat pocket, clutched it against my chest with my right hand, and pulled out a ten. “I'm sure this will cover your trouble.”

She eyed my gloved right hand before slipping the bill into the top of her corset. “Would you like a drink?”

“Ah, no, thank you.” My palms were sweating. I wiped the left one on my trousers. I'd had no idea I would be so uncomfortable in this setting.

“Please take a seat in the next room,” she said, pointing toward another doorway. “I'll have the girls come in, see if one of them tickles your fancy.” She looked me up and down. “Or anything else.”

I headed for the doorway toward which she'd directed me and stepped into a smaller room, where I sat on a yellow velvet settee. A few minutes later, a young auburn-haired woman slipped through the door, followed by another, and another, all wearing revealing dresses and high-heeled shoes. I watched their movements, hoping to see something that would trigger recognition. The madam followed the seventh auburn-haired, slender, relatively tall woman.

Seven—at one house.

CHAPTER FOUR

I studied each of them. Though I had nothing more to go by than the recollection of my impression of a woman, nothing distinguished any of them as being the one who was with Moretti.

“A friend of mine recommended one of you,” I said, “though I can't remember your name. Maybe you know him. Carlo Moretti.”

The girls looked at one another. None of them showed any sign of recognition or alarm. After a few seconds, a voluptuous girl with acne said, “Carlo? Maybe. I don't remember his last name.”

“What did he look like?”

“I'da know. Regular.”

That's not how anyone would describe Moretti. “Anyone else?”

The only answers were a few shrugs. I stood and looked back at the madam. “These are all your girls who fit the description?”

She nodded.

“I'm sorry, but I don't think I'll be needing their services after all.” I pulled another ten from my wallet and handed it to her. “Thank you, though. They're all quite lovely.”

“The mister wouldn't want a taste of these?” The well-endowed prostitute grabbed her breasts and thrust them upward, licking the top of each lasciviously while staring into my eyes.

“I'm sure they're quite … delicious,” I said, feeling even more stupid. “But you're just not exactly what I'm looking for.”

She scrunched up her face and said, “Come on, then, girls.” The young women turned on their heels and marched out of the room.

I turned to the madam. “Could I ask you a question?”

She raised her eyebrows. It looked like my twenty dollars had bought me an answer.

“To be completely honest with you, I'm not looking for sex. A friend I went to school with is trying to find his sister. He thinks she's a”—it was uncomfortable to say, even to a madam—“a prostitute. He got word she was with this Moretti character Sunday night, and I'm trying to help him track her down. There's fifty bucks in it for anyone who locates her.”

“What's her name?”

“He's sure she's changed it.”

With a frown, she said, “You've never seen her?”

“No.”

“So all you know is she's tall and skinny and has auburn hair.”

I nodded.

“Honey, take my advice and tell your friend not to waste your time. Most girls in the life are skinnier than normal, and if you haven't noticed, about half the women in Detroit have auburn hair. You don't know what house she works in?”

“No. I'm not even sure she works in one. She apparently went to Moretti's apartment Sunday.”

She laughed. “Oh, good luck with that. You're lookin' for a streetwalker. Ye'll not find her in a house.” She began ushering me out of the room. “Now, I've answered your questions, and I have to get back to work.” We walked through the parlor and down the hallway to the front door. The black man took my hat from the stand and handed it to me.

I looked at the madam again. “One more thing, a curiosity: I don't remember so many women having auburn hair, but it seems to be all I see now.”

“Ye've not been payin' attention for a while, eh? Henna rinse, young man. European fashion. You picked a bad time to look for a pa'ticular auburn-haired lady.”

I thanked her and wandered down the steps to the street. At the bottom of the stairs I took a deep breath and moved along to the next brothel. I thought I'd get another opinion before giving up on the houses. I had a similar experience, though only five women who fit the description were paraded in front of me. I was again told that I would not find this woman in a house of ill fame.

After a drink from my bottle to strengthen my resolve, I continued the search at the other businesses along the street, the saloons first and then the clubs, which had shows that turned my stomach.

Even though my mission was a serious one, in the back of my mind I had thought this would be a titillating evening. Instead I was deeply troubled. These women were used and degraded with no more regard than throwaway dolls. They weren't human beings; they were receptacles. The women who “performed” in the sex shows were the saddest of all. As they aged, became more desperate, their choices became more and more limited. And what became of them when they were no longer able to earn a buck that way?

By the time I'd spent my last dollar and caught a trolley home, it was almost three in the morning. I'd been forced to pull my gun twice, both times to discourage thieves. I was filled with the blackest of melancholies, and not only because I'd come up empty-handed. I stared out at the buildings alongside Woodward as we rattled away from downtown.

The lives of these women. How could the city turn a blind eye to this? I'd heard plenty of arguments for the policy of “containment”—allowing these types of businesses in one small area while keeping the rest of the city clean, or at least relatively so. The cry against “white slavery,” however, had been rising, and most cities, even Chicago, were taking a stand against vice in any and all locations.

But Detroit … How could anyone reconcile themselves with this?

*   *   *

The next morning, after barely a capful of morphine, I bought a dozen white roses from a street vendor and carried them to Elizabeth's house. I needed to make peace with her. Even so, my steps slowed as I got closer to the huge yellow and white Queen Anne, all gables and turrets and spindles and bay windows, gingerbread trim under the eaves and around every squared corner. I steeled myself and strode up the sidewalk, through the gate, and up the steps to the Humes' door. Both hoping and fearing she would be home, I knocked.

Alberts, the butler and sometime chauffeur, answered the door. He was a gaunt and trim man, getting elderly now. “Mr. Anderson,” he said with a smile. He'd had no affection for me while Elizabeth and I were courting, but I knew he felt deeply indebted to me for saving her life.

I smiled back at him. “May I speak with Elizabeth, please?”

“I'll see if she is available, sir. Would you care to wait in the living room?”

“That would be fine, Alberts. Thank you.”

“My pleasure, sir.” He held the door open for me.

I walked inside, and he closed the door. Before he could leave, I patted him on the back. A sharp pain made me realize I was touching him with my disfigured hand, the first time I'd touched anyone with it since it had been burned. I could only imagine how horrified he was. I pulled away and coughed, embarrassed. “It's very nice to see you again, Alberts.”

“You as well, sir. Good luck.”

“Good luck?”

“With…” He cut his eyes up the staircase toward Elizabeth's room.

I thanked him. He headed up the stairs, and I wandered into their living room. I was last in this room when they still called it a parlor, for Judge Hume's funeral, but prior to that, Elizabeth and I had spent many happy hours here. Even though I'd been careful with the morphine dosage, the green stripes on the white wallpaper pulsed with intensity, and the white silk sofa and chairs were blinding where the sun cut across them.

I had decided to just apologize and not correct Elizabeth on her assumption that I'd been drinking. Telling her I'd taken too much morphine would open a door I needed to remain shut.

“Will?”

I turned to see Elizabeth, wearing a loose pink skirt and white shirtwaist, standing in the doorway. One of her hands was braced against the doorjamb, as if she were ready for a hasty retreat. My gloved right hand behind my back, I said, “Hello, Lizzie. I want to apologize for the other night.” I handed her the roses. “I'm sorry. I'm not drinking. It was a onetime slip, and it won't happen again. Can we start over?”

Her beautiful green eyes searched my face as she stepped into the room. “All right, Will. Perhaps we could talk.” She looked toward the doorway. “Alberts?”

He turned the corner into the room. “Miss?” He'd been waiting just outside.

“Would you be a dear and put these in water, please?”

His eyebrows rose a quarter of an inch. “Certainly, miss.” He gave a little half bow and retreated from the room with the roses.

She turned back to me. “Thank you for the flowers, Will.”

“I swear I'm finished with drinking.”

She put a smile on her face, but it didn't look genuine to me. She wasn't convinced, but at least she was trying. “I'm glad,” she said. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

“Please.”

“Would you like to help?”

“I would.”

We walked to the kitchen, a large room with a white tile floor and a big maple table in the center. Alberts was filling a vase with water at the sink.

Elizabeth set a kettle to boiling and busied herself preparing a teapot and bringing out a pair of china cups and saucers. I stood back near the table, giving them space.