Motor City Shakedown (40 page)

“There's no sense in Elizabeth being there.”

“Yeah, there is,” Tony said. “It might keep your dumb ass from doin' somethin' stupid.” He sat back. “When we're done here, go home. We'll call you before the meetin', make sure you got it set up.”

Time to play the suspicious partner. “How do I know you'll leave us alone if I help you with this?”

Tony reached across the space between us and patted my cheek with a meaty hand. “You do your job, ever'body will be fine. We'll be done wit'cha.”

I was fully convinced he meant to kill us along with the Adamos. Still, I needed to sell him that I was going along with it—that I would willingly stroll into my own execution. I pushed his hand away. “Give me your word.”

From behind, Sam grabbed me by the throat and hauled me over the top of the seat. “He said everybody'd be fine,” he growled into my ear. “So
fuck
you.”

I couldn't breathe. I tried to pry one of his hands off my neck, but his grip was like a vise.

“Hey,” Tony said. “Gentle with him.”

“Sure, Tony.” Sam gave one last squeeze and let go. “Ya done?”

Tony nodded and looked over my shoulder. “Give him back his gun.” The thug handed me the .32 and the magazine separately, and Sam gave me a push me up the aisle. “Not until the train stops, Sammy,” Tony called.

“Sure thing,” Sam replied. “Too bad,” he added under his breath.

The train was slowing. He herded me to the front of the car and down the steps. I put my left hand on the doorframe to brace myself and leaned out the open door to see a station just ahead. The train was nearly to the platform and down to perhaps ten miles per hour when Sam put his hands into the small of my back and shoved me out the door.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

I flew off the train, windmilling my arms, and managed to land on my feet, taking two huge strides through the stones bordering the track before I lost my balance and somersaulted into a stand of tall grass. I rolled to a stop and lay there, trying to catch my breath. When I was able, I took stock of myself. My shoulder stabbed at me. Blood seeped through the torn fabric of my trousers at the knees. My right hand hurt badly again, and the palm bled onto the rag. But other than that, I was in fine shape.

I levered myself to my feet and spent ten minutes hunting for Elizabeth's pistol and the magazine, finally finding them in the grass. Then I remembered the thug hadn't given me back my knife.

Fortunately, I still had the nickel necessary to buy a ticket for the short ride back to the Jefferson station. During the twenty-minute wait for the train, I thought about the best method of killing Sam Gianolla. It had to be something that hurt—a lot—and lasted a long time. I considered a number of alternatives but decided his personal method of murder would serve as well as anything else. I just had to get control of him long enough to start in with the baseball bat. The train arrived before I determined how best to do that.

When I hopped off downtown, I wandered through the station looking for Elizabeth. Harried people rushed past me, pushing to and from the platforms. I finally found her sitting on a bench in the lobby, looking forlorn and defeated—until she saw me walking toward her. With a huge smile, she jumped up, ran to me, and threw her arms around me. “Thank God,” she said. Her voice broke, and she turned her face away.

At that moment, I realized this nightmare was worth the pain. She did love me.

“I'm okay,” I said. “A little worse for wear.”

After a moment, she stepped back and looked me up and down. She appeared to have regained her equilibrium. “A little worse,” she agreed.

“The Gianollas are going to make their play tonight. They want me to get the Adamo brothers to a restaurant in Little Italy at eleven o'clock—ostensibly for a meeting. I'm sure the Gianollas plan to kill them.” I looked at my watch. It was almost three thirty. “We've got a lot to do. I've got to call Vito and get a message to Abe. Then we need to rendezvous with Detective Riordan.”

We pushed through the crowd to the phone booths and waited a few minutes until one was available. Elizabeth stood outside while I called Adamo. I filled Vito in on the details of the Gianollas' plan and where I thought it would lead.

“Giuseppe's?” he said.

“Right.”

“Pietro Mirabile owns that restaurant. Don Mirabile is my friend.… What are they thinking?”

“I don't know.”

He was quiet for a moment. “Do they want you at the meeting?”

“Yes. Both Elizabeth and me.”

“Have you talked to the Bernstein boy yet?”

“No. That's my next stop.”

“I will dispatch men to Giuseppe's and around the area immediately. If Gianolla's men are in hiding there, we will kill as many as possible and go back to our war. If not, we will withdraw and watch. However, since they have given us notice of the location, it's unlikely they will attack us there. My guess is they will move the meeting place at the last moment or try to ambush us on the way. Our plans will need to be fluid.”

“Check the buildings around the restaurant,” I said. “There are probably some good spots for snipers.”

“The Gianollas are not the first to try to assassinate me, Mr. Anderson.”

“Listen, I'm not trying to insult you, but do you have the men to pull this off?”

“Don't worry about my part. You do yours.”

I gave him my home telephone number should he need to get hold of me.

“After you talk to them again,” he said, “phone me at this number. We'll make final preparations.”

We rang off, and I told Elizabeth about our conversation. She suggested I detour to the restroom to wash out my cuts and scrapes before we continued our odyssey. I did so; then we walked to the Saint Petersburg Restaurant. Markovitz agreed to have Abe phone me as soon as possible. He also gave me the .32 Abe had taken from me when I met up with Palma. I'd forgotten all about it. I tucked that one into the front of my trousers to match the other I had in the back.

Our next stop was Callaghan's Livery, a throwback to an earlier time, one of the few large stables left in the city. The smell of horses and manure, only a few years ago so prevalent I never noticed it, hit my nostrils when we were half a block away. The barn was freshly painted a bright red with
Callaghan's
in script written bold over the wide doors.

I wasn't sure how to play it, so at first we just waited outside. After ten minutes and no contact, I decided to find Callaghan. We were directed to a fireplug of a man in a dirty white shirt and a pair of bright red suspenders holding up a pair of brown trousers, who sat reading a book in the tiny office.

I knocked on the doorjamb. “Mr. Callaghan?”

He didn't look up. “Hmmpf?”

“I'm Will Anderson.”

His eyes stayed on the book. “Last stall on the right.”

We walked to the other end of the barn. I peeked over the rail into the stall but didn't see anything. “Detective?” I whispered.

Hay rustled inside the stall, and the door swung open. Elizabeth and I walked in. She closed the door behind us. Detective Riordan stood in the shadows, wearing a rumpled dark suit and his fedora. “Have a seat,” he said to me. “You look like you could use one.”

“Thanks.” I lowered myself onto a hay bale in the corner.

“I can't believe they're saying you murdered those men,” Elizabeth whispered.

Riordan shrugged.

“What are you going to do?” I said.

“Eventually I'm going to have to give myself up. But I need to help you through this first.”

“No,” I said. “You'll just end up getting shot or something. I'll testify for you, and I'll bet Markovitz, the owner of the restaurant, would do the same.”

“You'll have to pardon me when I say your testimony isn't worth a bucket of warm spit. Keep an eye out for the police. They might be after you too. So tell me. D'ja get run over by a streetcar?”

“You almost got it,” I said. “Sam Gianolla shoved me off a train, though he did have the decency to wait until it slowed down. But tonight they're meeting with the Adamos. Tony Gianolla claims he really wants peace, but I still think he's going to try to wipe them—and us—out.”

Riordan nodded. “What time?”

“Eleven at a restaurant called Giuseppe's in Little Italy.”

“I know the place. That's Mirabile's territory.”

“Right.”

He rubbed his chin. “Last I knew, Mirabile was aligned with Adamo.”

“As far as the Adamos know, he still is,” I said. “We met with them. Vito claims he'll work with us.”

“Do you think he really will?”

I shrugged, and paid for it with a sharp pain in the shoulder. “If we had a choice in allies, we'd probably choose the alternative, but we don't have a choice. We're throwing in with Vito Adamo.”

Riordan's head shook slowly. Finally he sighed. “I'll go with you. You're going to need my help.”

“We have to go to Will's apartment,” Elizabeth said. “The Gianollas said they'd call there to give us final instructions.”

“All right,” Riordan said. “I'll meet you there. I've got some reconnaissance to do first. I'll come by later, seven o'clock or so, in case they move up the timetable.”

We both nodded, and Elizabeth stepped up to him and gave him a hug. “Take care,” she said.

“I will.” Riordan smiled at her. “See if you can keep this baboon alive until I get there.”

*   *   *

We were lucky enough to flag down a cab just outside Callaghan's. We talked little on the ride, even though the drive that normally took twenty minutes took almost an hour. The cabbie squeezed through every alley and side street he could, but so many vehicles were on the roads it was nearly impossible to get through. There looked to be fewer abandoned vehicles, which gave me hope that the roads would clear soon, streetcars or no.

I had the cabbie drop us off on Second Street, two blocks away from my building, in case the police had decided we were Detective Riordan's accomplices. Elizabeth paid again. I was discovering it was nice to have a wealthy girlfriend.

We sneaked to the back of my building and scouted around a bit. There was no sign of the cops. Elizabeth suggested she go up first, just to be certain the police weren't waiting to ambush me there. A minute later, she waved me in through the parlor window.

When I got inside, she led me through the apartment to the bedroom. “Do you still keep your first aid supplies in the medicine cabinet?”

I nodded.

“Sit tight. I'll be right back.”

I sat on the bed, thinking about what we might expect tonight, until Elizabeth returned with bandages and wet washcloths. She set the supplies on the bed next to me and said, “Take off your shirt.”

I obliged her. She removed the soiled dressings from my shoulder, washed the wounds, and taped on new bandages. Her touch was cool and soft, fingertips brushing over my skin. We said nothing. I was so aware of her, the heat from her body, her breath grazing the back of my neck, the gentle way she rested her hand on my good shoulder.

“Now your trousers.”

I looked up at her.

“Your knees,” she explained.

I took off my shoes, then stood, unbuckled my belt, and let my trousers drop to the floor. When I sat again, she knelt down in front of me and cleaned the cuts and scrapes. I watched her—her eyes studying my wounds, her hand moving in slow passes over the bloody parts so as not to hurt me any more than necessary. I filled with love for her.

She sat on the bed next to me and said, “Give me your hand.”

“No, it's fine.”

“It's all right, Will.” Her voice was soft, caring. “Let me have your hand.”

I took a deep breath and held it out to her. She pulled off the rag. My hand was naked in front of Elizabeth—the pits, the scar tissue, the gnarled endings of my fourth and fifth fingers. I turned my head away.

She cradled my hand in her arm and stroked the palm with the washcloth. Then she gently bandaged it. When she finished, I began to pull away, but she held on. I watched in astonishment as she raised my thumb to her lips and kissed it, followed by my forefinger, middle finger, and the stumps of my fourth and fifth fingers. She pressed the back of my hand against her mouth for a moment before lowering it and turning to face me.

“I love you, Will.” She cupped my cheek in her hand, leaned in, and kissed me. Resting her forehead against mine, she said, “I may never get the chance to tell you again. I love you.”

I felt my face flush. “You know I love you, Lizzie. I always have. I always will.”

She kissed me, and again, this time with urgency. After a minute, she pulled back, stood, and took off her hat and jacket. Then she unbuttoned her shoes and took them off—along with a short-bladed dagger tucked into the right one. Looking into my eyes, she stood, unbuttoned her shirtwaist, and let it slide off her shoulders. All she wore underneath was a silky white chemise, which she slipped over her head and dropped to the floor. I watched her, entranced, letting my eyes take in the glory that was Elizabeth—her auburn hair, angel's face, brilliant green eyes, and slim, athletic body.

I couldn't breathe. “My God, Elizabeth, you are so beautiful.”

She unhooked her skirt. It soon lay on the floor with her shirtwaist and chemise. A holster was strapped to her thigh, with a small pistol on the front of her leg. She unbuckled it and set it on the floor, then peeled down her underwear and stepped out of it. I thought my heart would explode. She leaned down and kissed me again before gently pushing me back on the bed and removing my stockings and underwear. Her face deadly serious, she climbed on top of me and we made love, slowly at first and then like animals, years of anger and frustration fueling our fire.