Sugar House (9780991192519) (39 page)

"I can see your point…"Harold began.

"Cappie."

"I can see your point, Cappie, but we'd lose
too much profit if we stop our air distribution. And what does your
well-publicized acquaintance think about all this?" Hatch said,
referring to the Purples' business associate, Al Capone.

"The Purples have been in contact with all
the important parties, Mr. Hatch. We're all in agreement that the
airplanes must stop." Cappie reverted to the moniker Purples now,
because the millionaire had.

"Well, that's all fine and good for you and
your underworld bosses, but we've got to make a living too,"
Clifford said.

"Course you do… that's why the Purples and a
few other organizations are putting together a political group in
the city to discuss the building of a tunnel from here to Detroit.
It's to be partially financed by private funds, and the rest will
come from the Canadian and U.S. governments. After all, the
Ambassador Bridge is working out well, isn't it?" Cappie took
another sip of the reserve, savoring the flavor. Joe watched in
amazement at Cappie's bargaining skills. He'd seen him charm and
cajole federal agents on several occasions, but this was something
else. Either the gang had prepared him extremely well for this
meeting or Cappie had been hiding his negotiating abilities as well
as Joe had hidden his intelligence from Charlie.

"A tunnel you say? Well, that is interesting.
Large enough for trucks to pass through?"

"Bigger—it'll be a two-lane highway right
under the river. We just ask that you keep your steady payments to
the Canadian police officials on your side, and we'll do the same
with the U.S. agents. I don't think there could be a better
solution. They're gonna start breathing hard down your neck soon
about the plane traffic anyways. Whaddaya say, Mr. Hatch? Can I go
back and let the boys know you're in agreement?"

Hatch sat and looked at the men across the
table from him. "Let me confer with my son for a moment, won't
you?"

Cappie nodded, and the Hatches left the room
through the heavy wooden door. Cappie got up and poured himself
another glass of the reserve, bringing the bottle to the table and
topping off Joe and Walt's drinks. Joe looked around the room,
noting how thick the walls were and how no sounds could be heard
from above or near the river. Just then his eyes caught on a small
round hole in the bricks above Cappie's head.

"Hey Cappie, there's bullet holes in the
walls down here. See?" Joe pointed out the one he saw and Walt
found another not far from the first.

"Don't worry boys… we're not here to cut
their pricing. Things only get rough when you try to hit them in
their pocketbooks. This conversation is just businessmen discussing
roads." Cappie winked at them, and Walt smiled. The Hatches
returned to the room and shook hands on the oral agreement. The
senior Hatch gave each of them a bottle of the twenty year reserve
as a gift, and the trio walked back to their boats.

"Guess this is it for a while, Joe." Cappie
clapped Joe on the back. "Soon as I get back into town, I'll take
you out for a drink, OK?"

Joe said that would be fine and the men shook
Cappie's hand. Cappie started his engine and headed south down the
river. So many years together and now they were splitting up. And
he'd miss the river—the smell of the wildflowers growing on the
banks, the hoots of the owls perched on branches searching for
their nightly prey—but mostly he'd miss the quiet solitude of just
a man and his boat and the water.

Walt took the wheel and guided the boat the
five-minute ride over to Belle Isle. He dropped Joe at the
shoreline. Walt told him to meet his pick-up at the Scott Memorial
Fountain in a couple of hours. Joe thanked him and wished him good
luck. He waved goodbye as Walt headed south. Joe removed his gun
from his ankle holster and strapped the bottle of reserve to his
leg.
Now what?
he thought, putting his .38 in his coat
pocket. Was he just supposed to wander around the park till someone
picked him up? He noticed the elaborate arched doorway of the
island's aquarium a few hundred yards inland, and he headed in that
direction. He knew he could pass an hour or so in the speakeasy in
the basement.

"Sturgeon" he said, as the back door opened
at his triple knock.
Things don't change that much
, he
thought, as the doorman let him in. The smell of salt water and
fish drafted down the basement steps. Joe laughed to himself at the
irony of it all; if he failed to follow the new Purple leadership
he'd be swimming with the fishes.

There were only a few men and a couple of
ladies sitting at the bar when he walked up to the bartender and
ordered a beer. Joe tipped his hat at the women and took a swig of
the cold brew. As he looked up he saw a Detroit policeman coming
down the stairs. Joe jumped over the bar and crouched down behind
it, pulling out his gun. He heard laughter from the other side, and
he looked up at the barkeep who was looking down at him,
grinning.

"You want to serve the drinks, do ya young
fellow?" he asked. Joe looked perplexedly at the barman. "Isn't
that why you jumped over here? You're awful jumpy, boy. We're all
friends here on Belle Isle. Why don't you hop back on over and I'll
pour you another beer. You spilled your first one all over my clean
bar."

Joe replaced his weapon and stood up. He saw
that all the customers were laughing at his mistake. The Belle Isle
cop smiled, faked a shot at Joe with his hand, and ordered a
beer.

Joe walked back around the bar and retook his
seat, laughing with the other drinkers. "You sure got me," he said.
"Hey, if I tip good can I bring in my own hooch?" he asked the
bartender.

"What's a good tip?"

Joe laid a fifty dollar bill on the bar. The
barman picked it up and said, "Drink what you wish, young man." Joe
pulled up the leg of his pants and grabbed the bottle of reserve
he'd almost shattered in his leap over the bar.

"Anyone for some good twenty year whisky?" he
asked his fellow patrons. In five minutes he was good friends with
everyone in the place, including the man he now knew as Inspector
Henry J. Garvin. The regulars returned to their seats, thanking him
for the drinks. The inspector sat down next to Joe.

"You're fast on your feet kid… what kinda
business you in?" the chunky policeman asked amicably.

"Fishing" Joe replied.

"Fishing, huh? Ok, have it your way. Thought
I might know a few friends of yours, but I guess I was wrong."

The hairs on Joe's neck stood up, and the
muscles in his legs twitched, ready to flee. "Relax boy, I've got
friends in high places too, is all I'm saying. I'm just trying to
make some small talk with you." Joe recalled hearing the name
Garvin before. This was the detective the Purples had helped move
up in the police force over the years; thereby ensuring their
"innocence" when accusations came through his department. But how
had he known who Joe was?

"I heard you were coming over to the city
tonight, and I thought I'd just head this way for a drink and
introduce myself. See if there was anything I could do for
you."

"Did Abe send you?" Joe asked.

"No, he doesn't need to know about this
little meeting between two new friends, does he?" Garvin replied.
So that was it. The cop was looking for a little extra on the side
and had somehow heard Joe would be coming through the park that
night.

"I'm not in need of anything at the moment,
but I appreciate your generosity. How about you take the rest of
this whisky as thanks from me?" Joe slipped a hundred dollar bill
under the reserve and pushed it toward the officer.

"Well, that's mighty sweet of you, Joey O,"
the cop replied as he pocketed the bill and grabbed the remainder
of the Canadian Club. "Well, I gotta be heading out. Hope to see
you around real soon." Joe took a drink of his beer and gulped it
back. Every time he came into the city his nerves unraveled. There
was something about the close proximity of hundreds of thousands of
people and skyscrapers that added a dash of claustrophobia to his
normally even-keeled personality. On the river he could
hear
an enemy approaching, be it a hijacker or an agent. In a city,
where the sounds never fall below a low roar and people could
approach you from any angle; his senses were dulled and
ineffective.

Finishing the last ounce of his cold beer he
decided to head toward the fountain and wait where he could at
least be outdoors. Enjoying the quiet of the empty park, he reached
the fountain in less than twenty minutes and had a seat on a marble
step.
Fitting spot for my return to the city
. He pulled his
brown flannel jacket collar up to protect himself from the cold
wind blowing across the water. The fountain had been commissioned
from beyond the grave by an eccentric gambler who was so loathed by
the public that it took the city almost fifteen years before they
agreed to build it. James Scott was infamous for telling loud,
boring tales accentuated with a healthy dose of profanity. That the
politicians of the city decided to commission the tower despite
Scott's lack of civil respect said much about the current political
climate.

Occasionally headlights could be seen driving
towards the fountain, but they all turned west. Joe was left to
wonder if he should start for the city by foot. According to his
watch, it was nearing three o'clock, nearly one hour past the
designated pick-up time. A marble lion appeared to glare down at
him from his perch on the fountain, and the sculpted frogs jeered
at his lonely state. Joe shook off the imaginary antics of the
fountain and stood up, resolute that he'd walk back to the
city.

"Bang!" Joe saw the flash of the gunshot and
a man fall into the lagoon near the fountain, the force of his fall
rocking several long canoes that were tied to the shoreline. He
ducked back down behind the fountain feeling his leg for his
weapon. Damn, it was gone. Remembering he'd put it in his pocket he
reached for it as he crawled around the circular monument, trying
to locate the shooter. The flash of the gun had blinded him for a
moment, and he couldn't see in the dark. Screeching tires rounded
the drive by the fountain, and he cocked the.38. The gunman was
driving without lights and Joe had to rely entirely on his hearing.
Closer, almost there. Joe pointed at what he hoped was the driver's
window and shot twice.

"What the hell you think you're doing, Joey
O?" rang out a deep, raspy voice. It was Harry Keywell—the
obnoxious thug Joe had met that night at the Powhatan Club and his
new boss.

"Sorry, boss," he replied, pocketing his
weapon. "I had no idea who was flying toward me." Joe descended the
steps and opened the door to the Cadillac. He looked over at Harry
who still had his gun on Joe. "Honest, Harry—I'm sorry."

"Get in, you stupid Polack, you almost put a
hole in my hat."

Joe sat down in the passenger seat, leaning
against the door. Actually, Joe had only hit the rear bumper once
but he kept his mouth shut and tried to look apologetic. "Like I
need more attention from the Belle Isle Bridge Patrol by you
shooting off your gun like a maniac." Harry pushed the gas pedal
down and headed north on the island.

"I thought we were going back to the city."
Joe tapped his fingernail nervously on the door handle.

"We is, but first I gotta make sure nobody
heard your rat-a-tat musical display back there. Damn Joey, I go to
all the trouble to make that sap strip down naked before I knock
him off so the coppers can't identify him, and you go and shoot off
fireworks like it's the Fourth of July!"

"Y-you shot him naked?" Joe stuttered
slightly.

"Sure, what's the big deal? You knocked
someone off before, right?" Harry glared over at Joe as they
rounded the avenue and headed back south.

"Sure Harry, a couple of times," Joe
responded.
What had Charlie told this goon?
"Just never
naked is all." Harry laughed and finally pocketed his gun.

"I just do it so it takes longer for the pigs
to figure out who took a swim." Harry slowed the Caddie down as
they neared the bridge that led back to the city. A uniformed
officer was walking on the sidewalk in the middle of the span and
Harry pulled his hat down, as did Joe, to shield their faces as
they passed. So many Detroiters had plunged to their deaths from
the bridge in suicide attempts that a twenty-four-hour watch had
been put in place. "Damn palookas" was all Harry said. He sped back
into the city.

"Just ask for their donation, Joe," Abe Bernstein was
saying in the Sugar House office. Abe and Harry had decided Joe
would be better used in a position where his boyish good looks,
charm, and confidence could increase the Purples' profit margin.
Extortion. Harry handed him a list of names and addresses and Joe
looked down at it.

"But I don't know nothing about collecting."
Joe tried not to sulk. "I'm better with boats than people." He was
treading on thin ice here. The bosses didn't like arguments.

"You think I don't know how to run a
business, Joey O?" Harry stood up from behind the desk and twitched
his fingers.

"Course you do, Harry. I just thought… ."

"Well, don't think," he growled. "You make
the rounds of these stills and bring us our cut, ya here?

"Yeah, Harry. I hear you." Joe shoved the
list in his pocket and walked down the stairs into the warehouse.
"Damn." He mumbled under his breath. The Purples had realized that
they couldn't control all of the liquor that came into Detroit nor
the amount that was made there, so they had pushed up their
extortion racket to increase revenue.

Joe walked to the Purples' parking garage and
found the Buick touring car Abe had given Joe to use to make his
rounds, the one with false plates. Every morning he'd leave his
house, pull the car out of the backyard into the dirt alley, and
drive to the Sugar House. He'd greet Abe and Harry, and he'd be
handed a list of addresses and the presumed revenues of the stills.
Joe would head off into the city, downriver, or to the north for a
day of collections. He hated the work but could rationalize it to
himself because the people he was taking money from
were
operating illegally. Other collectors that worked for the Purples
had been assigned to rough up the cleaners and dyers operations in
the city. If they refused to pay a percentage to the Sugar House,
the collectors threw purple dye on the legitimate business owners'
product. Joe felt it was a dirty racket and was thankful not to be
a part of it.