The Detroit Electric Scheme (10 page)

The first time I saw Elizabeth, her face was lit by the dancing flames of a bonfire. We were seventeen. I'd come to a Halloween party with some school friends. Perhaps two dozen people stood around the fire, but I saw only one.

I couldn't breathe. I'd heard men say that a woman's beauty took their breath away, but I'd always considered the idea to be a mawkish
exaggeration. Yet I couldn't catch my breath. Her auburn hair hung in soft curls around her finely cut face—a perfect face with large eyes, high cheekbones, soft lips—a face at once aristocratic and kind.

One of my friends nudged me. “Will?”

“Wha—huh?”

“She said hello.”

I realized my mouth was hanging open. “Uh, hello,” I said.

She wore a long woolen coat that fit her form, a form that promised the same perfection as her face.

I took a step forward and nodded. “Will Anderson. Pleased to meet you.”

She beamed at me. I found myself breathless again. Her smile was open and warm, not at all the usual coquettish look of a seventeen-year-old girl. She held out a delicate hand, encased in a dove gray glove of kid leather. “Elizabeth Hume.” She cocked her head to the side. “You're a handsome boy, Will Anderson.”

“Lizzie!” the girl next to her exclaimed.

Elizabeth let go of my hand and glanced at her friend with a naughty smile. “Well, he is.”

I didn't leave her side the rest of the night. The next evening I met her parents.

She had been mine for almost four years.

I pulled out Elizabeth's note and held it up in front of the window, reading it again and again by the lamplight.

A man's voice called up to me. “Hey, Will.” In the dark, I could just make out Wesley McRae standing below me, his head tilted back.

I stuffed the note into my coat pocket.

“Mind if I come up for a snort?” he said.

The liquor had dulled my mind to the extent that no excuse occurred to me. “Sure, why not?” I stood, wobbling a little, and began walking down the steps to drop the last length of stairs. “Give me a minute.”

“Stay there,” Wesley said, pulling his porkpie hat down farther on his head. He jumped into the air, grabbed hold of the metal edge of the landing, and swung himself onto the fire escape like a monkey.

The landing had to have been four feet over his head. “Son of a bitch. How'd you do that?”

He laughed as he climbed the steps. “Gymnastics training. When you're an entertainer, you've got to be ready for any opportunity that comes along.” He stopped in front of me, and the light pouring through my window illuminated his feminine features—full lips, large brown eyes, no hint of a beard. His long blond hair curled behind his ears.

I was suddenly uncomfortable, remembering the times I'd seen an older man leaving his apartment early in the morning.

He held out his hand for the bottle. There wasn't anything I could do about it now, so I gave it to him. I hoped he didn't have any diseases I could catch.

Taking a seat in the corner opposite me, he tipped back his head, took a swig, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Whew! Old Tub, huh? I'm a Scotch man myself, but that's good bourbon.” He held out the bottle. “Thanks.”

Nodding, I took it from him and surreptitiously turned the top of the bottle against my trousers. He brought out a cigarette case from his jacket pocket and offered me one. I accepted it, though not without some trepidation. He lit mine and then one for himself.

“So.” He turned his head and looked out over Second Street. “Nice view up here. I can see why you come out.” His breath swirled from his mouth in clouds.

I took a big swallow and handed the bottle back to him.

“Much obliged.” He took another drink. “So, Will. What were you reading?”

“Huh?”

“When I was down there.” He hooked his thumb toward the lawn. “You were reading something.”

“Oh. Nothing.”

An uncomfortable silence hovered over us for a few moments before Wesley said, “I couldn't help but notice you've been suffering from a bout of melancholy for, oh, more or less since you moved in. But lately it's been worse, hasn't it?”

I took a deep drag off the cigarette and nodded, keeping my eyes pointed away from him.

“Want to talk about it?”

I grunted out a laugh. “No, but thanks.”

He nudged my knee with the bottle. I took it back from him. “Listen,” he said. “I've been in plenty of tough situations. Talking always helps. When you talk about it, you think better. And who knows? Maybe I can help.”

I cocked my head at him. He was rich. Maybe he
could
help. “Well, I need some money.”

“How much?”

“Four hundred dollars.”

He was blowing smoke out the side of his mouth and stopped mid-exhale. “Four hundred?” He blew out the remaining smoke and shrugged. “Sure, no problem. But I'll have to get to the bank. Tomorrow soon enough?”

I nodded but couldn't say anything, dumbfounded that he'd agreed without a second thought.

“Why don't you stop by Crowley Milner tomorrow? I'll be there from noon until four. Or I could just bring it back tomorrow night, but I won't be home until late. I'm singing at the Palace Gardens Ballroom.”

“I'll come by Crowley Milner. Thanks, Wesley. I'll pay you back as soon as I can.”

He waved me off. “Whenever you've got the money to spare. God knows, I've got more than I know what to do with.”

Whatever suspicions I'd had regarding Wesley blackmailing me disappeared. My blackmailer certainly wouldn't be lending me money.

We sat up there for quite a while, talking some but mostly drinking. I told him about my father's company and a little about Elizabeth, but I skirted the subject of my current problems. He didn't press the point. When he said he needed to get to bed and started back down the steps, I stopped him and asked him inside for one more drink.

He turned, clearly surprised. “Sure. That'd be nice.”

We climbed in the window to the parlor. Seeing it as I imagined it would look from Wesley's eyes, the room was less than impressive. The
wallpaper was dull blue. An aged green chenille sofa faced two white upholstered chairs across a small cherrywood coffee table. Flanking the sofa were a pair of scratched end tables. The only other furniture in the room was an old oak bar where I kept my “show liquor”—the single bottles of Scotch, bourbon, rye, Tennessee whiskey, and brandy that were only used when I had guests. My real drinking whiskey stayed in the kitchen cupboard.

Wesley looked around the room. “Nice place.”

“Thanks.” I asked him to sit, then poured him a splash of Scotch and myself a shot of bourbon. We talked a few minutes longer before he finished his drink and announced it really was time for him to leave.

I led him out of the parlor into the foyer and opened the door for him. The hall was empty, which was more of a relief than I'd care to admit.

 

The next morning I woke at five thirty with a hangover. I was already so keyed up I couldn't think. Assuming Wesley really was going to lend me the money, in less than twelve hours I would be paying a blackmailer, possibly the man who'd killed John Cooper. This was insane. My mind whirled.
Pay him. Go to the police. Leave town. Buy a gun and kill him. Pay him.
. . . I had to pay him. It was my only chance of getting out of this and still having the hope of a normal life afterward.

I called Elizabeth again. Alberts said he'd given her the message and refused to answer my questions. With a curt “Good day,” he hung up on me.

At eleven I headed to the streetcar stop to go to Crowley Milner, the newest department store in downtown Detroit, hoping to catch Wesley before he started work. The first two trolleys were crammed so full I wouldn't have been able to squeeze on with a shoehorn, so by the time I got there it was nearly noon.

I walked in through a brass-trimmed door onto a floor of polished rose-colored marble, the air fresh and clear with just a hint of perfume. European imports filled the mahogany cabinets, and salesmen and -women, their manners as impeccable as their dress, waited around every corner. I asked where I might find Wesley and was directed to the middle
of the first floor, declining three offers of assistance before I saw him. He was sitting at a glossy white grand piano, arranging his music, a small crowd fanned out in chairs to his right. An easel next to the piano held a sign that read,
THE GUS EDWARDS MUSIC COMPANY IS PROUD TO PRESENT . . . WESLEY MCRAE, THE SCOTTISH SONGSTER!

“Hi, Wesley.”

He looked up and smiled. “Hello, Will.” He lowered his voice. “I've got the money for you. I'll just have to get my coat.” He stood, but paused and pulled his watch from the pocket of his waistcoat. Glancing at it, he said, “Can you possibly wait forty-five minutes? These slave drivers will dock me if I don't start on time.”

Given my state of mind, I didn't want to wait forty-five seconds, but with no other choice, I agreed.

I lit a cigarette and took a seat in the back, near the wide bins of sheet music arrayed behind the chairs. A few men and children were in the audience, although most of the white wooden seats were filled with women—a few younger ones in shirtwaists and skirts of muted colors, more of them dowagers in colorful day dresses of cotton or crepe. I had to duck to see Wesley under the sea of elaborate chapeaus adorned with feathers, baubles, and other assorted gimcracks, some of the hats' brims a yard wide.

Wesley looked out at me and smiled before projecting his voice to the small crowd that had assembled. “Good afternoon. My name is Wesley McRae, and I'll be playing selections from Detroit's own Gus Edwards Music Company for you today. Why don't we start with an old favorite—with a little twist? Here's one of Gus's classics.” He played the intro to “In My Merry Oldsmobile” and began to sing. His fingers caressed the keyboard, and his strong tenor filled the store. He replaced every “Oldsmobile” with “Detroit Electric,” which sounded ridiculous and threw off the rhymes (“Come away with me, Lucille, in my merry Detroit Electric”). Still, I had to appreciate the effort.

Next, he played a collection of Edwards tunes from the new Ziegfeld Follies show: “The Waltzing Lieutenant,” “Mr. Earth and His Comet Love,” “Look Me Over Carefully,” and more. Ziegfeld was big in Detroit, a city that strove for both the sophistication and the gaiety of New York.
While he played, dozens of people purchased music, most of it from the Gus Edwards bins. Wesley was a good plugger, well worth whatever Edwards was paying him.

After a flourish on the piano and a bow, Wesley stuffed his music into the bench, held up a forefinger, asking me to wait, and hurried to the back of the store. A moment later he returned wearing a gray overcoat, fitting his ivory porkpie onto his head. With a nod, he led me toward the entrance.

I stayed a couple of feet away from his side. He didn't seem to notice.

“Gus Edwards is selling like hotcakes. They can't get enough of Wesley McRae.” In an operatic voice, he sang, “The Scottish Songster,” and broke out into a laugh. “And I found out this morning Gus is buying another one of
my
songs. ‘The Honeysuckle Rag.' ”

“That's great, Wesley. Congratulations.” I tried to be enthusiastic, but I could hear the indifference in my voice.

“Christ, Will, call me Wes. Wesley's what my mother calls me.”

We walked out to bright sunshine. I hadn't noticed it on the way here. The sidewalk was packed with people out enjoying what could be the last of the year's nice weather. I offered Wesley a smoke and took one for myself. We walked against the stream, dodging women's hats, until we reached a little alley next to the store.

He took a quick look around, pulled an envelope from his pocket, and handed it to me.

I slipped it into my pocket. “Thanks, Wesley, er, Wes. I can't tell you how much I appreciate this.”

“Don't mention it.” He leaned against the brick wall and blew a smoke ring toward the sky. “These new Ziegfeld tunes are the worst. I can hardly bring myself to bang them out on the piano.”

“They sounded good.”

Giving me a sideways glance, he said with mock seriousness, “To Philistines like you, perhaps.” He laughed. “They'll never get a million-seller out of that dreck.”

Next to the alley's entrance, the driver of a green Model T laid on his horn.
Ah-ooh-gah! Ah-ooh-gah!
It had to be a Klaxon, the loudest, most obnoxious horn on the market. A People's Ice Company wagon was
double-parked in front of him, the driver nowhere to be seen. The man in the Ford, around thirty years old with long side-whiskers and a petulant expression, pounded again on the horn.
Ah-ooh-gah! Ah-ooh-gah!

I saw red. “How'd you like to eat that horn?” I shouted.

The driver looked at me, startled, and began to say something before thinking the better of it. I realized now I was standing in the street, cigarette crammed in the corner of my mouth, my hands balled up into fists.

Wesley grabbed me by the shoulder and tried to pull me back to the alley. “Will, calm down. Come on back here.”

After a long look at the driver, whose eyes didn't leave the back of the ice wagon, I followed Wesley.

He nodded toward the Model T. “He looks like a guy who'd go straight to the cops if you patted him on the back. You've got to make them hit you first—in front of witnesses.”

“Sounds like you've had experience.”

“Well, let's just say I've had a difficult time getting the Detroit Police Department to see my point of view. They like to exercise their frustrations on people like me.”

Taking a long drag on the cigarette, I nodded.
People like him.

“Will, it's obvious your problem is about a lot more than money. Tell me about it.”