The Detroit Electric Scheme (19 page)

“Dead eyes,” he said. “You want to look at the man like you have a long history of putting away punks like him, and he'd just be another notch. But remember, it's not going to save you. Most guys in prison have that look. And theirs is real. So the second thing to remember is hit first, in the groin if possible.”

I shook my head. “I'm not going back.”

Edsel smoothed his dark hair and leaned forward. “How can I help?”

“Help?” I said. “You need to stay out of this, Edsel. It's too dangerous.”

He sat back and folded his arms over his chest, a smile flitting across his face. “I'll find the killer.”

“No!” Wesley and I said simultaneously.

“Our company has some pretty powerful resources. Let me have them do some digging. I won't get personally involved.”

“No. It's too dangerous,” I said.

“I'm getting to the bottom of this whether you want me to or not. Now cooperate.”

I thought for a moment before agreeing. “So long as you stay out of it yourself.” I nodded toward Wesley. “Wes tangled with the murderer, and he's lucky to be alive.”

A grim expression settled onto Wesley's face, but he didn't say anything.

Edsel looked from me to Wesley and raised his ginger ale. “To finding the killer.”

We clinked our glasses together and drank.

Wesley's head popped up. “What about the kid who took the money? The killer trusted him enough to let him do that. They must know each other.”

“Yeah, I thought of that, too,” I said, “but there are thousands of kids on the streets, and probably thousands more in the city who match the description. How in the world would we find him?”

After a moment, he nodded. “You're probably right. But let's keep our eyes open anyway.”

Wesley had another Scotch, and we worked on our meals, which were surprisingly tasty. While we ate, Edsel grilled me about John Cooper's murder, looking for an angle he could use. “What was Cooper like?”

“Friendly, charming, but really tough. Not someone you'd want to make angry. He always seemed to be on the winning side. He was always on . . . the right side.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, of course he was human, but he didn't show that to many people. It was always important to him to do the right thing, the thing that was expected of a person like him—rescuing kittens from trees,
pitching in on campus projects. You know, your prototypical hail-fellow-well-met.”

Edsel was watching his glass as he swirled the ginger ale around. He glanced up and met my eyes. “But he did have a darker side?”

“Well, yeah, but doesn't everybody? Present company excepted, of course.”

“So, what did he do?”

“It wasn't so much what he did as how much pleasure he took in certain parts of it. He loved the contact, the violence of football. After he took the EAD job, he'd tell me about the fights they'd had with union organizers. He always played down his part in them, but his eyes glowed just like they had during a big football game. I only saw him in action once. About twenty Teamsters were picketing our factory. John, Frank Van Dam, and about ten of their men came in and just laid waste to those poor guys.”

Frank had taken out three or four of the union men with his fists, feet, and blackjack, but, as usual, John outshone everyone. He put down half a dozen of the organizers, swinging a four-foot-long axe handle like a baseball bat. One swing was all it took. After the fight, when I told him I had watched, he winked and said, “Ty Cobb ain't got nothing on me.”

Edsel nodded. “What about this Frank Van Dam fellow? What was his relationship with Cooper?”

“They were best friends. Frank worked for John, and I think he may know who killed him. But Frank's disappeared.”

“I'll have someone look into it,” Edsel said.

“Frank quit his job before John's murder and moved out west.” I took a sip of my drink. “Anyway, I think the most important thing is that the unions hated John. By killing him at our factory and framing me, they could get rid of Cooper and create a big problem for an open shop.”

Edsel nodded. “That would seem the most likely scenario. So that leaves us with a pool of only ten thousand or so suspects. But I might be able to winnow it down a bit. My father's security men have been collecting information on the unions for the past couple of years. I'd guess
I can get my hands on a pretty complete file on the AFL unions and the Wobblies.”

I reached across the table and held on to his forearm. “Don't you go and try anything crazy here. You stay out of it. And make sure your father's men know what they're up against. Whoever this is, he is not afraid to spill other people's blood.”

 

The noise in the saloon kept ratcheting up as more men and women streamed in, most packing into the front room. I pushed away the empty stew bowl, pulled my cigarette case from my waistcoat, and held it out to Wesley. He took one, and I grabbed one for myself. Edsel cleared his throat. He was looking at me with arched eyebrows and making a “hand it over” gesture.

“Edsel? You smoke?”

“Sure.” He sat back, studying his fingernails, trying to look casual. “Usually it's Sweet Caporals for me.” Raising his eyebrows again, he said with mock seriousness, “Sweet Caps. The purest form in which tobacco can be smoked.”

Wesley laughed. “Maybe you ought to work in your dad's advertising department.”

I held out the cigarette case for Edsel. After he chose one, I lit it for him and snapped the case shut. “Wouldn't your father skin you if he caught you smoking?”

“Oh, we've got an understanding.”

I laughed. “You've got an understanding about smoking with Henry Ford. Sure thing.”

He blew out a smoke ring and let his arm drape over the back of his
chair. With a grin, he said, “Well, perhaps an understanding isn't quite the way to describe it.”

I was taking a swig of ginger ale when Edsel said, “Oh, shit.” He stubbed out his smoke and looked away.

A big man stumbled into the back room and looked around before going up front again.

“What's wrong?” Wesley said, turning to try to see what we were looking at.

I ducked my head. “Horace Dodge.”

“And wherever goes Horace, so goes John,” Edsel said. “You'd think they're Siamese twins. Could be entertaining, though.”

“So long as they decide to pick a fight with someone else.” I nudged Edsel. “They don't have a problem with you, do they?”

A lopsided smile appeared on his face. “Even drunk, I don't think they'd pick a fight with the son of the man who's making them rich.”

“What the hell are they doing here?” I said.

Edsel shook his head. “I'd guess this is the only saloon in town they haven't been thrown out of yet.” He shot his sleeve and looked at his wristwatch. “But the night is young.”

The noise level in the front rose appreciably with the arrival of the Dodges. It was common knowledge in automobile circles that, sober, the Dodge brothers were obnoxious. It was better known, from the frequent newspaper articles detailing their brawls, that drunk they were dangerous. My father called the Dodges an enigma. They were sharp, if not brilliant businessmen, knew machining as well as anyone, were excellent negotiators, and were dogged and driven—perhaps as driven as Edsel's father. Like Henry Ford, they would work at a problem until it disappeared, a trait that unfortunately carried over to their personal lives, where they solved those problems with their fists and feet. Success hadn't changed them, though perhaps they were still adjusting to their newly won riches.

Regardless of Edsel's opinion, we needed to steer clear of these men. But there was at least one benefit to them being here. The Dodges were certain to become the center of attention, keeping the focus away from the alleged murderer hiding in the back.

Around ten, Edsel excused himself to answer the call of nature. At that moment, John Dodge walked out from the front of the saloon. “Hey, Edsel,” he said. “Edsel Ford! How you doing, boy?” Dodge was in his mid-forties, a round-headed man leaning toward fat, with thinning red hair parted on the side and the swollen face of an alcoholic.

Edsel answered him in a voice too quiet for me to hear over the raucous sounds of the saloon. Dodge moved in close, his face only a few inches away from Edsel's. When Edsel excused himself and turned to walk into the restroom, he stumbled over Dodge's foot. The leather sole of his shoe slid forward on the sawdust. His feet slipped out from under him, and he fell, unceremoniously, onto his backside.

Dodge helped him up, apologizing all the way. Edsel was facing us and glanced at me with a smile. Dodge kept talking. Every time he'd look away, gesticulating toward the front room or staring up at the ceiling, Edsel mugged with wide eyes and exaggerated smiles or grimaces, stopping just as Dodge would look at him again. By the time Edsel was able to extract himself and retreat to the restroom, I was laughing so hard I was practically on the floor, and Wesley was holding his ribs while he whooped out laughs.

John Dodge turned and looked at us, head cocked, before strolling over. “Who you laughing at?” he said, speaking slowly, trying to enunciate—definitely drunk.

Wesley straightened up in his chair and smiled at him, no hint of alarm on his face. “No one. Just enjoying a joke.”

Dodge turned to the front and called, “Hey, Horace! Horace!”

A few seconds later, his brother joined him, a quizzical expression on his face. He was also a chunky man, but thinner than John and better looking. He seemed every bit as drunk, however. “What?”

“These sonsabitches think Edsel Ford is a joke.”

Horace narrowed his eyes and leaned over the table toward me. “You think Edsel is a joke?”

“No, no, you've got it all wrong,” I said. “Edsel is our—”

“Whoa,” John said. “I'm wrong?” He glanced at his brother before grabbing me by the front of my shirt and lifting me partway out of the chair. “I'm gonna . . .” He squinted, trying to focus on my face, and
abruptly dropped me. “Well, hell. I was just about to pound a celebrity.” He looked at his brother and gestured toward me. “This here's the Anderson kid, the killer!” He plopped into Edsel's chair and waved toward the waitress. “A round over here!” he shouted. “I'm buying one for my friend, the 'lectric esha-cutioner.” He put his arm around me and pulled me close. “I owe you big.” His whiskey breath poured into my face. “Finally, someone in the car business with a worse reputation than mine.” He pounded on the table. Both he and his brother roared with laughter.

“We should probably be going,” Wesley said, and began to stand.

Horace shoved Wesley back down in his seat and stood over him. “Didn't you hear John? He's buying.”

Wesley winced, surely feeling it in his ribs. He held his hands up in front of him. “Fine, fine. We can have one more.”

Still with his arm around me, John stared at Wesley, then turned back to me. “Looks like you guys been volunteering as punching bags!” He and Horace bellowed out another round of laughter, and John pounded the table with his free hand.

I lifted his arm from my shoulders and stood. “Come on, Wes. Let's go.”

John Dodge grabbed my arm and tried to jerk me back into the chair. When I resisted, he stood and leaned in close to me. “You ain't going anywhere. I'm buying you a friendly drink.”

Wesley threw an elbow into Horace's midsection, doubling him over, and stepped around the table, staring into John's eyes. “We're leaving.”

With a grin on his face, John let go of my arm and began rolling up the sleeves of his shirt. Horace, a hand still over his solar plexus, straightened and took a step toward Wesley.

“Hey! Fellows!” Edsel called out, running up to us. “Let's just settle down, all right?”

John's attention wavered from Wesley to Edsel to Wesley again. Out of the side of his mouth, he said, “These friends of yours, Edsel?”

“Both of these gentlemen are my friends, John. I'm sure my father would appreciate you being more polite to them.”

John Dodge glared at Wesley for a moment before stepping back. “All right. Okay.” He forced a smile at Edsel. “Sorry about that. No harm done.”

We got our coats and hats and walked toward the door, the Dodges fawning over Edsel the whole way. I was the last one out, and was turning to leave when I heard a quiet, “Anderson.”

I looked back at the brothers. John squinted and grinned a bully's grin. “This ain't over.”

 

When I got home I sat in my study and tried to read, but my mind kept going back to the row of bourbon bottles in the cupboard. It was infuriating and a little frightening. I had to quit drinking, but I couldn't concentrate. I read the same pages over and over, still having no idea what I'd read. Finally I went to the kitchen, for just one drink.

I fell asleep on the sofa, an empty bottle on the floor next to me.

At ten the next morning, not sure whether my guilt or the pain in my head made me feel worse, I wedged myself onto a streetcar and rode to the Humes', certain the judge would be at work.

He answered the door.

His eyes were wide, his face hopeful, until he saw me. He threw the door open and grabbed me by the lapels. “What have you done to her? If you've hurt her, I swear to God I'll kill you, you son of a bitch!”

A heavy weight dropped in my gut. “Elizabeth?”

“Don't play innocent with me, Anderson,” he snarled. “Where is she?”

“But—she came home, didn't she?”

“As if you don't know. Tell me what you've done with her!”

I wrenched myself out of his grasp and shoved him away. “As you've probably seen in the papers, I've been in jail. How could I have done something with her?”