The Devil's Own Rag Doll (20 page)

After Johnson filled a crate with everything that could be connected with Bobby, he and Walker carried it to the car and tossed it in the trunk. I stepped into the alley and gathered my bearings. Had I come to the time in my life when my brain was so full up that I had started emptying out what I had known? Of course I knew the area, of course I remembered now; there was a pretty good butcher on the next street over, so I walked down the alley and called him out.

“Listen,” I said, flipping up my lapel to show my shield, “there's a pretty pile of sugar down in there, never mind where it came from. If you think you can use it, go down and take a couple sacks. Just a couple, hear me? But don't keep them out in the open for now. I'm about to call the rationing board, have them come over for a look-see.”

The butcher was a little DP, and he looked me over with his head tilted to one side.

“I use little sugar in my trade,” he said. His English was good but he spoke with a thudding accent.

“You don't want it?”

“It would be wrong for me to accept such a thing,” he said.

“You can't take a sack home for your wife?” With all the problems I had, and all the worries I was trying to sort out, the little man's attitude struck me funny. To top it, he was looking at me like he knew me, like he expected me to recognize him as well.

“You mean to tell me that you won't take a sack home for your wife?” I said. “You don't think that would be fine?”

“I am simply unable to accept such a thing,” he said. “I am unable.”

He was half my size. He stood with his hands clasped politely behind his back, and he had me rooted to the spot. I couldn't very well smack him down, though the idea worked through my mind.

“Well,” I said finally. “If that's your position.”

“Yes,” he said. He seemed gravely disappointed that I could not muster a more proper attitude.

“Go on, then,” I said. “I guess it's all wasted.”

“I'm sorry,” he said. “Good day. Good luck to you, after all.”

He walked with a quick step back to his toil, and I watched him go with some regret. I wouldn't have cared overmuch about the illegal sugar, even without the present mess taking up all my attention. I had offered him the sugar because I knew how it was: A leg up in tough times could make all the difference, and I knew that he worked hard for his money. It wasn't costing me anything. But he wouldn't play along with it. By the time the rationing boys were through, the rest of the sugar would be parceled out to a hundred cronies as presents for their wives or as bribes to other wartime agencies. Though I wasn't altogether fussy about following rules, it made me sick to think that a solid, weighty piece of
something
could just disappear like smoke into the petty rot of bureaucracy. The rationing boys would come in and kick up dust to show that they were earning their pay, and nothing much would come of it. When I talked to Brunell, I would make it clear that I had no concern for the laws involved, and perhaps that would be enough to loosen his tongue.

By the time I made it back down the alley, Johnson and Walker had slipped into the car, Walker in the backseat. As I approached, I noticed Johnson's wild look and curt gesturing. I turned my head and looked up the street. I saw a big Lloyd Cruiser full of hard guys standing half a block down. The windows were smoked. I stared at the auto, and it began to creep along the curb toward me.

“What'll we do?” said Johnson. “Call it in?”

“Sit tight for now. You'll know real trouble when it hits you in the back of the head.” I stepped to the front of the car and waited for the Cruiser to approach. I could see only the driver clearly in the bright light of late morning. I heard Walker sliding across the backseat, heard the door latch open quietly.

“Hey, mister, did you get your eye shot out in the war?”

I turned to the young boy at the curb, who stood pointing his stubby finger at the black patch.

“Don't get fresh, kid.” I saw that the black car was almost upon me. “Beat it.”

“Was it Jerry or the Japs?”

I slowly pulled up the bad hand and drew back my jacket enough to give the kid a glimpse of the shoulder rig and the butt of my revolver. The kid's eyes sharpened, and I wondered if it was the sight of the gun or the mangled hand. “I said beat it, kid.”

The boy stared blankly for a moment and then skipped away down the street. He ran a few steps, stopped to pick up a bottle cap, and turned off across an empty lot.

I turned my attention now to the Cruiser, which had stopped opposite my unmarked car. I sensed that Walker had slipped out of the car and now stood just behind the rear bumper. Because the driver of the Cruiser had let his window down, I could see the young thick-neck's disinterested face drooping forward. The darkened rear window lowered slowly, and a haggard face came into view.

“Pete Caudill?”

I said nothing.

“I guess it couldn't be anyone else with that kind of mug,” said the haggard man. “Frank Carter. I work for Jasper Lloyd.”

I had recognized him the instant his deep-set eyes came into view. Frank Carter, Lloyd's head beef-handler, once chief of security for all of Lloyd Motors, and now reduced to running errands and providing personal security for the Old Man.

“Mr. Lloyd has asked me to bring you to him, if you'll come.”

Still I said nothing, and there was a stiff silence all around.

“Will you—” Carter broke off in a fit of coughing.

I turned away and leaned in to speak in a low voice to Johnson. “You take the stuff, you stash it somewhere funny, right? And keep an eye out for anybody following you. I'll leave word at the station for you later.” I tossed the keys to Johnson. “And call the rationing boys over here, will you, before the whole neighborhood cleans the place out.”

Johnson nodded and slid across the seat. “Is it all right?” he asked.

“Don't get weepy, Johnson. Just do what I told you.”

I walked toward the black car, then stopped. I turned and gave Walker a little nod, then climbed into the luxurious sedan, my stomach gurgling, wondering how long it would be before I could eat a little something.

*   *   *

I had an idea how it was. Jasper Lloyd's yacht was the biggest on the Detroit River—but that wouldn't last. There had been a sort of gentlemen's agreement about the pecking order among the auto barons, and none of the pirates had built a yacht larger than Lloyd's. But as the Old Man was in decline, and as the company was floundering under the management of Lloyd's young nephew, it was inevitable that soon the mantle would pass. Another monstrosity would roll down the dirty river and settle into a berth at the Belle Isle Yacht Club or the Grosse Pointe Yacht Club, and Lloyd would settle into oblivion. The Old Man, who had begun his life over eighty years ago, when much of the area was still farmland and undeveloped acreage, would go to dust like any other man.

The gateman at the Belle Isle Yacht Club began waving us through as soon as he saw the big Cruiser turn into the drive. Carter led me out onto the long pier, which had been specially built to accommodate Lloyd's yacht. We climbed onto the yacht, and I followed Carter up the stairs to the big deck up front. A colored boy in a neatly pressed white jacket brought iced tea. Carter's men stood and loosened their ties in the sun while I looked for a place to set my glass. I took in the skyline of Detroit across the bow and let my eye come down to the Belle Isle Bridge, far enough from the Yacht Club to separate the riffraff from the upper crust. The bridge was clogged with people heading onto the island, trying to escape the heat. Nothing much was doing at the rubber factory or at the naval yard at the land end of the bridge. I thought idly that it might be nice to have a place like this, a place where you could step back and take a look at the city from a little distance, separated by water like a moat.

I pulled a long draught from the tea and found that it went a long way to easing the discomfort in my belly. Carter and his men had not tried to take my revolver. If I was another kind of man, I might have been insulted that they weren't worried about me getting rough. Not a word had been spoken since they picked me up in the street. I sat next to Carter during the trip, hoping that whatever it was the old man kept coughing up into his handkerchief wasn't contagious.

“When I was a boy, Mr. Caudill, cows used to graze over much of what you see here.”

I turned and was surprised to find Lloyd standing next to me. The tiny man had crept up without sound.

“It seems I can remember what happened long ago more clearly than what happened yesterday. Age does that to you, I'm told.” Lloyd brushed a thumb to smooth the lower edges of his long mustaches. “As I remember it, the colors and the odors were sharper than they are now. Horse and buggy days, they were. Things were slower. For a man with a little initiative, it was easier to get ahead. And now…” He drifted off.

“Old age makes you soft,” I said.

“Soft! I should be able to afford to go soft now, after all of it.” He stared out over the rail and worked a little spit over his thin lips. “I suppose the old days are gone forever, and it wouldn't quite be manly to mourn their passing. The good Lord knows I've seen my share of barbarous custom pass into disfavor. But I do regret the passing of the mannerly way. It was a mark of civility in my day to share a drink and a cigar with a business associate, to start out as men before talking about money. You couldn't say that we were innocent. We knew well that every man in the business world tries to gain his advantage however he can. He tries to gather something for himself and his family, and a simple application of arithmetic made it clear that profit and gain for one must mean loss for another; but we always took care to nurture our measure of social grace like a kind of gift. These days, though, the rush of commerce sweeps us along. Right down to business without so much as a kind greeting to ease into things. I like to get to know a man before I really talk to him, Caudill.”

“I'm not friendly, that's all.” I met the old man's watery gaze. “I don't put out the glad hand. I'm all business.”

“You're no businessman,” Lloyd said. “But your time here will be well spent. I would not go to the trouble and the risk to invite you here only to socialize.” He eased back a bit like he was satisfied that he had put in his piece. “Frank,” he said, “take the boys down and get them something to eat, will you?”

Carter herded the men down the short ladder below the deck and then followed, suppressing the racking cough that shook him constantly.

“Did you know that Mr. Carter was a police officer when I hired him? He's been with me over forty years,” said Lloyd. “That kind of loyalty seems to have lost its currency these days.”

I looked down at the old man's hands gripping the rail: a mummy's hands, dried and knotty, the fingers askew from arthritis. It seemed a wonder that such a tiny bit of flesh and purpose could hold control over such a massive fortune. Kings and presidents had asked his advice and sought favor with him, I knew.

“Were you aware, Mr. Caudill, that I knew your father?”

I couldn't help it; I tensed up a little and turned my unhappy eye toward Lloyd's face.

“He was doing a little work for me,” Lloyd went on.

“What kind of work was that?” I wanted to throttle the tiny man beside me, squeeze out whatever information I could and then toss the desiccated carcass over the rail. But the old man had a kernel of strength in him that I had to appreciate. He knew I could snap him in two, he knew I wanted to, but he wasn't afraid.

“We'll get to that in time, perhaps. I'll be blunt with you, Mr. Caudill, since that seems to be the tack that suits you. I'm not sure I can trust you. In fact, the only thing that works to your favor is that I know you've been floundering around like an oaf for the past week. You couldn't survive long as a crooked man.”

“You dragged me over here to insult me? It's a hell of a lot of trouble to go to, old man.” I realized that I still held the glass of iced tea in my hand. I tossed it over the rail.

“The truth is, Mr. Caudill, as you can see, I am not the man I was. It's true; I have made my share of mistakes in my time. You can take it as a sign of weakness, if you like, of softness, but when a man gets close to the end of his time, he starts to think about how he'll be remembered.” He stroked his snowy goatee. “Mr. Caudill, answer me bluntly, if you like. What's your feeling about the situation of the Negro in Detroit?”

“I don't give a good goddamn about the Negro, any more than I care about anyone else but myself, my family, and the few friends I have. And in case you hadn't noticed, there's a war going on.”

Lloyd waved his hand dismissively. “Don't worry about the war. It's all but taken care of already. The pressing thing for us now is to shore up the foundation of our city. You are not a naive man, I take it, Mr. Caudill. You understand something of the working of business and economy. To accomplish any lofty goal, to beat back the forces of chaos and anarchy, it is often necessary to do business with men … not worthy of the greatest respect.”

“Don't make excuses to me about it. I'm just a dick, and not a good one, either. Nobody cares what I think.”

Lloyd sniffed. “You understand that none of what I tell you can be verified. Some years ago, during the first years of our troubles with the unions, Mr. Carter and I purchased the help of a diverse group of men—thugs, in the main, you might call them. Young men out of work. This was after the crash, of course, and it seemed for a time that somehow the Reds and the Communists might swarm over the country. America is the greatest, most blessed nation the world has ever known, and yet it seemed to us that these union organizers might strike in such a way as to pull apart the structure of what we had worked so hard and so long to build. So we fought back however we could. I still believe we were right to do so. But there came a time when we might have let our judgment slip a little, and we became too closely associated with a certain element that became a clear liability over time.”