Sugar House (9780991192519)

by Scheffler, Jean

  Cappie started carrying a crowbar in the front seat of the car when reports of liquor hijackings started leaking into the news. Several gangs in the area deemed it more profitable to hijack a load of liquor from a rum runner than to pay for it themselves. The Sugar House Gang had themselves begun to hijack booze at gunpoint; if anyone resisted, Ray Bernstein or one of his brothers would bash the bootlegger in the face with a wooden board or bat, breaking his cheekbone, nose, or eye socket. Joe was on constant watch for other gangs. His eyes never blinked as they made their way back across the frozen river twice a day, loaded down with whisky.

  They were nearing the canal in early February when Joe saw lights flash in the trees. Cappie turned the car north and drove directly to the toll bridge and back into the city.

  Leiter sent a couple of his men to the cottage. They reported back that there were fresh footprints in the snow and the lock on the cellar door was broken. But they had found no one. Leiter sent Cappie back to the island with the weekly kickback for the one lone cop stationed on the island; his mission was to decipher whether it had been the cops or another gang sniffing around the cottage. Cappie reported that the cop was happy with his weekly stipend, and the trespassers had likely been another gang looking for an easy score.

  Two weeks later, as Joe and Cappie were helping load liquor into the truck with the pickup man, Sam "the Gorilla" Davis, two men came from around the front of the cottage and tried to overtake them. Cappie turned and pounced on the approaching men without hesitation. The hijackers were caught off guard, enabling Sam to grab the crowbar from the truck and whack one of the men hard enough in the arm that Joe heard it break. Cappie held the other man's arms behind his back and started pushing him around to the front of the cottage.

  "Joe, take my gun and go to the cellar. Guard the liquor in case there's more of them coming."

  Joe took Cappie's gun from his hand, ran down the cellar steps, and shut the door behind him. He sat with his back against the stack of liquor boxes, pointing the gun at the door with shaking hands. Joe heard footsteps on the wooden floor above him as the men entered the cottage.

  "Think you're gonna steal our booze?" the Gorilla's voice boomed above him. "Tie up the one with the broken arm, Cappie. We're gonna teach these guys a little lesson about messing with our gang. Joe heard a small scuffle and the man with the broken arm yell out in pain as Cappie tied him to a chair. "Hey, Cappie, hand me that saw from the corner." Joe heard Cappie slowly walk across the floor to the corner of the cottage. Joe had set the saw there that morning after sawing wood for the stove.

  "Hold his right arm down, Cappie" the Gorilla said menacingly.

  The hijacker started whimpering and pleading with the Gorilla. "No, no, please not my hand. Whadda ya want? I'll pay you. I won't never steal from yous' again. I promise on my mother's life."

  "Too late, you son of a bitch. The Sugar House don't tolerate no stealing, and we're sending a message to all you dagos or whoever else thinks about stealing from us." Joe looked up at the ceiling when the hijacker yelled in pain.

  "Stop! I work for Capone; he'll pay whatever you ask. I'm his cousin! Please! I know he'll pay!"

  "This ain't no kidnapping, dago," replied the Gorilla. You were on our property. You go back and let your cousin see what happens to thugs who try to steal from the Sugar House."

  Joe heard a loud sob and then a terrifying scream as the saw began to tear through ligaments and bone. He put his fingers into his ears, still holding the gun while trying to block the sound. Without warning he threw up on the cellar floor. Wiping his mouth and replacing his fingers into his ears he started humming a Polish song his mother always sang to him. Joe sat there for several minutes, humming and rocking on the floor. Slowly he pulled his fingers away from his ears. The sound stopped for a moment. Then he heard footsteps on the cellar stairs.

  Joe raised the gun as the door opened and pointed it at the man's head. Cappie appeared in the light from outside, trying to adjust his eyes to the darkness of the cellar. A ray of sunlight reflected off Joe's gun, and Cappie yelled at Joe.

  "It's me Joe! Put the gun down!" Cappie held his hands high in the air. Joe quickly lowered the weapon and looked up at his friend.

  "They're gone, Joe. You can come back upstairs. They won't be back."

  The Gorilla walked across the floor above them, and Cappie looked up and back down at Joe realizing Joe had heard everything. Cappie and Joe just looked at one another.

  "Joe…" Cappie started. "What happened upstairs is not my way of going about things. I prefer to knock them around a couple of times with my fists. You know, black eye, busted lip, couple of missing teeth—no permanent damage."

  Joe looked up at Cappie and nodded. He'd heard many of Cappie's bar fight stories while eating supper in the cottage. He'd laughed and laughed as Cappie jabbed the air with his enormous fists and danced around the wood floor reenacting his latest Saturday night fight.

  "But the Sugar House don't think a busted lip is gonna stop no one from hijacking their inventory. When the Gorilla asked for the saw, I really thought he was just gonna scare him a little. I'd heard Sam was a little off his rocker, but I really didn't think he was gonna go through with it. I barely made it till those dagos took off. Then I emptied my guts behind the cottage. You all right?" Joe nodded slowly and rose from the cellar floor.

  "How bout you give me that gun back now?"

  Joe looked down at his hand. He had forgotten he was still holding the weapon. He handed it back to his friend.

  "Thought you were gonna shoot my head off when I came down the steps. But I guess I didn't have to worry."

  "Cause you knew I'd recognize you, Cappie?"

  "No—cause you never cocked the gun, Joe. Guess we'd better have some shooting lessons, huh?"

  Joe smiled back at Cappie and followed him out of the cellar.

  ***

  The Sugar House bosses held a meeting. "That cottage is too exposed," Shorr said.

  "I agree," Charles said. "We need a more impenetrable middle-house. Abe, drive down to the island and see if you can find something that'll work. Cappie, you go down to that new city… what's it called?"

  "Wyandotte," Cappie replied, straightening his tie.

  "Yeah, Wyandotte. Find something on the river where you and Joe can run liquor into."

  Shorr bought a large estate on the west side of the island and ordered some of his men to dig a tunnel from the basement to the river. He had gun turrets built into the four sides of the house and a tall black fence erected at the property lines. He also bought a house on the opposite side of the river that Cappie scouted out, five miles north, in Wyandotte. Here, he had a boathouse dug from the seawall into the basement of the house.

  Joe and Cappie continued smuggling whisky across the ice while the tunnels were being constructed but drove the load back to Detroit every night. Joe was thankful to be once again sleeping in his own bed and especially that he didn't have to paint the whisky cases anymore.

  Chapter Twenty Six

  1924

  The Sugar House Gang had installed several high capacity brewing plants and stills around the city to increase their bootlegging revenues and had ventured into liquor hijacking for themselves. The Bernstein brothers were put in charge of hundreds of blind pigs and added kidnapping for ransom to their resumes. Ray became known as the strong-arm of the brothers. He was the one who brought in Gorilla Davis to help.

  The gang developed a complicated system of bribery and extortion across the city to ensure the safety of their growing enterprise. Beat cops, sergeants, captains, judges, councilmen, and lawyers all had different rates of pay for their silence. Perhaps even the chief of police and the mayor were on the take from the Sugar House. This system allowed the gang to haul beer and whisky from breweries and distilleries and unload it right on the docks in broad daylight. Several groups of men were assigned to drive over the ice to Walkerville, Ontario, across from Belle Isle at the north end of the city. The
y'd load their cars and trucks with cases of Canadian Club, drive over the ice onto the island park, and take the bridge back to the city. The Belle Isle police, content to have their pockets lined with as much extra cash as their yearly salary never saw anything.

  That spring a rash of drownings were reported in the Detroit newspaper when the ice on the river began to thaw, but Cappie had the wherewithal to know when the ice was growing thin. He ceased the daily runs to Canada; only the naive and desperate continued to try their luck across the ice. In the beginning, the Coast Guard rescued the rumrunners whose cars were stuck and trapped in the ice, arrested them, and dumped their liquor. But as the weather turned warmer and the ice thinner, rescue efforts were aborted for the safety of the officers. Drivers and their loads of hooch disappeared under the icy water; days later, bloated bodies would be found drifting down the river. The Coast Guard would haul them into their boats and bring the dead back to the city to be identified. Often, bodies never turned up; they were stuck in the sunken car, caught on the bottom of the river. Others were found on the shores of Lake Erie, too decomposed to identify.

  Joe had grown a foot over the last four and a half years. He was almost fifteen now but looked even older from the years in the sun and wind on the river. Gone were the short pants and soft cap that had helped Cappie and Joe portray their father-and-son ruse. Leiter decided Joe would pilot his own boat that spring, doubling his and Cappie's output, thereby doubling Joe's pay to one hundred dollars a week. But the traffic on the river was getting heavy, and with the ratification of the Eighteenth Amendment Joe was concerned that federal agents would become more assertive in their duties to uphold the law.

  The week before he and Cappie were to relocate to the Wyandotte house, he went to visit his childhood friend Walt. Walt had followed his dream; he was working on the docks and building speedboats on the side for a team of Gold Cup racers.

  "The damn things just make too much noise," Joe was saying to Walt at Jacoby's Bier Garden, a local hangout near City Hall. "I don't know if there's anything you can do about the engine, but the exhaust makes almost as much racket." They'd ordered homemade Wiener schnitzel, spätzle, and potato pancakes and were devouring the German fare as only two teenage boys can do.

  "We don't usually try to make them quieter, Joe. Actually we design them to be as loud as possible. The louder the boats, the better the crowd likes it. Makes for a good show while we're racing." Walt took another bite of noodles. "Hey, by the way, how is this a 'beer garden' when they can't serve any beer?"

  "Oh, they've got beer upstairs if you want it," Joe replied. "You thirsty? We can take our food up there and drink if you want."

  "No," Walt replied with a queer look on his face, "I don't want any—I was just wondering. You sure have changed, Joe."

  "Not that much. You still see me at church, doncha?" Joe grabbed the last potato pancake and put it on his plate.

  "Not very often—not that it's any of my business. And you sure are dressing well too. Seems like last time I saw you at St. Josaphat's you were wearing short pants and stockings and now your all decked out in that fancy suit and overcoat. Bet you didn't buy that at Kresge's or Hudson's."

  "No, just this little shop where Leiter gets all his suits. He sent me over there and told me to pick up a few… said I looked like an immigrant just off the boat." Joe lowered his voice slightly when he mentioned his boss's name and looked around the crowded tavern. The air was so thick with smoke it almost hid the customers in the corners of the room, and he wanted to make sure he wasn't overheard by any unwelcome eavesdroppers.

  "You're going to a tailor?" Walt said incredulously. "Don't you think you'll stand out a little driving a 'fishing boat' back and forth in that getup?"

  "I don't wear this on the boat. Come on Walt, who cares about clothes? Whadda ya think you can do about the noise from the boat?"

  Walt had changed in the last five years also, not so much in personality or street smarts but physically. He was taller and broader, appearing very much like the seventeen-year-old man he was. His hands were rough and callused from working on boats. Yet his face still held some of the baby fat of pubescence, and a strong Polish accent still permeated his speech. But Joe held his opinions to himself.

  "And you sound different too, Joe. I hope you're not in over your head. People around here are talking a lot about your boys."

  "They're not my boys, Walt. Geez, you're so serious. So about the boat…"

  Walt drank a sip of Vernor's ginger ale and thought for a minute. "Yeah, I have some ideas. I'd have to play around a little."

  "Great!" Joe replied. "Charlie said he'd pay you fifty bucks a week to make the boats faster and fix them up when they break down."

  "Fifty dollars a week! That's more than twice what I'm making now, and I already have a good job!"

  "Hey Walt, keep your voice down, all right? I told Charlie that you really know your stuff and he wants to hire you on. He had someone look into the work you're doing for the Gold Cup team, and he was real impressed."

  "Now you're calling him Charlie, Joe? Nobody calls Mr. Leiter Charlie. You talked to him about me? Why?" Walt was getting agitated and Joe decided to try another tactic.

  "Charlie was asking around the office the other day if anybody knew a good boat mechanic. A couple of the boats are looking rough from fighting the ice this winter, and they need a little upkeep. The exhaust thing is my idea, and I haven't mentioned it because I wasn't sure if you'd be able to do anything about it. If you can swing it, take the idea. I won't say a word."

  "I don't want to work for gangsters, Joe. I like my job, and the team is counting on my work for the race this summer. I don't want to go to jail, and I definitely don't want to get killed. Didn't that huckster Johnny Reid just get shot four times in the head last week over in Corktown?" Walt was referring to the area near Navin Field where many Irish immigrants had settled.

  "Oh, Johnny—he's got a problem with the women is all. Some dame's husband came home while he was having himself a little visit. Damn Mick was carrying a gun. I think his brother's a cop or something… anyways, he got all crazy and started shooting like he was out duck hunting! But Johnny's gonna be all right. He's recuperating in some fancy hospital in New York now." Johnny Reid had come to Detroit from the underworld in Missouri to seek his fortune in bootlegging and had been introduced to the Sugar House by an associate of the gang.

  "Well, it doesn't matter, Joe. I'm not interested."

  Joe paid for their meal and they walked out onto Brush Street. The sidewalk was crowded with businessmen and shoppers on their way to and from lunch. Joe thought back to a few years before, remembering the horse drawn carriages that had vied for room on the streets with the trolleys and cars. Graceful horses delivering wares and carting the rich around town had become a rare sight on the streets of Detroit. Thankfully, so had what they left behind in their path.

  Joe finally managed to talk Walt into going to the Sugar House with him to talk to Leiter. "Just hear him out" was his final argument. Walt grudgingly followed him to the plant and into Charlie's office. Joe introduced the two and set off for the door. "Got a couple of errands to run, Walt… just listen to Charlie. It's a good opportunity." Joe closed the door to the office and walked home. He had some things to do before he and Cappie set off for Wyandotte at the end of week.

  Joe had saved almost half of his earnings since receiving his raise that winter. He had over three hundred dollars hidden under his mattress, and he took out half and went to find his mother in the kitchen. He found her rolling meat into cabbage rolls and humming an old Polish folk tune. Her face had filled out again, but she remained extremely thin. Joe worried that she'd never truly get over the loss of his father.

  "Cześć, Matka." He greeted her in Polish.

  "Joe, you are home early. I didn't hear you come in. Did Mr. Leiter give you the afternoon off?"

  "Things were slow today… Matka, you know I have to go to a house down-river in a coupl
e of days, right?" He washed his hands in the sink and grabbed a leaf of cabbage from the boiling pot to help roll the golabki.

  "Yes, I know, but I wish you could stay here. I don't understand why Mr. Leiter has to make a young boy go off and live away from his family."

  "I told you, Matka, he isn't making me do anything. It's just part of the job, and that's where they need me. But I might be gone for a while. I'm not sure when I'll be able to get back. It might be a month or more, so you'll need to send Frank to the Sugar House on Fridays for my pay. It's all arranged, and they'll have it waiting for him." Thirty dollars would be waiting for his brother at the end of every week at the office, and the remainder of his pay would be held until he returned. Joe didn't want his mother to know about his recent pay increase, so as not to arouse any suspicions regarding the increased danger of his job.

  "But Joe, that means you'll be gone for Easter! You can't miss Mass. It's a sin to miss on the holiest day of the year! And you'll miss Easter dinner… no, you tell that Mr. Leiter that you must be home for Easter."

  "Sorry, Matka, it's already been decided. But don't worry; I'll go to Mass. I'll find a church nearby." Joe filled the last leaf of cabbage with the ground pork and beef mixture and placed it in the Dutch oven. He rinsed off his hands and reached into his pocket for the money he'd saved. "Here's some extra money for Easter dinner and to buy new suits for Frank and Stephan to wear to church."

  "Joe, this is eighty dollars! Easter dinner and new suits don't cost eighty dollars. I can't take all of this!"

  "Then buy a new dress or save it, Matka. Please take the money. I'll feel better leaving if I know you have enough to get by for a while." Joe pressed the bills into his mother's hand. "I have a few errands to run, but I'll be back for supper. I can't wait to eat your golabki—Cappie's cooking is terrible!" Joe kissed Matka on the cheek, grabbed his communion rosary from his bedroom and left out the front door.

  He walked the two blocks to St. Josaphat's and entered the quiet cathedral. The school children were in class next door, and the church was empty. He walked down the long aisle to the front of the church and placed five dollars in the offertory box to pay for his prayer candles. He lit five tall red candles; one each for Matka, Frank, and Stephan so God would watch over them while he was away and one each for Cappie and himself to ensure their safety on the river. Joe was sure Cappie wouldn't want a candle lit for him, but he wasn't planning on telling him. He'd had grown close to the man and didn't want anything to happen to him. Lastly he walked over to the candles meant to remember the dead and lit a tall pillar for Ojciec.