Sugar House (9780991192519)

by Scheffler, Jean

  Charlie picked himself off the ground and pulled his gun on Alexy. He looked at Joe holding Marya. "You know this dame?" he asked, trying to put it all together, never taking his gun off of Joe's uncle.

  "Marya's my cousin, and this is her father," Joe replied, nodding at his Uncle Alexy.

  "Let him go, boys," Charlie said to his thugs. He lowered his weapon. "It's just a flesh wound, Joey. She'll be all right. She's just in shock." Alexy walked over to Joe, who transferred Marya to her father's arms. A weeping Aunt Hattie opened the door for him, and he carried her inside.

  "Thanks for not leaving her on the street, Charlie," Joe said.

  "Sure. I didn't know she was your cousin, Joey. If I had I would've…"

  "You couldn't have known, Charlie, Sorry about your mouth. I think my Uncle thought she was dead when I pulled her out of the car."

  Charlie wiped some blood from the corner of his mouth with his handkerchief. "Understandable. Well, I'll see you later. Glad your cousin's gonna be all right." Charlie's driver opened the car door and he got in. Joe sat down on the steps as the long sedan drove slowly away. He looked down at his white shirt covered with blood. Cappie, he thought. A large tear raced down his cheek.

  Chapter Thirty Eight

  Cappie's funeral was attended by only a dozen men, on a hot August morning on Grosse Ile. Joe insisted that he be buried on the island he loved.

  Joe's thoughts drifted to when he first met Cappie—Vic Starboli—on the Columbia, when Vic had pointed out the sights along the river to a young Joe. He remembered Vic's wistful look as he gazed at the mansions on the island. "The good life must be really good" he had said.

  Charlie Leiter paid for a nice plot beneath a willow tree near the river. Joe had located Cappie's father and driven him to the cemetery behind the hearse.

  Four dark cars pulled into the graveyard, each carrying an enormous wreath of flowers on the roof to place on Cappie's grave. A timid minister gave a short eulogy at the graveside, and Cappie's father threw in the first handful of dirt on his casket. The old man seemed unsure of himself, and Joe grabbed his arm to steady him as he leaned over the grave. Joe threw a clump of earth, crossed himself, and said a prayer asking for God to forgive Cappie for any sins he committed and allow him into heaven.

  Cappie's mother had died years before, and he had no siblings. So Joe went with Cappie's father to the lawyer's office for the reading of the will. The will consisted of a sheet of paper Cappie had ripped out of the back of a book. He deeded all his investments and monies to his father; to Joe, he left his most prized possession, his boat. Cappie's father didn't understand the stock market. He had Joe help him sell all of Cappie's carefully planned investments and put all the money in a safe under his bed. Joe tried to talk the old man out of it but he insisted.

  The stock market had been Joe and Cappie's hobby and they had been putting almost half their paychecks into it and watching their money grow. Every stock they'd invested in and had doubled or better, and they were sitting on a huge pile of money. Joe smiled every time he picked up the paper and read how his shares were increasing. It seemed as if there was no end to the amount of money he could make in the market. Joe shook his head as he pulled up the floorboards under the old man's bed and put the money in a safe underneath. Fifty thousand dollars should at least be in the bank, Joe advised, but the old man refused.

  Later that week, Joe took Cappie's boat out of the boathouse and took it south toward Grosse Ile. He knew where he was headed, but he idled slowly, allowing memories of his good friend to sweep over him. He chuckled at the pranks they had played on each other at the Wyandotte house—black paint on the rim of a coffee cup, salt in the sugar bowl, siphoning the gas out of one another's boats. Joe smiled thinking of the stories Cappie would tell, dreams they would share before falling asleep after running whisky down the river all night. Joe held his right wrist, remembering how Cappie had wrapped his sprained joint the time he'd fallen out of a tree trying to catch a glimpse of two girls swimming in the river.

  As he neared his destination, tears poured down his cheeks as he envisioned Cappie's wide shoulders jumping in front of Marya in a hail of bullets, pulling her down and covering her with his body. Joe wiped the tears back and pulled into the canal. He cut the engine and there was only silence. No tweeting birds or croaking frogs to break the hot stillness could be heard near the little cottage where he'd spent his first night away from home. He pulled to the dock and tied up the boat. He picked up a rough wooden sign he'd carved after the funeral. Joe grabbed a hammer and nails and jumped out of the boat. When he reached the run-down cottage, he placed the sign above the door and hammered it into the worn siding. Joe had bought the unused property from Charlie and was going to keep it as a fishing camp in remembrance of his best friend. The sign read Cappie's Place.

  A month after Cappie's funeral, Joe walked into the Sugar House looking for Charlie. Abe greeted him as he walked into the office, and Harry tipped his hat and fell back asleep in the corner of the room.

  "Charlie's had to blow town for a while, Joey O. And Shorr, well nobody's seen him in a few days. I'm running things for now. What can I do for you?" Abe looked up from the newspaper he'd been reading. "Stock Market Dips but No Need for Worry" read the headline.

  "I was thinking about taking some time off," Joe told the lanky gangster. Joe had decided he'd had enough of the rum running business. Cappie's death had cut him to the core. He wanted to get out while he still could. His nest egg could provide him with a cushion until he decided what he wanted to do next.

  "Oh yeah? How much time we talking?" Abe put the paper down on the desk in front of him.

  "A few months. I've been working for the Sugar House for over ten years now, and I was thinking it might be a good time to take a break. What with Cappie…" Joe let his words fall short.

  Abe sat up in his chair and scowled at Joe. "You was thinking. You was thinking, was ya? Was ya also thinking how we got about ten guys in the clink and at least that many at the bottom of the river? Was ya thinking how Shorr is missing—maybe kidnapped? Was ya thinking we still got an operation to run here? Was ya thinking that, Joey O?"

  Joe took a step back, startled at Abe's sudden hostility. Harry looked up from under his hat and looked at Abe and then back at Joe. "There's lotsa guys who'd take my place, Abe. Hundreds that'd love to make some good dough. You don't need me that bad." Joe sat down uncertainly in a chair in front of the desk.

  "You're right, Joey. There's lotsa guys who'd kill to make the kind of dough you've been hauling in. I was just saying to Harry that your little brother Frank would probably make a good runner for us. Wasn't I, Harry? He's older than you was when you started here, isn't he, Joey?" Abe bared his teeth in an evil smile. "What's he—seventeen, eighteen years old now?"

  "Never mind, Abe. Leave Frank out of this. I don't need a break. It was just an idea. Where you want me to go today?"

  ***

  1930

  Joe continued his collection route but focused his mind on ways to get out from under the Purples that wouldn't affect his family. The stock market had crashed three weeks later. Most of Joe's money had been tied up in stocks, and he lost it all. He threw his plans to leave the Sugar House aside and refocused on trying to earn as much money as he could. The politicians were arguing against Prohibition, and the public supported them. Women's groups had joined the anti-temperance movement, crying that immorality, vice, and loss of faith in the law had been caused by the Volstead Act and that the Eighteenth Amendment should be repealed. This time, Joe could see the writing on the wall.

  Violence in the city was escalating. The newspapers ran stories of suicides, floating bodies in the river, and men gunned down in front of their homes daily. The public had not protested the gang wars when they'd only been killing each other, but citizens were getting caught in the crossfire, and the taxpayers wanted some action from their corrupt police department. A small girl aboard the Columbia on her way to Boblo was g
razed by a bullet when Federal agents chasing a bootlegger opened fire. The Federal agents increased their raids on illegal drinking establishments, but they didn't have the power to shut down the almost twenty-five thousand that operated in the city alone.

  Following Black Tuesday, tens of thousands of people lost their jobs, and many more went to work but didn't get paid. Henry Ford cut production and laid people off. Masses of people left for the countryside, hoping to revert to their agricultural roots, while more poured into the city looking for work. The Capuchin priests of Detroit set up a temporary soup kitchen to feed the hungry.

  Joe's job had become extremely difficult, as no amount of toys, groceries, charm, or booze could squeeze money out of empty pocketbooks. He'd resorted to lighting firecrackers or small pieces of dynamite behind still owners' houses or under their bedroom windows and blowing them up in the middle of the night to scare the owner to death. The following morning he'd arrive early, while the unlucky bootlegger was still shaken up, and request the Purples' percentage. Fortunately, his only victims were men, as there were so many women cooking gin in their bathtubs now the Purples had decided to look the other way out of fear of bad publicity.

  The only thing Joe didn't spend his time worrying about was Marya. Frightened out of her mind and thinking it was God's intervention that she hadn't died in front of that speakeasy, she had joined the Felician Sisters two weeks after the incident. Joe wasn't sure it would last, but with his cousin locked up in a convent somewhere it was one less thing. He'd broke up with Adelaide soon after, too. He thought it was better to let her go than to have her wind up in the crosshairs of his profession.

  Chapter Thirty Nine

  1931

  Joe took a drink of his beer and looked around the Bucket of Blood, a Purple Gang bar deep in the middle of one of the city's poorest neighborhoods. Abe had told Joe to meet his brother Ray at the grimy bar at nine o'clock. Two hours later he was still waiting. In that time he'd seen two fistfights, one knife pulled—countered with a broken bottle—and at least five prostitutes leave with a "date." Red-eyed patrons smoked marijuana and passed around joints (the only legal thing going on in the entire place). Joe kept his mouth shut and sipped his beer, trying to decide how much longer he was going to wait for Ray.

  Ray sauntered in twenty minutes later, bought two shots of whisky, and brought them over to Joe's table. "How's it go, Joey O?" he said, laughing at his own joke.

  "It'd be better if you'd gotten here two hours ago like you was supposed to."

  "Boy, you are wound tight! Abe told me so, but I said nobody who brings in as much dough as you do could be. Am I wrong?" Ray slicked back his hair and looked at Joe; his large dark eyes looked like he hadn't slept in days.

  "No, you aint wrong, Ray. So what's the beef?"

  "No beef, Joe. Just a little problem we need some help with. Abe thought you'd be just the guy." Ray slugged down his shot and looked at Joe. Joe made a cheers gesture and poured it down his throat.

  "Can I get you a beer, Ray?" Joe signaled to the bartender, who brought two frothy mugs to the table. "So what's the scat?"

  "There's three guys from Chi-town that have been edging in on our territory. They were working for us at first and giving us a nice kickback too, but they've decided they're too good for that now. They want to go out on their own. They've muscled in on our deal with the River Gang and are selling them the liquor they hijacked from us. Last month they tried shaking down a couple of our gambling rackets, and they owe us more than fifteen G's in back liquor money. Abe's had it. He wants the money now. So he set up a meeting with the three hoods tomorrow at some apartment. They say they got the dough, and all we gotta do is go and get it."

  "So what do you need me for?" Joe asked. He looked toward the bar, where yet another fistfight had begun. The bartender grabbed one guy by the neck and pulled out his gun on the other. "Take it outside" was all he said, and the two brawlers left.

  "Ain't nobody home in that head of yours, Joe? That's a lot of dough to be pulling out of an apartment in broad daylight. And you never know what the palookas might try. We need manpower in case there's a showdown. I got Harry and Milberg coming, and with you that makes four, see? We'll outnumber them by one. But not more than that, so they don't get too itchy."

  "What time you want me to meet you?" Joe knew better than to fight it. Might as well go along and try to keep his head low.

  "Pick us up at the Sugar House at six o'clock tomorrow night. Ya want another beer?" Ray looked at Joe's empty mug.

  "Sure," he replied. If he looked like he was in a hurry to leave, Ray would only prolong the meeting. They sat and drank for another hour. Joe listened to Ray's female exploits and made up some of his own for Ray's amusement. Joe left the bar after midnight and drove home. Joe cracked the window of his car and let in some fresh air. Joe's eyes burned from the dope and cigars, and he coughed a few times trying to air out his lung. He looked out at the streets as he drove through the city. Millions of flashing electric lights marred his vision as he passed club after bar after tavern. A cop car sped past him, and he had to swerve to avoid a drunk crossing the street.

  A pile of furniture was heaped in the alley two doors down from his house. Another eviction. The landlords were throwing tenants out of their homes at a record rate. It'd been a year and half since Black Tuesday. Things were getting bad. Shoeless children were wandering the streets, and women holding babies begged on the corners.

  Uncle Alexy had been laid off from the Ford plant and couldn't find a job. Joe had saved a bit since the crash and was helping them make do, but Pauline had to leave college and find work. Joe had found her a job at a bottle factory; he didn't mention that the Purples bought all their bottles from there. The gang continued to increase their profit margins by cutting whisky with dangerous dilutants in cutting warehouses all over the city.

  Joe fell into an uneasy sleep that night, wishing Abe would just leave him his regular work and wishing Charlie would return from wherever the hell he'd gone. He didn't think of Shorr, who he was sure was at the bottom of the river. If he believed the rumors, it had been by Charlie's own hand.

  Ray was sitting in the passenger seat next to Joe, and Milberg and Harry were in the back. Joe was driving slowly through the city, fighting the traffic and pedestrians. He drove west on Woodward to the outskirts of the city. Ray told him to turn south on Atkinson Street. Harry was retelling a counterfeiting story that had been in the paper that afternoon. A little girl had walked to the local market and tried to pay for some candy with a quarter. The grocery store clerk looked the quarter over and stated it looked a little funny to him. Ray jumped in saying, "Hey I read that! The little girl says, 'It should be fine. My daddy just cooked it!'" The dark eyed gangster burst into guffaws and Joe turned to look at him. Joe looked past Ray out the car window and saw a house he remembered seeing as a child. It was Ty Cobb's house. Memories of the baseball game he'd gone to with his father came rushing back.

  "Hey Joey! Where you going?" Harry yelled from the back. "You gotta turn right here. Damn, Ray! What'd ya have the Polack drive for?" Joe took a sharp right and turned west onto Lawton Street.

  "All right, settle down boys. Now listen, Joey O. We're all gonna go up to the apartment together and have a little sit down. I brought some cigars, and we'll light up and make nice. Right before I ask for the dough, I'll ask Joey where Beilman is with the books, see?" Beilman was the Purples' bookkeeper. Ray turned to Joe and continued. "You go down to the car and look around for any wise guys or coppers. If you don't see none, race the engine till it backfires, and lay on the horn. We'll grab the dough and split before they get a chance to change their minds. Like taking candy from a baby." Ray laughed and Harry and Milberg joined in.

  "Why do you have to take the dough?" Joe asked. "I thought we were meeting because they want to pay up."

  "Geez, Joey. Don't you know nothing? What if it's a setup, or what if they change their minds? Damn. Anything can happen. We's just
taking precautions is all."

  "Yeah, precautions," Harry said. He laughed again. Joe turned right onto Collingwood Avenue and parked across the street from the apartment complex. Something didn't feel right about this, but he couldn't put his finger on it. A woman in a worn dress walked out the front door of the building, set down an empty milk bottle on the steps, and went back inside. Joe stared at the building, looking for signs of trouble.

  "Come on boys, time's a-wasting," Ray said, as he climbed out of the car. The foursome crossed the street in unison, stopping only for a passing car. Harry opened the glass door and held it for the other three. They walked up a filthy stairwell and opened the door to the second floor. The men were silent as they walked down the long hallway. A radio show was blaring behind one of the doors, and the smell of curry and onion reeked out of another. When they reached the end of the hall, Ray knocked on the door of apartment 211. Joe heard a set of footsteps coming to answer Ray's knock. An open can of green paint sat on the floor next to the door.

  "Hey, Ray, how ya doing?" said the man who opened the door. "Brought the boys with ya? Well, come on in."

  Joe followed the men into the dingy apartment and had a seat on an ugly velour couch. An oriental rug lay on the floor, adding the only splash of color to the drab room. All the men took a seat and Ray began.

  "So you boys been keeping outta trouble?" Ray, seated in a small wooden chair, smiled and crossed his legs.