Detroit Is Our Beat

by Loren D. Estleman

  “With him, maybe. I’m an artist.” Canal smoothed back his hair, thick as the Black Forest. He caught McReary looking at it and grinned; winked at him. The balding detective third-grade looked away. “He’ll wake up soon. Maybe he’ll be smarter for the experience.”

  “Spring him.” Zagreb pushed away from the wall. “Mac, stop primping and run down to the stand and pick us up some copies of Good Housekeeping.”

  “We taking up cooking?”

  “Babysitting.”

  * * *

  “He’s here,” McReary said, first thing inside the squad room door. “In the lobby.”

  “Who’s here, Omar Bradley?” Zagreb scratched his OK on an arrest sheet and spindled it atop a tall pile. They’d had a busy two weeks separating Polacks from hillbillies in beer gardens; security in the defense plants was tight, so their basic differences boiled over after the whistle. It was beneath the Racket Squad’s dignity, but it was either that or go back to spying on the Bund, and the weather was getting too nippy for beach detail.

  “Sinatra. And he brought armored support.”

  Minutes later, the elevator outside gushed to a pneumatic stop and the squad room door opened at the end of a long arm in a heavy-duty coat sleeve. The coat was as big as they came off the rack, but a king-size safety pin had been added to close it in front. The man was as big as Canal, with so much scar tissue on his face it looked like a bunch of balloons. No hat; a barber’s enamel basin wouldn’t have covered that head. He darted a pair of tiny, close-set eyes about the room and grunted.

  The man who came in past him was a third as wide and a head shorter, but taller than he looked in newsreels. His suit was sharply cut, with extra-wide lapels, and he wore a narrow-brimmed hat cocked just above his right eyebrow. A floppy polka-dot bow tie accentuated his slender neck. He stopped and looked around.

  “Holy moly, it looks like The Frame-Up. I thought you boys would’ve redecorated after the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre.”

  Canal said, “That’s Chicago. The Purple Gang ran Capone out of Detroit on his fat ass.”

  “Just kidding, Dumbo. Who runs this zoo?”

  “That’d be me,” Zagreb said, “and I caution you not to poke the elephant. We call him Canal. You’ll call him Sergeant. He’s in charge of the reptile house when I’m out. The gorilla is Officer Burke. I don’t know what kind of animal Detective McReary is, but he bites.”

  The big man in the tight coat gathered the balloons on his face into a smirk. “When’s the last time you shoveled out his cage?”

  McReary said, “We lost the shovel. Your face free?”

  They were squaring off when the thin man in the sharp suit spun and stamped his heel on the bodyguard’s instep. When he howled and bent to cradle his foot, the thin man seized his lapels and brought his face to within an inch of the big man’s. “You’re a guest here. Tell them you’re sorry.”

  A sagging lower lip twitched twice before anything came out past it. “I beg your pardon.”

  The thin man let go, shoving him away in the same motion. He produced a fold of bills, removed a gold clip initialed F.S., and stuffed them into the bodyguard’s handkerchief pocket. “You’re fired, Clyde. The first string just clocked in.”

  The big man went out, limping slightly. The thin man tugged down his coat and shot his cuffs. “Sorry for the scene, gents. A joke’s only a joke when you’re breaking the ice.”

  McReary coughed, interrupting a short awkward silence. Zagreb looked toward the door. In another moment he was alone with the thin man. He held out a pack of cigarettes. The other shook his head, indicating his throat. “Not before a concert.”

  The lieutenant took one and used his lighter. “Why Clyde? His name’s Laverne.”

  “I call everyone Clyde I don’t like.” The thin face smiled warily. “On the square, Laverne? No wonder he got so big.”

  “Is ‘Frankie’ okay? We don’t exactly dress for dinner here.”

  “I prefer Frank.”

  “Max.” They shook hands; Sinatra’s bony grip tried a little too hard. “Frank, next time you cast a play out of town, don’t hire locals. Laverne’s a palooka. He went into the tank so many times he grew gills. He’d’ve scrubbed the floor with your brains if you didn’t cross one of those big mitts with silver.”

  Sinatra flushed deeply. “Do the others know?”

  “Canal dropped two weeks’ pay on him in the Carnera fight.”

  “I wanted to make an impression.”

  “We don’t need impressing, Frank. You’re our assignment.”

  “Max, you ever been to Hoboken?”

  “I never even heard of the place till you came along.”

  “When you get in a jam on the street, the only way to duck a beating is to pick the biggest, ugliest cretin in the crowd and hit him hard as you can; the rest will leave you alone. Well, I was the runt of the litter. Paying him to take a fall was cheaper than dental work.”

  “They didn’t always pull their punches. That’s quite a scar.”

  Sinatra traced it with a finger, a long vertical crease down his left cheek. “Doctor’s forceps. He didn’t stand on ceremony when he delivered me. I was born dead, you know.”

  Zagreb searched the narrow face for humor, found none. “I didn’t, but I’d like to.”

  “I’ll make you a deal. You square me with the rest of the squad, and I’ll tell you the whole story.”

  * * *

  Zagreb let Sinatra tell them about the streets of Hoboken. Burke sneered, but Canal appreciated the idea.

  “Stomping a tame pug so you don’t get stomped yourself makes plenty of sense to me. It beats starting a fight in a saloon so we don’t have to bust up a riot later, which is what we do all the time. Next Saturday, let’s draw from petty cash and pay some Four-F slacker to take the fall.”

  Zagreb said, “Have another snort, Sergeant. You haven’t spilled all our trade secrets yet.”

  Sinatra said, “Not on my account. I just look wet behind the ears. Things aren’t any different where I’m from.”

  They’d left 1300, with ears built in every wall, for the relative privacy of the Lafayette Bar, whose noisy program of Greek music and dancing didn’t start until after dark. Zagreb had a beer, Burke and Canal bourbon; McReary, a teetotaler, sipped Coke through a straw. When Sinatra asked for Four Roses, Canal said, “It’s on us, Caruso. You don’t have to drink piss just ’cause it’s cheap.”

  “I’m not much for booze. It’s all the same to me.”

  “Well, I can’t stand looking at a dog dragging a busted leg or a grown man drinking Four Roses. Jack on the rocks,” he called to the bartender.

  McReary, who wanted to be sergeant someday, got back to business. “Tell us about these threatening calls.”

  “I wish my manager never found out about ’em. He wouldn’t have if my wife hadn’t answered one and got upset. There’s a heckler in every audience; usually it’s some bum whose girl thinks I sing pretty.”

  Burke said, “That’s what I said.”

  “How many calls there been?” Zagreb asked.

  “Two at home. One in Atlantic City, another up in the Catskills, couple in Philly. He must collect phone books.”

  “Determined-sounding bum,” Zagreb said. “Recognize the voice?”

  “If I did, we wouldn’t be talking. I’ve got friends in low places. It sounded whispery, but I don’t think he was trying to disguise it. Maybe someone hit him in the throat once and that’s where he got the idea.”

  “Any accent?”

  Sinatra gave the lieutenant a bitter, tight-lipped smile. “You mean was he a wop?”

  “Not all of you have the gift of music.”

  “Some of us are barbers.”

  “I’m a hunky, pal. Mac and Burke are micks, and I don’t know what Canal is.”

  “Ukrainian,” Canal said.

  “Who gives a shit but the Cossacks? The point is there’s none of us here won’t take the gas pipe if Hitler lands in N
ew York, so get the chip off your shoulder and help us out. You’re the one snipping hair if we screw up.”

  Sinatra looked genuinely contrite. “Sorry, Lieutenant. I swing from top-of-the-world to rock-bottom blue faster than Jessie Owens runs the track. It’s a medical condition, according to the shrinks.”

  Canal said, “Everybody’s got something. I got corns the size of bowling balls, but you don’t see me taking it out on folks.”

  McReary changed the subject. “What’s this guy say when he calls?”

  “‘Gimme five G’s or I’ll take out the Voice with a lead pipe.’ ‘The Voice,’ that’s what the publicity flacks call me.”

  “A poet,” Zagreb said. “He say where to send the dough?”

  “I hang up first.” The singer sipped from his glass. “Say, this stuff’s not bad.”

  Canal grunted. “World’s full of good hooch. Life’s short.”

  Zagreb said, “Next time don’t hang up. If we nab him at the drop, we won’t have to pick him out of a crowd.”

  “Like we wouldn’t spot a guy in a skirt-and-sweater set with a bow on his head,” said Burke.

  “If it was that easy, I’d nab him myself.”

  But Burke wasn’t through. “No, you wouldn’t. He wouldn’t stand still and let you step on his foot.”

  “Clyde, you’re getting on my nerves.”

  “How come you ain’t in uniform, by the bye? Too puny?”

  “Punctured eardrum. What’s your excuse?”

  “Essential service,” Zagreb put in, before the officer could rise to the occasion. “Isn’t a singer with a bum ear like a dancer with a wooden leg?”

  “If I’m twice as good as what I hear, I’ll go all the way.”

  “Jee-sus.” Burke sat back. “This guy’s got more gas than a Mexican restaurant.”

  The lieutenant studied Frank Sinatra, a blue-eyed, cocky-looking youngster with his hat on the back of his head and famous tousle of hair falling over his forehead. He thought he might like him more if he liked himself less. “Can you lay hands on five grand?”

  “I could have my manager wire it to me, but why should I pay this creep?”

  Zagreb asked if he’d ever heard of a guy named Joe E. Lewis.

  “Comic. He opened for me in the Catskills. He’s got a voice like a cement mixer, but it’s not the one I hear on the phone, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “It isn’t. Lewis was a singer on his way up when he got on the wrong side of some thugs in Chicago. They cut his throat just for fun and now he tells jokes for a living. You’re not that funny.”

  * * *

  Sinatra was registered at the Book-Cadillac Hotel. Zagreb went up with him to his suite and stationed Canal in the hallway and Burke in the lobby. McReary got the switchboard. The supervising operator, a gum chewer with rhinestone glasses, liked his looks enough not to give him any trouble about listening in on calls placed to the suite. They had four hours until the curtain went up at the Fisher.

  The call came in with thirty minutes to spare. McReary threw in his hand of canasta, motioned for the earphones, and held one up to the side of his head. He didn’t want to take off his hat and disappoint the girl.

  “Hello?”

  “Frankie! How’s the Voice?” It was a harsh whisper. The detective had to press the receiver hard to his ear to make out the words. “We can deal or you can pound rivets at Lockheed.”

  “I don’t think I’d be good at it.” Sinatra sounded tense.

  “Got the cash?”

  “I got it. Where you want to meet?”

  “Knew you’d come around. See you after the show.”

  “You’re in Detroit?”

  There was a click and a dial tone. McReary held on. Zagreb came on the line. “Make him?”

  “Nah, he doesn’t sound like any of our squeezeboxes.”

  “Well, it was a long shot. Meet us at the car.”

  * * *

  The singer wedged himself between Canal and McReary in the back of the Chrysler. He had a light topcoat on over a white dinner jacket and another of his floppy bow ties. “I still don’t see why you had me get the money. It doesn’t inspire confidence.”

  “Money can speed things up,” Zagreb said. “It can also slow ’em down. Maybe long enough to put one of us between you and a hunk of plumbing.”

  McReary said, “That’s me. I don’t draw as much water as the rest of these guys.”

  The girls were lined up all the way down Grand Boulevard to the corner, dressed nearly identically in letter sweaters, A-line skirts, saddle shoes, and bobby sox; the mounted patrol was out to keep them from storming the theater. Sinatra slid down in the seat and tipped his hat over his eyes to avoid being swamped.

  “I heard your people pay them to scream and faint,” Burke said.

  “Maybe they did in the beginning, but nobody’s got pockets this deep.”

  “Six-to-one says Boris Karloff’s got the record.”

  Canal said, “No sign of Orr.”

  Zagreb said, “He’ll be inside already, with the guys he pays to carry his guns. I’d be tempted to take a potshot at him myself if he stood out on the street.”

  Sinatra asked who Orr was.

  “He’s in the way of being you,” said the lieutenant. “If Tommy guns was trumpets and the fans didn’t get back up after they fell.”

  “Oh. Those guys. I been around ’em my whole life.”

  They turned the corner and found out that the line did as well. Now there were men in army and marine uniforms, and a bus unloading naval cadets from the University of Michigan, some holding passes. Part of the proceeds had been pledged to the armed services. Sinatra sat up and straightened his hat.

  “See, there are more ways to win a war than just with a rifle.”

  McReary, the least conspicuous of the Four Horsemen, accompanied Sinatra through the stage door. Burke parked in a loading zone and the three went inside and fanned out. Minutes after the doors opened to the public, every seat in the theater was filled, but it didn’t stay that way long.

  When the orchestra played and Sinatra bounded onstage, the girls leapt to their feet and the men in the audience were forced to do the same, to see over their heads. Jitterbugs made their complicated maneuvers in the aisles until they got too crowded to do more than jump up and down and squeal. Only the group of men in silk suits and their female escorts in the front row kept their seats. Frankie Orr’s sleek head showed in Zagreb’s binoculars in the middle, next to a stack of blonde hair that was not his wife’s.

  Sinatra didn’t hold back. He opened with “All or Nothing at All,” slid seamlessly into “I’ll Never Smile Again”—McReary’s favorite—and a lively, finger-snapping rendition of “That’s Sabotage,” a novelty hit with a wartime theme, while the girls screamed “Frankie!” over and over, each hoping to catch his eye and pretending it was her waist he was holding and not the microphone on its stand. He grasped it in both hands and tilted it, made love to it.

  Zagreb was impressed—not enough to throw over Bing Crosby, but it was clear the singer took that chip off his shoulder and left it backstage when he performed. Long before he got to “I’ll Be Seeing You” (wasn’t that where he said he was going?”), he proved he was born for the spotlight.

  The lieutenant noted all this on the edge of awareness. It was the man he was concentrating on, not the entertainer. Just in case the would-be attacker had changed his choice of weapons, Zagreb scanned the manic figures on the floor for suspicious bulges and arm movements; matters of instinct, easier to see than guns. He knew Burke and Canal were doing the same in their respective quarters, and McReary in his, back there among the chalk marks and dust. They’d divvied up the place the same way FDR, Churchill, and Stalin had each claimed his part of the war.

  In that moment, he felt a surge of premature nostalgia. Did the rest of the Horsemen realize these were the best times of their lives? Come hell or high water, nothing that came after could ever measure up to this
complete sense of confidence in partnership; the absolute faith that every man would play his role to perfection. Someday, fat, tired, and disappointed by life, they might attend a reunion, and share memories of experiences they’d failed to appreciate in the moment, laughing at circumstances that had scared them shitless, then stagger home to the patient wife and uncomprehending kids: What did you bring me, Daddy? Just your future, you little bastards. He supposed it would be the same for the men serving in foxholes and cockpits and the holds of ships, so they weren’t alone. But it made a man feel old beyond his years.

  At length the concert ended, and with it the reveries. Sinatra, as prearranged, tugged loose his bow tie and cast it out into the audience, where a hundred pairs of hands snatched at it and tore it to pieces for souvenirs.

  (Canal: “You do that every place you play? How rich are you, anyway?”

  (Sinatra: “It doesn’t cost much. My wife makes ’em.”

  (McReary: “That’s the kind of wife I hope to land.”)

  This time, the tie gag served as a signal, alerting the squad to join the singer backstage and form a flying wedge around him toward the exit.

  A sea of hysterical fans filled the narrow corridor leading to the stage door. Pens and autograph pads came at the moving party from all sides, but Burke and Canal deflected them with their forearms and McReary and Zagreb kept a death grip on Sinatra’s biceps, propelling him forward.

  “C’mon, fellas. Let me sign a couple.”

  In response, they heaved upward, lifting the singer’s patent-leather heels off the floor, carrying him now. He was heavier than he looked.

  “Should’ve allowed for his swoll head,” gritted Burke.

  A group of sailors in white stood smoking near the door. Grins broke out when they recognized the man being swept their way; they’d been training hard, and he’d put on a swell show. They called him Frankie and asked him when he was coming to Pearl.