“I hadn’t even thought about that.”
He clapped his hands. “I’ll move it! Why can’t it be on the left? But…” He trailed off. I could see the gears turning in his head. Now he spoke slowly, staring off into the distance. “Will you be able to steer well enough with your right hand so you can use your left to adjust the throttle?”
“I’m sure I can.”
He rubbed his chin, then grinned and met my gaze. “I’ll have it ready by Friday.”
* * *
When I walked into my apartment the telephone in my den was ringing. I hurried to answer it.
“Will, it’s Joe Curtiss. Don’t hang up on me.”
Joe was the head mechanic at the Detroit Electric garage. “Why would I hang up on you?”
“That’s a good question.” Joe and I hadn’t exactly been close since the first time I was accused of murder, but he sounded downright belligerent now.
“What do you want?”
“We need to meet—tonight.”
“Why? What’s so important?”
“Listen, my next call is going to be to Tony. You ain’t gonna duck me again.”
“Tony?”
“Don’t even try it, Will.”
“Tony Gianolla? Wait, you’re the Joe with the Teamsters?”
He blew out a deep breath. “I’m not with the Teamsters, but I’m sure that’s how the Gianollas would describe me. Nine o’clock at the Merrill Fountain. Don’t be late.” He hung up.
I sat at my desk and thought. Could this have something to do with Joe’s wife, Gina? She was Italian, but I didn’t think she was Sicilian. And what was Joe doing fronting for the Teamsters Union? Beyond the fact that he used to be one of my best friends, he was a mechanic, not a driver. The Teamsters were apparently branching out.
The wall clock showed ten minutes after eight. It couldn’t hurt to be early. I went back out and caught a streetcar to the corner of Woodward and Monroe. It was dusk, and the Detroit Opera House, directly across the street, was dark, so I waited in the shadows of the entrance and watched the fountain, a brilliant white archway lit by electric floodlights. Crowds of people passed in front of me on the sidewalk and crossed the street to the fountain and beyond.
At nine, it was fully dark. I lit a cigarette, strolled across the street, and took a seat on the marble railing, my back to the fountain. A few minutes later, Joe stepped out of the billiard parlor across the street and looked around for a moment before crossing to me and standing a few feet away. He was aging, though it could have just been the floodlights. His skin looked like parchment. Lit from below, he was a specter. His normally pink, open face was ghostly white, his thinning hair nearly invisible.
He jammed his fists into the pockets of his jacket and said, “Jesus, Anderson. I’m glad you showed.” His eyes darted back and forth. “You alone?”
I stood and held out my left hand. “Hello, Joe. Yes, I’m alone.”
He hesitated, then shook my hand awkwardly. “Let’s go inside.” He nodded toward the billiard parlor.
I followed him back across the street and inside. The room was narrow but deep, with half a dozen green-felt-topped billiard tables, a long bar, and small tables scattered about, everything hazy from a thick glaze of smoke. It was crowded with men from all social strata, from corduroy and denim work clothes to the finery of the city’s elite. The click of pool balls, the cursing of men, and the thunk of beer mugs onto tables filled the air.
Joe stopped at the bar for a couple of beers. He handed me a mug and led me past the tables to a booth in back. When he slid into the seat, his beer slopped onto the table. “I’m sorry you had to get involved in this, but listen, Will, I need your help. The Teamsters want in. They want everybody, but I can get them to take just the drivers and mechanics. You have to make it happen.”
I eyed the beer in front of me but didn’t drink. “How in the world do you expect me to do that?”
He took a gulp of beer and sat back in the hard wooden seat. “You better figure it out fast. You know they’re in the AFL?”
“Yeah.” I tried to concentrate, but I was distracted by the amber glow of the beer in front of me.
“Well, they’re going to call for a general strike. Shut the city down. They can do it too. But that’s the least of our troubles. You need to arrange a meeting between your father and Ethan Pinsky.” He gave me a piece of paper. “Here’s his number.”
“Who’s Pinsky?”
“A lawyer. He’s negotiatin’ for the union.”
I shook my head. “I don’t see how we’re going to get this done.”
“If you don’t, we’re gonna be in big trouble.”
“You too?”
His face hardened. “These guys aren’t messing around. If we don’t deliver…” He took a quick swallow of beer.
I pushed my mug aside. “Are they going to hurt you?”
“My family.” He bit his lip and looked down at the table.
“Is it the Teamsters? Or the Gianollas?”
He shook his head. “Tony Gianolla’s the one that threatened me.”
“Why are you their spokesman?”
“Because he said I was.”
“Does this have something to do with Gina?”
He nodded. “Her dad has been paying off the Gianollas for protection on his flower business. Somehow they connected me with him.”
I thought for a moment. “What’s your take on this, Joe? Do you want the Teamsters in?”
His head recoiled in surprise. “Hell no. I got no complaints. Your dad’s a fair man. But what I want’s got nothing to do with anything.” He shook his head. “I got kids, Will. We have to do this.”
I reached out and laid my good hand on his forearm. “Maybe there’s a way out, Joe.”
He grunted out a laugh. “You don’t know these guys.”
We talked for a few minutes, catching up in the awkward fashion of men thrown together after a long history ended by a disagreement—in this case, his belief I was a murderer.
Joe left, saying he needed to get home to say good night to his wife. I looked at the beer in front of me. The head had disappeared, now just a soapy-looking ring around the top of the mug. I picked it up and held it to the light. Half a dozen of these, and I would feel good. A dozen, and I wouldn’t feel anything.
I set down the mug and looked around the billiard hall. No one was watching. No one cared in the least if I drank. They were drinking. Most had been drinking heavily. It was what we did.
Once again, the burn clued me in that I was rubbing my hand. I stopped, took a deep breath, and slipped out of the booth.
Time for bed.
* * *
I went into the factory the next morning. Mr. Wilkinson directed me to a vacant office on the second floor of the administration building. I needed a strategy. With Edsel taking care of my efficiency project, I spent my time doodling on a piece of paper, trying to determine how to deal with the Gianollas.
My only lead on the Adamos was the boy who had taken the blackmail money. I was going to have to get him away from the other boys and make him talk. He was a tough little monkey and would be a challenge. But it might be the only way to take care of the Gianollas. Until I could eliminate them, I had to play out the charade. I picked up the telephone’s receiver and asked the operator for the number Joe had given me.
After several rings, a woman answered. “Good morning.” Her voice was brisk, her tone efficient.
“Yes, could I speak with Mr. Pinsky, please?”
“Mr. Pinsky is not available, sir.”
“Oh. This is Will Anderson. I was told to call this number.”
“Yes. Mr. Pinsky had been expecting your call earlier this week and was quite disappointed not to hear from you, as was his client. Unfortunately he has business that will keep him out of Detroit until Monday the twenty-third. He insisted he must meet with you and your father the day he returns.”
That was a week and a half away. Not cal
ling had bought me some time, at least.
She continued. “You will meet him at the Cadillac Hotel in the boardroom at one P.M. on June twenty-third. Do you understand?”
“Yes, but … I don’t know if my father will attend.”
“His presence is required. Good day.” She hung up.
This Pinsky must be a serious man, I thought. And not someone from the Gianollas’ social circle. I had expected to talk to a criminal lowlife and instead spoke with a woman who was clearly educated and intelligent. Fooling the Gianollas into believing I was working in their behalf was going to be difficult enough. But this Pinsky—could I fool him too? One more complication in an equation that already had too many variables.
Later that morning, Wilkinson pushed my door open. “Mr. Edison would like to say hello.”
“Really? I didn’t know he was here.”
Wilkinson beamed. “He and your father came to a very important agreement this morning.”
I arched my eyebrows and waited.
“I’ll let them tell you.”
I hurried down the stairs to my father’s office. Mr. Edison and a younger man sat in the uncomfortable chairs in front of my father’s desk. They both rose. I hadn’t seen Mr. Edison for more than three years, since my father and I had visited him at his factory in New Jersey. Though sixty-five years old, he was still in good physical condition and full of energy. His thin gray hair was carelessly pushed across his forehead, his light gray suit rumpled, and his blue striped tie askew, but I had never seen him completely put together—too busy for those kinds of details.
He smiled, and his bright blue eyes crinkled at the corners. “Will, so nice to see you.”
I crossed the room with my gloved right hand behind my back. When I reached him, I held out my left hand. After only a brief hesitation, he took it with his. His fingernails were long and rimmed with grease.
“Very nice to see you as well, sir,” I said.
“None of this ‘sir’ stuff, Will. You’re not a boy any longer.”
“Thank you … Mr. Edison.”
He introduced me to his secretary, a slight man with a clean-shaven face, pale skin, and small wire-rimmed glasses. We shook hands as well.
My father sat on the edge of his desk and grinned. “Tom’s finally agreed to sell that Waverly and get himself a real electric.”
“That’s good to hear,” I said.
“But, more important, we’ve extended our exclusive arrangement.”
Mr. Edison’s eyes twinkled. “This father of yours is an old Indian trader. Hoodwinked me right out of my profits.”
“Were that only true,” my father retorted. “We’re paying a premium, but we’ll continue to be the only company with the Edison nickel-steel battery.”
“And therefore the only electric with an average range of one-hundred-plus miles,” Mr. Edison said.
His secretary interrupted. “With the exception of Colonel Bailey, of course.”
Mr. Edison waved him off. “A personal commitment, Will, which your father is well aware of. Unlikely to be a hundred vehicles.”
My father nodded. “And Tom’s guaranteeing the batteries will hold their rated capacity for four years. We’re going to extend our battery warranty to five.”
“That’s wonderful,” I said. “The most expensive piece guaranteed to a hundred miles for five years—and exclusive?”
“Nearly exclusive,” Edison’s secretary fit in.
I clapped my father on the back. “Congratulations. Detroit Electric will continue to dominate the market.”
My father put a smile on his face, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “This will help.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
At two thirty I caught a streetcar to Winder Street and walked down to the Bishop Ungraded School. I figured the boys would be heading back toward Gratiot again, so I took a seat on a bench about 150 yards southwest of the school, which gave me a good view of the school yard and would keep me out of their path when they left.
A few minutes after I settled in, the school let out. The craps game commenced about thirty minutes later. Shortly after that, the newsboy traipsed around the corner and met up with the other boys. They gambled for the better part of an hour before the man came to collect the money. Again he shouted at the boy in the derby and shook him by the collar. This time he left without giving him anything.
I followed the boys along the same route they’d taken previously. By the time they neared Gratiot all but three had peeled off from the group—left were the blackmail boy, the newsboy, and the derby-wearing boy I believed to be their older brother. I thought my odds were as good as they were going to get. I hurried to catch up.
“Hey, boys, excuse me?” I called when I was only about twenty feet behind them.
They stopped and turned around slowly. The oldest one, a toothpick stuck in the corner of his mouth, looked at me and cocked a hip. “Help ya?” He hooked his thumbs into his trouser pockets. The top of the pockets sagged from the weight of his hands, and I saw the yellowed bone handle of a straight razor sticking up from the pocket on the right. The blackmail boy started when he saw me but recovered quickly. His face blanked, but he took half a step behind the leader. The newsboy just scowled at me.
“Yes.” I caught up to them. “I’m looking for someone, someone your brother knows, and perhaps you do too.”
“Who’s ’at?” the oldest boy said. He was a little thinner than the others and shorter for what I guessed his age to be, but he shared their thick black hair and a face that could have belonged to the same person at ten, twelve, and fifteen years of age.
“You guys help me, and I’ll give you five bucks.”
“I’m listenin’.”
“And nobody’s getting into any trouble.”
“Yeah?” he said.
“Ain’t worth it,” the blackmail boy spat from behind his brother. “Chicken feed.”
“Shuddap, Ray,” the oldest boy said. He nodded at me. “You’re Anderson, right?”
I was surprised he knew. “Yes.”
He appraised me for a moment. “Don’t look like a killer.”
“You don’t look like you’ve got five bucks,” I shot back. “But you could in a minute.”
“Who you looking for?”
“Vito Adamo.”
He laughed. “Five bucks to rat out the White Hand? I look like I was born yesterday?”
I hadn’t heard Adamo called that, but I didn’t want to slow down enough to ask. “What’s it going to take?”
“Why do you think we’d even know?”
“Your brother”—I gestured behind him—“as I’m sure you know, took blackmail money from me. I’m guessing that was arranged by Adamo, which means you know him.”
He chewed on the toothpick and said nothing. Finally he said, “If we could find him—if—it would cost you fifty bucks.”
It was my turn to laugh. “You’re joking, right?”
“Hey, you came up with a grand last year. And we work with the dagos. Can’t go pissing in our milk for free, can we?”
“I’ll give you ten,” I said.
“Forty.”
“Twenty.”
“Thirty.”
“Done.”
“And he never knows it was from us, right?” Joey said.
“Sure.”
“You got the money?”
“No, I’ll have to get it.”
“And we gotta figure out where he’s at,” he said. “Meet me behind the Bishop School Saturday mornin’ at ten.”
“All right.”
“Bring the money.”
“I will. But who am I working with?”
“Why do you care?”
“You know who I am. I’ve got to know who I’m doing business with.”
He gave me a dead-eyed stare that put a chill into me. Finally, he said, “Joey.”
“Joey what?”
“Bernstein.”
“And your brothers?”
He hooked a thumb toward the newsboy. “Izzy.” Izzy just looked at me.
“And you’ve met Ray,” Joey said. “Satisfied?”
“Yeah, thanks.”
They turned and strolled off down the sidewalk. When they reached Gratiot, Joey Bernstein looked back at me with a sly grin.
I was going to have to be very careful with these boys.
* * *
I was walking up the sidewalk to my building when I noticed a beautiful white touring car parked at the curb. I looked closer. It was a Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost. I’d never seen one before, other than in the trade magazines. It was long and stately, with a chrome grille and an engine compartment that seemed to go on forever. I closed my mouth so I wouldn’t drool on myself.
Now I noticed a driver sitting in the front. As I got closer, he turned and said something to another man in the backseat. I wrapped my hand around the butt of the pistol stuck in my belt. I wasn’t going to be taken by surprise again.
The man in back opened the door, climbed out, and began crossing the patch of lawn to intercept me. His hands were empty. I glanced from him to the driver. Neither looked to be a threat, but I kept my hand where it was. The man walking toward me wore a dark suit and derby, was perhaps thirty years old, and had a handsome, angular face—marred, I saw as he closed on me, by a large pair of buckteeth that strained against his upper lip. He was dark but didn’t look Italian. Jewish, perhaps?
“Mr. Anderson?”
“Why?”
He held out his right hand. “My name is Waldman.”
I kept my left hand on the gun and did nothing with my right. “And?”
He let his hand drop to his side. “Mr. Pinsky would like to meet with you for lunch tomorrow.” He had a strong accent—Russian, I thought.
“Oh.” This wasn’t good news. “He’s back in town?”
“Yes.”
“And what is your relationship with Pinsky?”
“I am Mr. Pinsky’s personal secretary.”
“Then who did I speak with on the phone?”
“Was it a woman?”
I nodded.
“That would have been another of his secretaries. Mr. Pinsky is a very busy man.”
Motor City Shakedown Page 12