I stood. “Good evening, Mrs. Hume. How are you today?”
She smiled, and her face lit up. “I’m fine, thank you. It’s nice to see you, Will. My gosh, how long has it been?”
I thought about it. “Nearly a year and a half.”
“You look good. How’s your hand?”
“It’s fine, thank you.”
“You should come by more often, Will. We’ve been back since last July, and this is the first time I see you?”
“Yes, sorry. I’ve been awfully busy.”
“Oh. Right. Sorry.” Her face turned gray. “I forgot. I’m glad you’re back with us.”
“Me too,” I said.
“Will and I were just saying good night, Mother. I’ll be up in a moment.” Elizabeth smiled as her mother walked away. “Unbelievable. She’s even happy to see you. That settles it. We’re not going anywhere.” I could see in her eyes that she’d come to some sort of decision. “You’d better involve me in your planning.” She gave me a grim smile. “You and I are going to be partners.”
* * *
The next morning, I woke with the oddest thought—Mrs. Hume said they had been back since July. If she was right, Elizabeth was in town when Moretti was murdered. It would also mean Elizabeth lied to me, about a subject that should have made little difference to either of us. Why would I care that they got back a month earlier than she claimed they did? If I could rely on her mother’s memory, Elizabeth was hiding something. And I was afraid I knew what that something was.
I certainly wasn’t going to try to prove to Adamo that Elizabeth killed Moretti. That put me at an apparent dead end with the Adamo gang. But … Elizabeth a killer? Yes, she had changed, but I couldn’t imagine she’d changed that much. Still, it was just enough of a possibility that I couldn’t speak about this with the police or anyone affiliated with Vito Adamo. I had to protect her. This series of events started with my stupidity, and I owed her my life.
But could she be serious that we’d be partners? She seemed it last night. I hoped the dawning of another day had helped her to see what a ridiculous idea that was. I was all for women’s suffrage—from my experience, women on the whole were less stupid than men—but when it came to putting a woman in danger, particularly Elizabeth, I had a much less progressive view. Should she continue to try to be involved, I would have to put my foot down.
After two cups of coffee, I went out to the corner of Woodward and Peterboro, looking for Izzy Bernstein. He stood on the corner, bawling out the headlines—Roosevelt may run as an independent, U.S. Marines land in Cuba, eight-hour workday vote in Congress today. It was a Monday-morning blur. Pedestrians hurried across the streets, men and women packed onto streetcars, horns honked, and those with vehicles or horses fought through the overwhelming traffic. Izzy stood there with his bag of papers, an island of hostility.
I walked up behind him. “Hey.”
He turned around, a paper in his hand. His right eye was puffy, the skin around it bruised a mottled blue.
“What happened to you?”
He gave me a disgusted look and turned his back on me. “Marines in Cuba! Read it!”
“Izzy, what happened to you?”
He looked back at me and spat, “I told ya Abe wanted the fuckin’ money.”
“He hit you?”
“Yeah, he hit me. Whattaya think?”
“Shit. Sorry. I’ve got the money.”
“Hang on to it. Abe’s gonna collect.”
I took the envelope out of my pocket. “Here. You give it to him.”
He snorted out a laugh. “Nah, he wants to talk to ya.”
“All right. I guess he knows where to find me.”
“He’ll find ya. Hit the bricks.” He turned around and shouted, “Roosevelt running again! Read it!”
“I’m really sorry, Izzy,” I said. “I know it was my fault.” He ignored me. Shaking my head, I queued up for a southbound streetcar. Abe beat Izzy because of me. I had thought I was being clever holding back half the money, but the Bernstein brothers were growing up in a very different environment than I had. I should have known there would be consequences for Izzy not bringing all the money back. Still, I’d speak to Abe about it.
I was finally able to push my way on board a streetcar. I stuck my nickel in the box and grabbed hold of a railing. The car started up, heading for downtown. I jumped off by the Detroit Electric garage. When I walked in under the red iron archway, I saw Joe Curtiss standing with Mr. Billings, the day manager, next to a maroon Detroit Electric brougham. The fresh air scent of ozone hit me the second I stepped inside. The walls were lined with gleaming Detroit Electrics in blue, green, and maroon, along with a variety of special order colors like midnight black, canary yellow, and fire engine red. The garage buzzed with the sound of stored electricity.
Mr. Billings handed Joe a clipboard, clapped him on the back, and walked toward the office. I caught Joe’s eye. He glanced around nervously before nodding toward the back of the garage and strolling in that direction. I followed him.
He stopped at the base of the stairway that led to the second floor and looked around again. “Did you talk to Pinsky?”
I nodded.
“And?”
Joe didn’t need to know. “Well,” I said, “it’s a delicate issue. I’ve brought it up with my father, and I think I can get him to meet with Pinsky.” I shrugged. “You know how tough this is going to be. It’s going to take time.”
“I don’t know how much time we’ve got.” Joe tugged at his collar.
I couldn’t meet his eyes. “I’m working on it, Joe. I’m doing the best I can.”
“Yeah,” he said. “All right. I guess that’s all you can do.”
“Is there somewhere your family could go until this is over? Relatives, perhaps?”
“I don’t know.…”
“Figure out somewhere for your family to stay. What about a hotel? I’ll pay for it. Have them register under another name. They could even get out of town if you want.”
“Yeah?”
“Sure.”
“Well…” Joe toed the floor in front of him. “I’ll talk to Gina. See what she wants to do.”
“Okay. Just let me know.”
“All right.” I turned to walk to the front, but Joe caught my arm. “Will?”
I stopped and looked at him.
“Thanks. I know this isn’t your fault, and it shouldn’t be your problem. But thanks.”
I thought back to Wesley, his selflessness. “What are friends for, Joe? If I can help, I will.”
We said our good-byes, and he climbed the stairs while I headed toward the front of the garage. My Torpedo sat between a pair of brewster green extension broughams. Since I hadn’t done it before, I pulled the tool kit from the trunk and began inspecting the car. I had no doubt that Edsel had kept it in tip-top condition, but I needed to go through the pre-start routine at least once a week anyway, and I had the time to do it now. I examined the carburetor, inspected the ignition, lubricated the dynamo, pump, and fan, tightened the chains and belts, and finally checked the water and oil. These internal combustion motorcars were certainly complicated, but everything was perfect.
I climbed into the driving seat, set the spark and throttle, and hopped down again. The engine started on the first crank. I pulled my goggles over my eyes and set my touring cap at a jaunty angle before rolling the automobile out of the garage at a snail’s pace. Once I was clear, I tore up Woodward toward the factory, obliterating the ten-mile-an-hour city speed limit. The engine roared as I weaved between cars, wagons, carriages, and bicycles, stopping only for the streetcars. The wind blew back my hair and buffeted my cheeks, and I felt an exhilaration I hadn’t experienced in a long time. I could see why men preferred gasoline cars—especially fast ones.
When I arrived at the factory, Mr. Wilkinson told me he had set an appointment at two o’clock for my father and me with James Finnegan from the EAD. Prior to that, we’d be having lunch with a
few of my father’s counterparts in the business. My father was busy all morning, so to keep myself occupied, I wrote down some of Edsel’s ideas about efficiency.
At noon I drove my father to the Pontchartrain Hotel, the de facto meeting place for automobile men in Detroit. On the way, I told him about Joe Curtiss.
“They’re after Joe too?” he exclaimed. “Lord.”
I parked at the curb just down from the hotel. While walking through the dining room, my father greeted a number of men I didn’t know—all newer members of the automotive community. We stopped at a table where three men were already seated—Joe Hudson, of both J. L. Hudson Department Store and Hudson Motors; Ransom E. Olds, formerly of Olds Motor Works, now running the REO Motor Car Company; and Bill Durant, who, after being squeezed out of General Motors by bankers, had formed the Chevrolet Motor Company with his former racing driver, Louis Chevrolet.
You needed a program to keep track of the players in this business.
They caught up on each other’s families and businesses through lunch. My father waited until we finished eating to bring up the EAD and Finnegan. Hudson and Olds had nothing but good things to say. The Employers Association had been doing a fine job for them in eliminating union threats, and they thought Finnegan a good sort and a solid man. Durant agreed with them, but added nothing to the conversation. After thanking them, my father and I walked out the front door and turned right, heading for my car.
“William?” a man called. Bill Durant cut through the pedestrian traffic in front of the hotel and hurried up to us. He was a small man with a high forehead, kind eyes, and large ears that stuck out from his head. Taking hold of my father’s arm, he said, “I didn’t want to say anything in there, but I heard some troubling things from the Employers Association about Will.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“Troubling how?” my father asked.
“One night after a meeting I had drinks with a few of the EAD men, including Finnegan. He was in his cups already, but after a few more drinks he started up on how it was Will’s fault that John Cooper got into the spot he did.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and met my eyes. “He seemed to believe you started the chain of events that led to Cooper bribing Judge Hume.”
“That’s ridiculous,” my father said.
“I got the impression Finnegan had looked up to Cooper. He thought Will should be locked up for life. The other men agreed with him.” Grimacing, Durant said, “Sorry. Just thought you ought to know.”
My father and I shared a glance. He turned back to Durant. “Who else was with Finnegan?”
“Well.” He hesitated. Looking out at the street, he said, “Paxton, Whitaker, Bielman, a few others.”
My father ran his hand over the top of his head. “Everyone who matters.”
Durant nodded.
Son of a bitch. “Anything else?” I said.
“No.”
We thanked Mr. Durant and climbed into my car. “It makes sense to me now,” I said. “I couldn’t understand why he wouldn’t acknowledge that the Employers Association works—or at least worked—with criminals. Now I know. He just doesn’t want to help me.”
“Why would Finnegan blame you? You had nothing to do with the bribery or the murders Cooper committed.”
“Who knows what Cooper told them about me. He hated me. And I was responsible for him meeting Elizabeth and his entry into Judge Hume’s confidence.” I shook my head. “Maybe you should go by yourself.” I pulled out into traffic for the short drive to the Stevens Building.
“No.” My father’s face was red. “We’re doing this together.”
He was silent the rest of the way, though I could practically see the steam coming from his ears. I parked across the street from the office. We climbed out and waited for traffic to clear. Before we crossed, he said, “Listen. If we go in angry, we’re cutting our own throats. Let’s give him the benefit of the doubt, see if he’ll work with us. If we can’t go to the police, the Employers Association is all we have.”
When we reached the EAD office, the receptionist called Finnegan, who met us in the lobby. “Mr. Anderson,” he said, holding out his hand to my father. They shook, and I could see my father had a real grip on the security man’s hand. Finnegan didn’t offer to shake with me this time.
“Can we speak somewhere private?” my father said.
“Of course.”
We followed him to his office and took our respective places around his desk. Finnegan leaned forward and folded his hands on the desktop. His face was carefully neutral. “Now, what can I do for you gentlemen?”
“Mr. Finnegan,” my father said, “we have a problem.”
“All right.” Finnegan reached out and pulled a notepad in front of him. “What sort of problem?”
“The Teamsters are making a run at the Anderson Electric Car Company by way of some Sicilian thugs.”
Finnegan’s eyes darted to me. “Is this that Adamo character you asked about?”
“No,” I said. “It’s another gang.”
“And who might they be?”
I glanced at my father. He nodded. Turning back to Finnegan, I told him about the Gianollas kidnapping me. “I believe they are siphoning off union funds and helping the Teamsters expand. They’ve threatened my family if I don’t get the union into Anderson Electric.”
“Hmm,” Finnegan said, leaning back. He looked from me to my father. “That’s quite a story.”
“But listen,” I said. “You have to keep this from the police. I’m positive the Gianollas have cops on their payroll. If we don’t let the Teamsters in, they say they’re going to kill my parents and my—Elizabeth Hume.” I’d almost said fiancée. “The Gianollas are using a go-between named Ethan Pinsky for the negotiations. And they’ve told an Anderson employee, Joe Curtiss, that they’d kill his family if we don’t get this done.”
“I’ll try to run down some addresses,” Finnegan said. “Anything else?”
“No.” I looked at my father, and he shook his head.
“All right.” He stood, and we followed suit. “Just so you know,” he said. “AFL unions are making runs at companies all across the city, and the Wobblies are filling in the gaps. My men are spread very thin. But this will be a top priority.”
My father shook hands again with Finnegan, and we left the office. On the way back to the factory, I said, “I’m not going to be coming in to work for a while. I need to deal with this Gianolla problem.”
My father nodded. “What are we going to do about your mother and Elizabeth?”
“I tried to get Elizabeth to take her mother out of town, but she’s not budging. Maybe Mother could visit a relative?”
He shook his head. “I’ll talk to her, but you know your mother.”
“Do you really think Finnegan will help us?”
My father shrugged. “I don’t know. I suppose we’ll find out.”
I spent some time with him in his office at the factory, puzzling through our problem, and then drove back to the garage, where I left the Torpedo and caught a streetcar home. I unlocked my door, walked inside, and was heading for the bathroom when I heard a chair scrape in the kitchen. Whipping the gun out of my belt, I slunk around to the kitchen entrance. There, at the table, sat Tony Gianolla.
* * *
I saw red. “You son of a—”
A gun barrel pushed against my ear, and the blade of a knife pressed into my throat. “Wouldn’ finish that, paisano,” Sam Gianolla said. “Gimme the piece.”
I held my gun up over my shoulder.
He took it with his knife hand. “Siddown.”
He shoved me to the kitchen and pushed me into a chair across from his brother, who stared at me with those hooded eyes. “What was ya doin’ this afternoon?”
“Just … business.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes.”
He looked over my shoulder and nodded. A fist crashed against the side of my head, knocking me out of the chair. I fe
ll first against the icebox and then to the floor. My head rang like cathedral bells. Sam picked me up, stuck me back in the chair, and stood at my side, uncomfortably close.
Tony smiled. “What was ya talkin’ to Finnegan ’bout?”
They knew. I clutched the side of my head and gasped out, “It was routine business.”
“Why is it I don’ believe you?” Tony said.
“I swear!” I blinked, trying to clear my head. “We’re closing down part of the carriage plant.” I was making it up as I went. “There’s a lot of men to be let go, and we need to coordinate that with the EAD.”
After a quick look at Sam, Tony grabbed my face with one big paw. “Listen, shit-sack.” He shook my head, rattling my brain. “I know people down there. You fuck with me on this, we’re gonna do to you what we did to Sam Buendo. You hear me?”
My face still buried in his hand, I nodded. His palm smelled of garlic.
“You know what we did to him?” Tony said.
He shook my head for me.
“I was like a father to that asshole. The rat tipped the cops on some olive oil that wasn’ strictly legal. Sammy took a baseball bat to him for two hours. Break a bone, break another one, break another one. You know how many bones a man’s got, shit-sack?”
I shook my head, still clutched in that big mitt.
“More’n two hundred. How many’d you break, Sammy?”
“Most of ’em,” Sam grunted.
Tony shoved me back in my chair and let go of my face. “While he could still feel it, Sam cut off his cock. Then we dump him in a field and lit him on fire. So now do you know what we gonna do if you fuck with us?”
I nodded. My head was still ringing.
Tony stood. “I better hear good reports on you, sonny.” He walked around the table, fitting his derby onto his head.
“Wait,” I said.
He stopped and looked down at me.
“If you want me to cooperate with you, I want the truth out of you on one thing—who killed Carlo Moretti?”
Motor City Shakedown Page 16