She raised her purse. “You?”
I nodded and started out down Jefferson, heading west toward downtown. It was a perfect morning. A few clouds drifted across the sky, the temperature was already in the mid-sixties, and explosions of green filled the trees and garden beds. Elizabeth was affecting me more than I knew.
I sneaked a glance at her. The wind riffled through her hair. Her classic Helen of Troy profile was marred only by her forehead, which was creased in concentration.
“What are you thinking about?” I asked.
“What? Nothing.” She forced out a laugh. “Just thinking.”
When I stopped for traffic at McDougall, I said, “Oh, some interesting news this morning.” I dug out the front section of the newspaper from under the seat and handed it to her, folded over to an article. The headline read, ADAMO MURDER TRIAL TO BEGIN MONDAY.
I’d been surprised it would start so soon. Both the State and the defense had called for a speedy trial. Ferdinand Palma again assured the public of Vito Adamo’s innocence, while District Attorney Higgins vowed to put him behind bars. The entire article filled a mere quarter column. Adamo had done a good job of staying out of the limelight. He had no more significance to the newspapers or the general public than any other man accused of a crime.
I nudged my way through traffic at the corner and continued down the street with a glance at the speedometer Edsel had installed. With the Detroit Electric I normally drove, changing from first to second moved the car from five to eight miles per hour. Gasoline automobiles weren’t so predictable.
After perusing the article, Elizabeth looked up at me and said, “Might be an interesting way to spend some time.”
“Going to the trial?”
She nodded. “I’d like to see him squirm. And I especially want to be there for the sentencing.”
“I’m sure we can find time to stop by.”
We passed through the city to the shacks and coal yards at the outskirts and then burst into the surrounding countryside. The cobbles ended abruptly, and we splashed down into a puddle on the pitted dirt road running parallel to the Detroit River. I was watching a barge pass, three huge pyramids of dusty black coal on its flat deck, when Elizabeth said, “Open it up.”
“What?”
She leaned over to look at the speedometer. “This automobile will go faster than twelve miles per hour, won’t it?”
“Certainly.”
“Then open it up. Let’s see what this thing can do.”
I looked ahead. The road was clear. “Goggles?” I pulled mine down over my eyes, and Elizabeth did likewise. “Okay, hold on!” I jerked the throttle lever down, and the car leaped forward. We raced down the road, laughing and shouting like children, the wind buffeting our faces and blowing back our hair, as we jounced through puddles and potholes. I saw puffs of smoke on the horizon, and before I knew it, we had caught up to an interurban train, five cars behind the locomotive on the tracks alongside the road, chugging toward Wyandotte.
“Faster!” Elizabeth shouted.
I glanced at the speedometer. We were already going thirty. “Are you sure?”
“Come on, Grandpa!” she said as we were both thrown forward by a pothole. “Punch it!”
I pulled the throttle lever nearly to full speed. We blew past the train and flew down the road—literally at times. Elizabeth gripped her door and the top of the dashboard in front of her, grinning with delight, her hair spilling out from under her hat. “Faster!”
I risked a glance at the speedometer again—forty-five miles per hour. I’d never driven this fast. Few people had. A hill was coming up ahead. I nudged the throttle agan, hoping to catch some air at the top. We both whooped as we roared up the hill. At the peak, the tires left the ground. We sailed for ten feet before rattling back to earth.
The rear of the car slid left. I was losing control. I jerked the wheel left, and we fishtailed back and forth, barreling into the field before I was able to get control. We slid to a stop in a cloud of dust. My hand burned as if on fire. I’d grabbed the wheel with both hands. I grimaced but kept the cry from escaping my lips. When I thought I could control my voice, I took a deep breath and looked at Elizabeth. “I’ll take it a little slower now, if you don’t mind.”
She smiled. “That seems to be a reasonable idea.”
I pulled the throttle lever down and kept our speed at fifteen miles per hour, which now felt like a crawl.
Elizabeth sat back and pulled out her hatpin, then swept her hair out of her face and back up under her hat. Replacing the pin, she nodded. “Wow, that was fun. Our Baker won’t do that.”
We passed the Michigan Alkali Company’s huge factory and pulled into the little village of Ford City. The address Tony Gianolla had given me was on Antoine. It was a small commercial area with shops and offices, and many of the signs on the buildings were in Italian. We both peered into the building in question as we passed at five miles per hour. It was a small grocery.
Elizabeth turned to me with a question on her face. “Are you sure about the address? I’ve never taken the Adamos for grocers.”
I shrugged, then circled around and pulled to the curb across the street from the store. “Let’s take a look. Is your gun loaded?”
She nodded. “Yours?”
“Yep. And listen. Be ready for trouble. If we come across Salvatore, I don’t think he’s going to be happy to see us.” We hopped out and crossed the street to the market. It was well stocked and clean. The back wall was lined with beer kegs. The two men working in the store looked Italian, but I didn’t recognize them. We took a lap through the aisles and stopped at the counter. “Excuse me,” I said to the back of one of the men. He turned and looked at me expectantly.
“I need to get a message to Salvatore Adamo.”
He looked wary but shrugged and said something to me in Italian, finishing with the word “Inglese.”
I pulled out my wallet and laid a five-dollar bill on the counter. “I’m Will Anderson. I need to talk to him.”
He pushed the bill back toward me and shrugged again, his hands spread in front of him. I left the bill. I thought he had shown recognition of the Adamo name, but there was no way to know for sure. I hoped he spoke the universal language of money. When I turned around, I saw Elizabeth trying to talk to the other man, who didn’t seem to speak English either.
I caught her eye and nodded toward the front of the store. We walked out to the boardwalk. “What do you think?” I said.
Elizabeth was staring across the street. I followed her eyes. The sign on the building directly opposite us read, DROGHERIA GIANOLLA.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
It was another small market—similar size, red brick, the first floor of a two-story building. “Let’s go see if I recognize anyone,” I said.
We crossed the street and walked inside. Three older men in dark suits sat at a small table by the front window, sipping espresso from tiny cups. A tall shelf filled with liquor bottles stood behind them, the bottles glittering in the sun. I pulled my eyes away, walked past, and looked around the store. The only thing I thought unusual was the large quantity of liquor in front and the stacks of beer kegs towering against the rear wall.
A young man in a crisp white apron stood behind the counter. I sauntered up to him. “Do you speak English?”
“Sì,” he said, holding his thumb and forefinger half an inch apart.
“Who owns this store?”
“Non so.”
“I don’t understand,” I said.
“He said he doesn’t know,” Elizabeth said. “Do you know who owns the market across the street?”
His eyes became wary. “No.”
“Have you ever heard of Salvatore Adamo?”
“No. Scusa,” he said, turning away. He began rearranging tins of coffee on the shelf.
We looked around for a while, but I didn’t see either of the Gianolla brothers. With nothing better to do, we sat in the Torpedo watching the sto
res. “I don’t know,” Elizabeth said. She shifted and put her arm up on the back of the seat. “Do you really believe Vito Adamo and Tony Gianolla are grocers?”
I shrugged.
“I wonder, though. If they are, did their dispute start over a thumb on the meat scale or a price war on lettuce? It’s just so bizarre that they would have these stores across the street from each other.”
“In Ford City, yet. The two most feared names in the Detroit underworld belong to a pair of grocers. From Ford City. Unbelievable.”
“So what have we gained?”
“Not very much. I’ll tell Detective Riordan about this, though. Maybe he can sniff them out.” I put my hand on hers. “What do you say we get some lunch and then take a drive around the area? Maybe I can spot the house the kidnappers took me to.”
Elizabeth agreed, and we had lunch in a small Italian restaurant. When we finished, we drove around the village, looking for a needle in a haystack—the white clapboard house with a fruit tree between the house and the stable. I saw nothing familiar. After an hour, we decided to go back to Detroit.
Fifteen minutes outside of Ford City, the Torpedo’s engine began sputtering. Elizabeth looked at me, alarmed. “What is it?”
“I don’t…” The engine sputtered one last time and quit. We drifted around a corner, and I pulled the car under an oak tree on the side of the road. Son of a bitch. “I forgot to check the gasoline.”
She laughed and clapped her hands. “Will Anderson, renowned endurance driver and former world-record holder, runs out of gasoline on a trip to the country. Wait until the press hears about this.”
“Ha ha. Very funny. Although I am flattered you think the press would be interested in something other than my criminal activities.” I motioned for her to exit the car so I could do the same. “If you please.” Elizabeth, still snickering, climbed down from the car. With both eyes fixed on the pleasant sight of her behind, I followed her out. Fortunately, Edsel had left a small gasoline can in the trunk. Unfortunately, it was empty. I grabbed it and said, “Would you care to join me in a lovely stroll through the countryside, or would you prefer to wait under the tree?”
She looked up toward the sky and cupped her chin in her hand, enjoying dragging this out. “Well, it is a lovely day. Perhaps I will join you.”
We had no sooner started back up the road toward Ford City when the sound of a motorcar bubbled up in the distance. When we reached the straightaway, I saw an automobile racing toward us. “Well, maybe it’s our lucky day,” I said. “Surely they’ll help a fellow motorist.”
We stood at the side of the road and watched the car approach. As it got closer, I could see it was a blue Hudson touring car, with two men in front. When they were perhaps fifty yards away, the passenger gave a start and twisted away from us, showing us his back. The driver, a big brute in a black pin-striped suit and straw boater, stood on the brakes, and the Hudson threw up a cloud of dust as it slid to a stop. He threw it into reverse, and the car jerked backwards, partway into the field next to the road, and then roared off again in the opposite direction.
I held up the gasoline can and shouted, “Hey! We need help!”
“What was that about?” Elizabeth asked as we watched the car disappear from sight.
I shook my head. “I don’t know, but the man in the passenger seat didn’t want us to see who he was.”
“Did you recognize the other man?”
“No.”
“Do you think they might have been following us?” she asked.
“Could be.”
“Who do you think it was?”
I grunted out a laugh. There were so many possibilities.
* * *
We were lucky enough to find a farmer only a few minutes down the road who siphoned enough gasoline out of his tractor to get us back to Ford City. There, we were directed to a lumberyard, where a man filled our tank from a fifty-five-gallon barrel they had set up in front—but at twenty-four cents a gallon it was no bargain.
We set out for Detroit, and this time I kept the speed down. I drove Elizabeth home and left her with a promise that I’d call her before doing anything else. Then I drove over to Hastings Street and parked six blocks from the Bucket—as close as I thought I could get and have my car still there when I came back. One way or another I had to speak with Salvatore.
It was a surprisingly uneventful visit. The saloon was nearly empty, Big Boy was absent, and the bartender was certain he’d never heard of Salvatore Adamo—or anyone at all named Adamo—even after I tried to jog his memory with a five-dollar bill. I could have brought Elizabeth after all.
I passed the evening hurling various knives in the parlor. I had accumulated a jackknife with a four-inch blade, a six-inch switchblade, and a pair of daggers, both with eight-inch blades, one thin and lightweight, the other heavy with a thick handle. For fun, I also grabbed the butcher knife from the kitchen. The more I practiced, the better I got, though it took dozens of throws to adjust from one to the other. The butcher knife was the easiest to stick in the wall, followed by the daggers, which I attributed to their balance. The jackknife was challenging, but the switchblade was the hardest by far. The haft and spring mechanism were virtually all the weight of the knife, which caused an uneven spin and gave me no margin for error.
I found that throwing straight overhand worked best, but the amount of wrist action and the distance from the board varied greatly from knife to knife. It was actually relaxing. I’d found that concentrating on the problems of knife-throwing blocked out my other thoughts. Each knife needed to be thrown from a different distance in order for the blade to stick in the wall, their length and my wrist action determining the rate of spin. My switchblade stuck most often from about fifteen feet away, while throwing my butcher knife required me to be in the hallway. By the time my neighbors started pounding on the walls, I thought I was getting pretty good. Perhaps if I had to go on the run I could find a job with the circus.
* * *
At eight o’clock the next morning, I was reading the paper in the parlor when Wilkinson phoned me to come down to see my father. When I got to the outer office, Wilkinson was sitting at his desk with a grimace on his face. I caught his eye and arched my eyebrows, but he just shook his head and told me to go right in.
Detective Riordan was sitting in front of my father’s desk in what looked like Wilkinson’s chair. One of the uncomfortable chairs was missing. Unfortunately, that left one for me.
My father cleared his throat. “Detective Riordan thought he ought to speak with me directly.”
Riordan half turned in his seat. An unlit cigar was clenched in his teeth. “I wanted to see if your father’s understanding of the situation squared with what you told me.”
“And it does,” my father said.
Riordan nodded at me. “Pinsky’s a lawyer, Jewish by way of Russia, no criminal record. He’s worked with both the IWW and AFL. He’s based in New York, but the New York police wouldn’t say a word about him, which means he’s connected. I couldn’t find a record of a Detroit address for him.”
I took my wallet from my coat, pulled out the piece of paper Waldman had given me, and handed it to Detective Riordan. “Here’s his address and telephone number.”
“Good.” He copied them into his notebook.
“Any idea where Pinsky was when Moretti was killed?” I said.
“He appears to have been in New York last August. Now, the Gianollas.” He chewed on the cigar. “I didn’t find anything. Not in Detroit or Ford City. No records, nothing. As far as the U.S. government’s concerned, these guys don’t exist.” He shifted in his chair so that he was facing me. “Your father’s never seen them, and he’s only heard about them from you. I have to ask. Do they really exist? Because if you’re sending me on a wild-goose chase—”
“Yes, they exist. And thanks for reminding me.” I dug another scrap of paper out of my coat pocket and handed it to him. “These are addresses of groceries in Ford
City that I believe to be owned by the Adamos and the Gianollas. And feel free to ask your Sergeant Rogers if I made them up. I told you he was investigating them.”
“I couldn’t confirm that.”
“Really?” I said. “Why would he lie to me?”
Riordan hesitated. “Well … he may be investigating them. Like I said, I couldn’t confirm it.” He sat back and glanced at each of us. “Gentlemen, I am on the outside these days.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Detective,” my father said.
“It’s not your fault,” Riordan replied to my father. “And, as much as I’d like to blame him, it’s not your son’s either. I did it to myself. But that is neither here nor there.” He picked up his fedora from my father’s desk and twirled it on a finger. “You’re in a fix.” He shook his head. “You’ll have to meet with Pinsky, and he has to think you’re serious. I need you to buy us some time while I figure this out.”
My head drew back in surprise. “Us?”
Detective Riordan turned back to me, his face a blank page. “I suppose I owe you something. And the Lord knows someone needs to show you how to get out of trouble.”
Detective Riordan joking? I didn’t say anything, afraid to burst the bubble.
He took the cigar from his mouth, contemplated it for a moment, and said, “Three things, nonnegotiable. Number one—we do everything legally. Are we clear on that?”
My father and I agreed, though I wasn’t sure I’d be able to live up to the commitment.
“Number two—my bosses wouldn’t look kindly on me running an investigation without approval. I’m already on thin ice. No one else can know I’m helping you.”
We agreed.
“And three—I have a job and a family. I’m not going to be able to devote a lot of time to this.”
“We’re grateful for any assistance you can lend us, Detective,” my father said.
“What should I do about Joe Curtiss?” I said. “I told him to get his wife and children out of town until this is over. He’s scared to death.”
Motor City Shakedown Page 19