Motor City Shakedown

by D. E. Johnson

  I looked at the pavement. “Don’t know, Father. I been around.”

  “Yer not drunk?”

  “No.”

  “What happened to your arm?”

  I realized I was cradling my right arm in my left. “Hurt my shoulder workin’.”

  “What kind of work you do?”

  “Ice.” It just popped into my head. “Ice delivery.”

  “Can’t do that with a bum shoulder, now, can you?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Let me guess. They fired you after you got hurt.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “What’s that on yer neck?” He gestured toward the right side of my throat. “Don’t look like dirt.”

  I ran a hand over my neck and looked at my palm. It was streaked with blood.

  * * *

  A lead weight dropped in my gut. “Oh.” I pushed down my revulsion, forced out a laugh, and started babbling. “My shoulder. One of the big tongs at the factory got me. Can’t get it to stop.”

  He reached out and touched the left elbow of my jacket. His finger came away tacky with blood. “Yer really bleedin’. Look at me, son.”

  I raised my eyes. He appraised me for perhaps a quarter of a minute before nodding toward the doorway. “See one of the sisters for bandages. No smokin’, no drinkin’, and if you can help it, no fartin’ either. Go on in. I think there may be some soup left if you’re hungry.”

  “Thank you, Father.”

  In any other setting, McGregor would likely have recognized me. But no one expected Will Anderson to be sleeping at a charity mission. I was so out of context as to be almost invisible. I climbed the final steps into the first room, a large dining hall with long tables running front to back and a serving window at the far end. A few men sat at the tables with bowls in front of them.

  I climbed the stairway toward the second floor, and a mass of noise filtered down to me—men talking, laughing, shouting. When I reached the top of the steps, I turned the corner into a huge room with perhaps four hundred cots lined up in tidy rows. Men lay or sat on about two-thirds of the beds while a few of them milled about, talking to one another.

  My pulse was pounding so hard in my hand I thought it would rip the glove open. I headed for the bathroom. The smell was horrid. The toilet arrangement was that of a long trough covered by a stained board with six holes cut through it—similar, actually, to the toilets in the Anderson Electric factory. I shrugged off my coat and washed the big man’s blood off my neck. Then I peeled off my shirt and did my best to wash off the blood, both the big man’s and mine that had leaked out around the bandages on my shoulder.

  Other men came in and used the facilities, but I hid my hand from them, and they all left me alone. I washed the blood off myself, my shirt, and my coat. Finally I set my jaw and worked the glove off my hand. My thumb and first two fingers were purple and swollen, like sausages ready to burst. The other two, though nothing but gnarled scar tissue, had turned a darker shade of red. I looked at myself in the mirror. My eyes were sunken. My face looked bony, nearly skeletal. I made a pact with myself to avoid mirrors for a while. There was no getting the glove back on. I’d have to keep my hand in my pocket and hope I’d be able to keep it hidden well enough to avoid notice.

  I took a cot near the back wall and watched the activity for a while, trying to take my mind off my pain. The men were unshaved and dirty, smelling of body odor and stale tobacco, some with whiskey working its way through their pores. They spoke in a polyglot of languages, none really distinguishable over the drone. Four nuns in black habits worked the room, getting men into beds, taking away cigarettes, scolding recalcitrants. Eventually all the men climbed onto cots, and the father came up and said a prayer before shutting off the lights.

  I lay awake a long while. My hand and shoulder throbbed, and my mind raced. I got little sleep. Awake was better than asleep. When I did manage to fall off, my dreams were haunted by gushing fountains of blood.

  * * *

  Something exploded into my kidney. My body arched back, my hand reaching to ward off the blow. Again, something smashed into my lower back. I fell off the cot and landed on my right shoulder, crying out from the pain.

  “Is ’at him?” a voice growled.

  “Yes, it is,” Father McGregor said.

  “Get up, ya jackass,” the first man said. There was just enough light to see McGregor and a policeman standing over me.

  “What?” I held up my left hand in front of me. My eyes watered from the pain.

  The policeman was a thin man with long handlebar mustaches. Raising the club over his head, he said again, “Get up.”

  “All right, all right.” I struggled to my feet. “What do you want?”

  He grabbed my arm and shoved me forward.

  “Hey, let ’im alone,” a voice called. Another man yelled at the cop to leave me be.

  He just shoved me again and shouted, “I’ll bring the whole lot of you in if you don’t shut your holes!”

  The men grumbled, but no one made an issue of it. He pushed me to the stairs, down to the first floor, and outside, where a fat policeman stood in the light of a streetlamp with his back to us, hand resting on his holstered pistol.

  The other cop pulled me down the stairs. “Murphy, we got our man.”

  “Zat right, Scotty? Let’s have a look.”

  Murphy? I began to turn toward him. The first cop rammed the truncheon into my stomach, doubling me over, and then shoved me to the ground. I struggled to catch my breath. Through the tears, I saw the two of them standing over me.

  “Don’t look like much, does he now, Scott?” Murphy said. “Whattaya think? Shoot him and toss him in the river, or bring him in?”

  “Murphy,” I gasped, “it’s me, Will Anderson.”

  He stared at me, dumbfounded. “Anderson? Jaysus Christ…”

  “I can explain. Just let me talk to you for a minute.”

  The thin cop looked at Murphy. “You know this asshole?”

  Murphy met his partner’s gaze. “Take a hike, Scotty. Lemme talk to him a minute.”

  The other man frowned at him, shook his head, and walked away. Murphy helped me to my feet. “Christ, Anderson, look at ya.”

  I was still bent over from the blow to the stomach. “It’s a disguise, Murphy, and it’s a long story.”

  “Well, ya better start the tellin’. We got a couple’a dead bodies over on Gratiot, and you’re the guy stinkin’a blood down at the mission.”

  “Listen, Murphy, I need a favor. Let me walk. I’ll make it worth your while.”

  He scratched his head with his billy club. “Don’t know about that. They’re sayin’ Tommy Riordan and a pair of accomplices murdered those guys and put Ferdinand Palma into a coma.”

  A shock went through me. “What?”

  “You and Riordan are old buddies.”

  “Riordan wouldn’t murder anyone. If he killed somebody it would be in the line of duty.”

  Murphy gave me a big smile. “Ain’t what the witnesses are sayin’. Him and some Annie Oakley turned Gratiot into a shootin’ gallery.” He rubbed his chin. “Sergeant Rogers has been lookin’ for ya anyway. If I hand ya over to him, it’s prob’ly worth a promotion for me. They might even make me a dick. What’s he want you for, anyway?”

  “How much?” I was already pulling my wallet from my coat.

  He snatched it away from me and pulled out all the bills with a pudgy fist. Handing the wallet back, he riffled through the money. “Hundred, two, hmm.” He pursed his lips, pushing his bottlebrush mustache up against his nose, then shot a glance down the street in the direction his partner had gone. “Tell ya what. Make this a down payment, I’ll let ya off.”

  “Done.” I didn’t know where I’d get any more money, but that was the least of my concerns.

  “Ah, don’t know why I got a soft spot for you, Willy, my boy, but awright. Enjoy your holiday.”

  I didn’t wait for him to tell me twice. Holding my s
tomach, I trotted off down the street, in the opposite direction his partner had gone.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  I hid in an alley six or seven blocks away, behind a dozen overflowing garbage bins. I’d go back for Elizabeth at six. I wrapped a rag around my right hand and tried to fall asleep again, but the pain was too great. I swallowed another handful of aspirin.

  While I lay there, I tried to decide what to do. The cops were after me—or rather the gang squad was looking specifically for me, while the rest of them were after the people who helped Detective Riordan kill the men outside the Saint Petersburg last night, particularly the female accomplice. If this didn’t end soon, we’d have no chance of getting the Gianollas out of our lives. I had to get Vito Adamo to help us now. I hoped he was serious about working together.

  Near six I crept over to an alley near the mission and watched the front door. A few minutes later, Elizabeth ran around from the back, her eyes scanning the street. When she looked my way I waved and caught her attention.

  She hurried over to me and grabbed my arm. “I heard about the police. I can’t believe I slept through it. I thought you … I’m so glad you’re still here.”

  “I knew one of the cops. He let me go.”

  “That was lucky.”

  “Maybe our luck is changing.”

  She nodded and gave me a tentative smile. “It probably can’t change for the worse. Say, why don’t we find a place for you to hole up for a little while. I’ll get us some breakfast and find a place we can make that call.”

  “Sounds good. About twenty cups of coffee would be a good start.” I nudged her arm. “How are you doing?”

  She stared at the brick wall opposite us. “I had to do it. He was going to kill you.”

  I nodded. “I know it’s not enough, but thank you.”

  “It feels … cold. Inside. At the pit of my stomach. I took someone’s life.”

  “Like you said, he was going to kill me. You did what you had to do.”

  She nodded and glanced at me. “I know. I keep telling myself that. It’s just going to take a while.”

  We headed over to the alley in which I’d spent the rest of the night, and I tucked myself back in behind the trash cans. “I’ll be back soon,” Elizabeth said. She bent down and gave me a kiss on the cheek before turning and leaving the alley.

  She returned about fifteen minutes later with a pair of coffee mugs in one hand and a heaping plate of scrambled eggs and toast in the other. She handed me the mugs and sat next to me. “They charged me a dollar for the plate and mugs, but I thought it a worthwhile investment,” she said. “I wouldn’t give them the two dollars they wanted for silverware, so dig in.”

  I gave her one of the mugs, took a piece of toast, and loaded a pile of eggs on top. I wolfed it down and sat back, savoring the coffee. “Thank you. I can’t tell you how good this all tastes.”

  “Funny, isn’t it?” she said. “If you’d have gotten a meal like this in a normal circumstance you’d probably have complained about it. But now it’s like eating at Delmonico’s.”

  I swallowed another precious sip of coffee. “I wouldn’t know about Delmonico’s, but I take your point. Our appreciation of things is relative to our circumstances.”

  “Good,” she said with a smile. “Now you need to figure out how to appreciate things regardless of your circumstances.”

  I wasn’t in the mood for a lecture, but I just shrugged. “Did you find a phone?”

  She nodded. “There’s one at a store just down the block.”

  “I’m going to see if I can get hold of Detective Riordan too. I hope he hasn’t been arrested. We need his help.”

  We lapsed into silence. When we finished eating, we left the plate and mugs out where someone would find them, and headed over to a general store. The pay telephone was screwed into the wall, like at the Cosmopolitan. I checked my pockets and came up with thirty-seven cents. I dropped a nickel into the coin slot, and the arm over the receiver released. A few seconds after I gave the operator the number, Mrs. Riordan answered the phone.

  “Hello?” This time her voice was cautious from the first word.

  “Mrs. Riordan, this is Will. Can you talk?”

  “No, Mrs. Callaghan,” she said in an overly cheery voice. “I’m afraid I’m not up to a trip downtown at four o’clock. My little ones haven’t even broken in their old shoes yet.”

  Obviously, someone was listening. “How can I get in touch with your husband?” I whispered.

  “Why, you’d think those children of yours were horses, Mrs. Callaghan, the way they go through shoes. You enjoy your shopping trip this evening. Bye now.” She hung up.

  I set the receiver on the hook and gave Elizabeth a puzzled look. “Someone was there. Almost certainly the cops. She gave me a message, but I don’t have any idea what it was.”

  “What did she say?

  “She called me Mrs. Callaghan and said she couldn’t go shoe shopping downtown at four o’clock.”

  “Four o’clock must be when Detective Riordan can meet you. Callaghan—is there a Callaghan’s shoe store downtown?”

  “I’ve never heard of it.” Then it hit me. Callaghan—shoes—horses—downtown. “She said my children must be horses to go through so many shoes. Callaghan’s Livery on Fort Street. My father used to keep Comet there. Detective Riordan will be there at four.”

  “Thank God he didn’t get arrested.”

  I nodded and dropped another nickel into the slot. I gave the operator Adamo’s number this time. An Italian man answered the phone. “Pronto.”

  “I need to speak with Vito Adamo. This is Will Anderson.”

  “Uno momento.” The receiver clanked against a hard surface.

  Perhaps a minute later, Vito Adamo came on the line. His normally deep voice was thin, strident. “What was your involvement in Palma’s shooting?”

  “What? He gave me this number, he left, and Gianolla’s men shot him.” I cupped my hand over the bell of the telephone. “We killed them. In self-defense.”

  Adamo let off a string of Italian curses ending with the word Gianolla. Then he said, “If you are lying to me—”

  “I’m not lying. Why would I shoot Palma?”

  “Because he works with me.”

  “I’ve been trying to get you to work with me, remember? Last night Palma asked me to help you kill the Gianollas. I agreed to call you. He left and was shot down.”

  He blew out an explosive breath. “You want the Gianollas dead, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Why?”

  “We have some planning to do. I will send a car to pick you up.”

  I hesitated. He had thought I was involved in Palma’s shooting. But at this point what did I have to lose? With both the Gianollas and Adamos after me, I was already as good as dead. “Bagley and Third,” I said.

  “Excellent.” The receiver clicked, and the line went dead.

  * * *

  We left the store and walked into the nearest alley. “Okay,” I said. “Where are you going to go? I’ll come for you after this meeting.”

  She laughed and shook her head. “No. I’m going with you.”

  “Elizabeth, it’s too—”

  “—dangerous, I know,” she said, folding her arms over her chest. “I’m going, and that’s that.”

  I decided not to waste my time arguing. We waited in the nearest alley and kept our eyes peeled. Half an hour later a dark blue E-M-F touring car edged up to the corner. I took a surreptitious glance at the inside. The top was up, the driver hidden in the shadows. I thought it was likely one of Adamo’s men, but there was no way to be sure.

  “Wait here a minute,” I told Elizabeth, and stepped out into the sunshine, wandering out near the road. I watched the car from the corner of my eye for a few minutes, still not sure if I should approach it. People were starting to get out into the streets, and they streamed past, heading for some holiday amusement
.

  “Signore Anderson,” a voice said. I turned around. Vito Adamo’s brother Salvatore stood before me. I hadn’t laid eyes on him in nearly two years. He was still a young man, perhaps thirty, but looked at least ten years older. Dark circles painted the undersides of his eyes, and he was thin, sickly-looking. His ragged mustaches hung over his upper lip. He looked like a man on the run. “Open your coat,” he said.

  I held my coat open with my left hand. He pulled out the right side, looking for a weapon.

  “Turn around.”

  I did. He pulled up my coattail.

  “We should go,” he said. “It’s not safe.”

  I nodded Elizabeth over. She ran to us, and we hurried to the E-M-F. Angelo was in the driving seat. The rest of us piled into the back. No sooner had we gotten in than the car sped away from the curb. Angelo turned down the first alley and raced into Little Italy, finally stopping in front of a warehouse. He jumped out and opened an overhead door. When he climbed back in, we bumped over the threshold into the darkened building. Angelo shut off the car and ran back to close the door.

  Salvatore hopped out and flipped a switch, turning on the lights. Elizabeth and I stepped down onto the concrete floor, and Angelo gave me a thorough search. He relieved me of my switchblade and then held out his hand for Elizabeth’s purse. She glanced at me. I nodded. We had to cooperate.

  “That way,” Salvatore said, motioning toward the back of the building. He walked us to a wooden door, opened it, and said, “Wait here.”

  I looked inside to see a small room with no furniture, probably an office when the warehouse was in use. “Why?”

  “Make sure no one follow,” he said.

  We walked in, and he closed the door behind us. Elizabeth crouched down and used her palm to sweep dust off a spot on the floor before sitting down. I walked over to her, put my back against the wall, and slid down to the floor.

  “Don’t mention anything about Riordan to the Adamos,” I whispered. “We need an ace in the hole.”

  She nodded. A few moments later, she said, “My Lord, Will. Did you ever think…”