Motor City Shakedown

by D. E. Johnson

I grunted out a laugh. “Hard to imagine that only a few years ago we were a couple of rich kids without a worry in the world.”

  She nodded, and after a few moments her right hand searched out my left. When she found it, she gripped it tightly. After a few minutes, I let go and wrapped my arm around her shoulders. I believe it was the first time I’d ever touched her without it being sexual. In the past, regardless of the situation, whatever touch I’d been allowed made me crazy with lust. Now it was different. Compassion? Friendship?

  Salvatore and Angelo came for us perhaps half an hour later and led us to an open-bed delivery truck stacked with beer kegs. Salvatore gestured at the truck. “We will drive to my brother. Get in back.” We climbed onto the bed and sat in the center, in an open space surrounded by kegs. Salvatore climbed up after us. “You got to be blindfold.” Elizabeth and I traded a glance before we both nodded. He tied handkerchiefs around our heads.

  The engine started, the overhead door screeched, and the truck pulled onto the road. From the sound of the engine echoing off the tall brick walls, I could tell we spent more time in alleys than we did on roads. After a number of turns, the truck finally stopped. I pulled off the blindfold. We were in an alleyway between a pair of three-story redbrick buildings. We could have been anywhere.

  We climbed down and walked into the back entrance of the building to the left of the truck. After climbing two flights of stairs in silence, we walked about thirty feet down a hallway. Salvatore knocked on a door—three fast knocks, two slow.

  Filipo Busolato cracked open the door and peered out. A moment later, Vito Adamo stood in front of us, holding his derby with both hands like a man asking for a handout. “I apologize, Mr. Anderson, Miss Hume, for the inconveniences. It is an unfortunate but necessary part of my life at the moment.”

  He stepped back and held out his arm toward a kitchen table. I looked around as I took the two steps necessary to reach it. We were in a small one-room apartment with four cots in the back, a large shelf along a side wall filled with supplies, and a single table in the front of the room with a chair on each side. I glanced out the window. A redbrick wall stood perhaps thirty feet away. We were in a Detroit apartment building, almost certainly in Little Italy, perhaps the same one Carlo Moretti had lived in. It was almost funny that Vito Adamo had been forced to live like this. I turned back to him, unable to resist a jab. “Nice place.”

  He smiled a weary smile. “Believe me that I would prefer to be with my wife and children.”

  He still looked good. The skin on his handsome face was perfect, his mustaches were firmly waxed in place, and not a single strand was awry in his thick shock of black hair. He wore a stylish gray suit with an ivory silk waistcoat. Dark curls spilled over the open neck of his shirt. This was the first time I’d seen him without a tie. His eyes looked haunted. I could see that his edges were beginning to fray.

  He turned to his men and said something in Italian. Angelo and Busolato left. Salvatore stood near the door, watching us.

  Elizabeth and I sat at the table. A notepad lay atop it, open to an amateurish pencil drawing of a stiletto plunging into someone’s back. An Italian caption had been written in underneath. Adamo sat across from us, flipped the notepad shut, and gave us a sheepish smile. “At times I fancy myself to be a writer. I am trying my hand at the dime novel.”

  “Really,” I said. “What’s it about?”

  “Oh”—he waved at me, embarrassed—“it’s only childish nonsense.”

  “No, really. I’m interested.”

  He shook his head slightly but said, “It’s the story of a boy who is imprisoned for a crime he did not commit, and the revenge he takes on the men who wronged him.”

  I looked at him through narrowed eyes. “The story sounds familiar.”

  A hint of a smile played around his mouth. “Well, I suppose I have to get my inspiration somewhere.”

  I looked at him for a moment before saying, “So now you believe I didn’t kill Moretti?”

  “Yes. Though if Ferdinand was wrong I will kill you myself.” He tossed off the sentence as casually as if he were commenting on the weather. “But that is not why we are here. I would like to apologize to you, Miss Hume, and you, Mr. Anderson, for the problems I have caused you. Miss Hume, I truly liked your father and, believe it or not, considered him a friend. I had no idea who killed him until after the … rest of your ordeal.”

  She didn’t respond.

  He turned to me. “And Mr. Anderson. If I could take back the history between us, I would. But, of course, that is not possible. So here we are, all targeted for murder by those contadinos.”

  My face must have shown my confusion because he added, “Peasants. The Gianollas”—he feigned spitting on the floor—“are nothing but peasants, brutal and stupid.” He looked at me again. “Mr. Anderson, I am a bit confused about your involvement in this matter. I believe the Gianollas had Esposito confess to Carlo’s murder, thereby making you beholden to them. But what did they have to gain?”

  “The Gianollas wanted me to get the Teamsters Union into Detroit Electric. And they wanted me to help them kill you.”

  He smiled once more. “And how were you supposed to do that?”

  “They were going to offer you a piece of the Teamsters. When you got comfortable, they’d kill you and wipe out your operation.”

  Nodding, he said, “You must help me rid the world of their stink.” His eyes shone. “We will kill them together.”

  “How?” I asked.

  He sat back in his chair, looking down at the table. A few seconds later, he glanced up at me again. “You are going to give them exactly what they want.”

  Mystified, I shook my head and shrugged.

  “There is one thing they want most.” Vito Adamo smiled again. “Me.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Adamo looked out the corner of his eye at Elizabeth. I followed his gaze. She was looking at him with a grim expression.

  “Do you have a problem with this, Miss Hume?”

  “Before I answer that, I’d like the truth from you on one thing: What happened to the eyewitness at your murder trial?”

  “Oh.” He shook his head. “There was no eyewitness. Filipo and I were innocent. No doubt the Gianollas paid someone to testify, and this person decided”—he looked at me with a question in his eyes—“that the better part of valor is discretion? Do I have that right?”

  I nodded. “Straight out of Shakespeare.”

  Elizabeth didn’t look convinced. She glared at him but finally said, “I’m willing to do what we must to get the Gianollas out of our lives, but you can’t seriously think I would forgive you for what you did.”

  “The … drugs?”

  “No. That was my fault. But whether you directly assisted John or not, you helped kill my father. You used me as bait to lure Will almost to his death. Your man helped John kill Will’s friend and nearly kill both of us.” She sat back and folded her arms across her chest. “Is that enough to hate you for?”

  His expression didn’t change. “For what it is worth, it was business.”

  “I am willing to put it behind me for the good of Will’s family,” she said. “But don’t expect me to like you.”

  “Fine,” Adamo said. “Now, shall we decide how to kill the Gianollas?”

  We both nodded. I realized with surprise that my hatred of this man was slipping. I had to remember Wes.

  “They will say they will trade your lives for those of the Adamo brothers. Of course they will kill you, but not until we are gone. You need to set up the meeting they were asking for.”

  “I agree,” I said. “The way I see it, they’ll still want to pretend to offer you a piece of the Teamsters. They won’t tell you the meeting site until the last moment and will ambush you, and probably me, at the meeting.”

  “Yes,” he said. “Therefore, we must move the meeting to a place more of our liking.”

  “They won’t go for it. If the odds aren’
t on their side, they won’t meet with you.”

  “We must even the odds,” he said. “I am willing to face them man to man, but I will not help them kill me.”

  I snapped my fingers. “The Bernsteins. You know the Bernstein boys, don’t you?”

  “They work for us occasionally.”

  “They have a big network of kids around Detroit. We could spread them out around the Gianollas’ territory to keep an eye on what they do.”

  “I do not know,” Adamo said. “Do you trust the boys?”

  I thought about it. “Abe’s come through for me. He could have handed me over to the Gianollas, but he helped us. I think so long as there’s money in it, they’ll do their job.”

  He absently twirled the end of one of his waxed mustaches. “With enough advance knowledge, we could still hold the meeting at their chosen location. The Gianollas will be overconfident. Our men could ambush them.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Make the arrangements with the boys. Until we have rid ourselves of the peasants, I am taking no chances.” Adamo pushed back his chair and stood. “Contact the Gianollas. Set up the meeting.”

  Elizabeth and I got up from our chairs.

  Adamo took me by the arm and led me to the door. “Do you still have the telephone number Palma gave you?”

  “Yes.”

  “When they set the meeting time, call that number. Do not talk to the boys until you absolutely need to.” He glanced at Salvatore before looking at Elizabeth with a grimace. “I am afraid we will need to blindfold you again for the drive. They will bring you wherever you would like.”

  Salvatore opened the door. Busolato walked in, and we joined Angelo in the hall. We had taken only a few steps when Vito Adamo called out from behind us. “Miss Hume? I am sorry. When this is over, perhaps I can find a way to make amends.”

  As we continued toward the steps, I marveled at the man’s charisma. A phrase went through my head: The enemy of my enemy is my friend.

  But Vito Adamo was not my friend. I needed to remember that.

  * * *

  I had them drop us off in front of the Western Union office on Grand Boulevard just up the street from Electric Park. Salvatore gave me my switchblade and handed Elizabeth her purse, and the car sped away. Elizabeth opened the purse and rooted around inside. Satisfied, she latched it shut.

  “Do you still have the thirty-two?” I said.

  She nodded.

  “Could I borrow it?”

  We walked to the nearest alley, where she pulled out the gun and gave it to me. I tucked it in my belt at the small of my back. Walking into the Western Union office, I could hear girls screaming from atop one of Electric Park’s roller coasters. It made me long for those simple days of youth, when my biggest concerns were my grade in mathematics and whichever girl I had the vapors over at the time.

  We sent a telegram to my father, telling him we were still all right. After that I had Elizabeth change a dollar, and I used the pay phone in the lobby to call the Gianollas’ grocery in Ford City. I felt exposed and had to keep myself from constantly looking around for them here. The operator began the process. I waited a few minutes while the connection was established. A man answered in Italian. At first he denied any connection with the Gianollas, but when I said I could deliver the Adamo brothers he told me to phone back in two hours. Then he hung up.

  We left the office and, after Elizabeth paid the twenty-five-cent admission fee for each of us, walked through Electric Park. It was packed with holiday revelers enjoying a rare Friday off from work. Miles of red, white, and blue bunting hung from the coaster supports, ribbons of the same colors fluttered from the roofs of buildings, and banners proclaiming HAPPY INDEPENDENCE DAY! hung in great arcs over the midway.

  Negotiating the crowded walkways was difficult, particularly as we weren’t paying much attention. Elizabeth was quiet and moody, and I was nervous. I used all but a nickel of my remaining change at a concession stand to buy her some pink fairy floss and myself a bag of popcorn. She plucked small dabs of the sugary candy and popped them into her mouth while we wandered. The only amusement we allowed ourselves was the scale model re-creation of the Johnstown Flood, which we watched several times. It was a long two hours before we returned to the Western Union office.

  Elizabeth changed another dollar to make the phone call. The same man answered. “They will meet you. Michigan Central station on Jefferson. Thirty minutes.”

  “That’s not what—”

  “If you don’ show, they will know you are lying.” The phone clicked.

  I set the receiver back onto the hook and told Elizabeth what he said.

  “We need someone to back us up,” she said. “It’s insane to just walk into their trap. What if they do know we’re responsible for the deaths of their men?”

  “Give me an alternative. They’re not going to stop until we’re all dead. How long are we going to be able to avoid that?” I thought for a moment. “And if we get the chance, we’re going to kill the Gianollas and end this.”

  * * *

  Jefferson was jammed with traffic, so we joined a few thousand pedestrians heading for the big parade on Woodward. Most had on festive hats and some sort of patriotic garb. I stood out in the crowd with my smelly and wrinkled immigrant outfit. We hurried down the street.

  “We shoot,” I said, “only if we can get both of them. They’ll keep coming if we only kill one.”

  Elizabeth nodded. “Assuming Tony is still alive.”

  “Right.”

  Bang! Bang! Bang! Explosions, like gunfire, came from my immediate right. I jumped and almost threw Elizabeth to the ground before seeing it was children blowing off firecrackers. Hundreds of people milled about the ferry landing, pushing into the queues for the dozen steamers taking holiday revelers to Tashmoo Park, Bob-Lo Island, or perhaps just a jaunt out on the river. A huge crowd lined Woodward just inland from the ferry landing, waiting for the parade to begin. Between the two was a huge knot of people we needed to pass through.

  I looked at my watch. Ten more minutes to get through this crowd wasn’t enough. I began shouldering and pushing my way through. Now the explosions began in earnest as firecrackers, roman candles, and homemade fireworks boomed and whistled and cracked.

  We made it to the train station almost exactly thirty minutes after the telephone call. I had the pistol in my left-hand coat pocket, ready to shoot if I saw the brothers. Elizabeth hung back with a hand inside her purse. People hurried in all directions, cutting through the mob for one track or another, or heading out into downtown Detroit. The tile floor, high plaster ceiling, and brick walls made the large room an echo chamber. The sounds of shoes striking tile, shouted conversations, and train whistles created a booming cacophony. I was surprised the train engineers and conductors hadn’t gone out in a sympathy strike, but the trains looked to be running as usual.

  I felt a gun barrel in the middle of my back. I turned to see Sam Gianolla staring at me with those killer’s eyes.

  “Bang, bang, ya dead,” he said with a nasty smile.

  I reached behind me. My hand was closing on the butt of my pistol when he jabbed his gun barrel into my back and said, “Gimme your piece. Slow.”

  I pulled Elizabeth’s gun from my belt and handed it to him. All around us, people hurried past, paying us no notice. It was bizarre.

  “That way,” Sam said, jabbing me in the back with his gun. I waded through the crowd, hoping Elizabeth wasn’t too far behind. Sam steered me toward platform 3, where a large crowd was boarding a green Michigan Central passenger train, its smokestack billowing oily smoke into the blue sky. We climbed up the steps into the nearly full car, and he nodded toward the back. I walked down the aisle to a pair of open seats and glanced at Sam. He shook his head and nudged me along, stopping me at the end of the car by the steps.

  I turned and stared into his eyes. “You’re going to pay for killing Joe.”

  “Fuck you talkin’ ’bout?”


  “Don’t even try.”

  He smiled at me. “I killed a lot a guys name Joe. Anyone in pa’ticlar?”

  I shook my head, smoldering. “You better watch your back.”

  Across from us, a train was beginning to pull away from platform 4. Only four cars were connected to the engine, three passenger cars in front of the caboose.

  Sam grabbed me and shoved me off the train. “Move.”

  I nearly fell on my face but just caught my balance before I did. He grabbed my arm and pulled me along with him to the other platform. We hopped up on the step of the last passenger car as the train pulled away from the station, heading west toward Ford City. I glanced back to see if Elizabeth had spotted us, but she was nowhere to be found.

  I was on my own. Sam pushed me up the steps into the car. When I turned the corner, three guns were pointed at me, one by a thug in front, another by a thug in the back, and the third held by Tony Gianolla, who sat in one of the upholstered blue seats in the middle.

  He was alive after all.

  “Frisk him,” Tony said.

  The man in front searched me and took my knife. Sam gave him my gun and pushed me forward, grabbed me by both shoulders, and shoved me down into the seat across from his brother. Tony’s right leg stuck out straight in front of him. He didn’t have a cast, but I took some small satisfaction in knowing I had at least hurt him.

  I gestured toward his gun. “Didn’t think you guys were that scared of me.”

  He pulled back the left side of his coat and stuck his gun into a shoulder holster. “This is your goddamn fault, shithead. Why didn’ you meet with Pinsky?”

  “My father and I both would have been there, but the cops picked me up.”

  “So why wasn’ he there?”

  “Because he didn’t know where the meeting was.”

  “Why didn’ you tell him, shithead?”

  “I should have, but I didn’t think I had enough time.”

  He looked over my shoulder, then back at me. “You had what, two fuckin’ weeks? That ain’t enough time?”

  “No, Pinsky moved the meeting at the last minute.”