Mirabile turned to us. “Mr. Anderson, Miss Hume, we gotta search you. No weapons at this meetin’.”
“Fine,” I said. “But they’d better be careful with her.” I nodded toward Elizabeth.
“Sì,” he said. “My men will show respect.”
He called one of the men from the door to search us. I gave him the .32, held my hands out to the side, and tried not to look nervous. He started at my ankles and worked his way up.
When he began patting down my arms, Elizabeth lifted her skirt above her shoes, showing her ankles, and said, “Say, I have a knife.” His hands stopped at my wrists. She took a step toward us and turned to show off the knife sticking out of her shoe, giving us a lovely flash of her right calf. The man searching me stopped immediately, his eyes glued to her legs. She plucked the knife from her shoe and handed it to him.
“Grazie,” the man said, and forgot me completely. I started breathing again. After apologizing to Elizabeth, the man searched her, beginning with her hat. He confiscated her hatpin and started moving downward. He didn’t touch her breasts but looked carefully enough. I held my breath when he politely asked her to spread her legs. She moved her right leg over about a foot. He began at her ankles, patting the outside of her skirt, higher than I thought he would. And sure enough, his hand touched the pistol.
His eyes darted up to her face. “She got a gun.”
Mirabile folded his arms across his chest. “Miss Hume.”
Elizabeth, her face flushed, reached up under her dress and pulled out the little pistol. I tugged at my glove, desperate to ease the pain in my hand. I tried to hide the movement, but at this moment, I could have carried in a Gatling gun. Not a man in the room had his eyes anywhere other than Elizabeth’s legs. She handed the pistol to the man who’d searched her. “I want that back.”
When he took the gun he made a mock-grimace and passed it from hand to hand, like it was a hot potato. Every man in the place except for me burst out laughing.
“Hey,” I said. “What about respect?”
“What about respect?” Mirabile said with scorn. “Your girlfrien’ brings a gun to a meetin’ with no weapons, and you ask me about respect?”
I didn’t have an answer for that.
We were down to my switchblade. Our margin was getting thinner.
* * *
Adamo’s men soon returned with a pair of waiters in black trousers with white shirts, and searched them. No weapons were found. Still, I was certain this was a trap. I pulled Angelo aside. “Do you know these men?”
“No, but Don Mirabile say they work for him for years. He trust them.”
I looked over at Mirabile. “So once again we have to trust him.”
“Don Adamo trust him. That is enough.”
“All right. But don’t let Vito come until the Gianollas are here and unarmed.”
He nodded and said something to Busolato, who walked outside. Angelo stopped in the doorway with Mirabile’s men and handed over the shotgun and pistol, another pistol tucked inside a shoulder holster, and a stiletto.
When he came back, I pulled him aside. “You have more men here, don’t you?”
His eyes cut to me and then away. Finally he said, “Don’ worry ’bout it.”
“You’re not serious. It’s just you, Busolato, and the Adamo brothers?” I remembered seeing only four cots at the apartment.
“I said, don’ worry ’bout it.” He stepped away from me.
Mirabile pointed at a table in the center of the restaurant that had four chairs facing the door and three facing away—Elizabeth and me and the Adamo brothers on one side, the Gianolla brothers and Mirabile on the other? If so, the Gianollas would be sitting with their backs to the door. I wondered if that meant they truly were not expecting trouble. I pointed Elizabeth to the seat on the end, with me next to her. I wanted her as far away from the gangsters as possible.
Mirabile stood opposite us and forced a smile. “I’m sorry for all this.” He waved vaguely around us. “But the trouble’s gotta stop.” He grunted. “It’s bad for business.”
We didn’t have long to wait, but with the searing pain in my hand, the five minutes felt like an eternity. One of the thugs from the train came in first and looked around for a few minutes before calling out the door to the brothers, who filed in a few seconds later. Sam was followed by Tony, who limped in stiff-legged, swinging his right leg out to the side.
Mirabile’s men locked the door. The Gianolla brothers and their man walked up to Don Mirabile and opened their suit coats. While Angelo looked on, one side of his mouth drawn back in a snarl, Mirabile’s men frisked them and came up with nothing. The Gianollas continued back to us, sitting at the table—Sam directly across from me, Tony in the middle, their thug on the other side. Mirabile moved away from the table and stood perhaps ten feet from us, facing the front door.
Tony smiled at me. The tips of his canines creased his lower lip. “I hope you done your job.”
“I did my job,” I said, mopping my forehead with my handkerchief. “They’ll be here. And when this is over, you are going to leave us—and our families—alone?”
His mouth flickered with just a hint of irritation. “Said so, didn’t I?”
“Yes. And I’d like you to say it again.”
Tony laughed. “Sure. If the Adamos show, when we finish tonight we ain’t gonna have nothin’ against any of ya.” He turned partway in his seat and rested his forearm on the back of his chair. His dark eyes took in Elizabeth. With a nod, he smiled his predator’s smile and said, “Miss Hume, it’s a pleasure.”
Her revulsion was so strong I could almost see her shudder. “Meeting you is certainly no pleasure, Mr. Gianolla.”
He grinned. “Oh, now, that ain’t very nice.”
Sam glared at me. “Maybe you oughta put a muzzle on your girlfrien’.”
“Maybe you ought to mind your own business,” I shot back at him.
I could see in his eyes he wanted to come over the table at me, but he just sat there, his mouth set in a grim line.
“Boys,” Tony said. “Play nice. This here’s a peace meetin’.”
“Yeah.” Sam’s eyes never left mine. “Sure, Tony.”
One of the waiters came to the table. “Would you like something to drink?”
Tony looked at Elizabeth. “Miss Hume?”
“Nothing.”
He glanced at me. “Coffee,” I said.
Tony ordered espresso. For Sam, it was whiskey. While we waited, Tony and Sam talked in Italian. I had no idea what they were saying, but since they seemed relaxed and Mirabile was within earshot, I decided to ignore it. The waiter brought our drinks and set them in front of us. Sam snatched up his glass, threw back the whiskey, and said, “Un’altra.” The waiter nodded and scurried off to the kitchen, returning a few seconds later with another whiskey. This one Sam left on the table.
Somewhere close, a string of firecrackers blew off. Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
For the first time, it occurred to me that Vito and Salvatore might not come. I took a sip of my coffee. When I put the cup down, it rattled against the saucer. Elizabeth glanced at me. I gave her what I hoped was a reassuring look, but she didn’t appear convinced.
A voice called out from the back of the restaurant. “Don Mirabile?”
Mirabile looked up, said, “Scusi,” and walked around the table, heading for the back.
When he disappeared down the corridor, Sam laughed. “They comin’ in the back ’cause nobody lets their kind in the front.”
“Sam.” Tony was staring daggers at him. “Shut it.” He got a dark look in return.
Mirabile called from behind us, “Angelo, Anderson. Come here.”
I glanced at Elizabeth.
“Go ahead, Will,” she said. “I’ll be fine.” Her voice was steady.
I pushed back my chair and followed Angelo down the dark paneled hallway. Vito and Salvatore Adamo stood just inside the door, with Mirabile next to them.
Vito said something to Angelo in Italian, and he replied in kind. Vito nodded and turned to me. “How does it look to you?” His dark eyes held mine with great intensity, like he was trying to read my mind.
“Near as I can tell, none of the Gianollas have weapons.” I nodded toward Mirabile. “The only people here with guns are his guys. It seems safe. That is, if you trust him.”
Vito nodded.
I wondered what he was up to. Surely he wasn’t coming in here without a backup plan. I looked at Mirabile. “May I speak with Signore Adamo privately?”
He appraised me for a moment before nodding and walking up the corridor. I leaned in close to Vito. “You’ve got something up your sleeve, don’t you?”
He glanced at the sleeves of his jacket and gave me a mystified look.
“Do you have a plan?” I whispered.
He gave me a sad smile. “I have nothing left. Most of my men—the ones who are still alive—have fled. And who could blame them? I can’t protect them anymore. Nor can they protect me.” He put a hand on my shoulder. “I am here to bluff. If that fails, to bargain for the lives of my men and my family.”
“Jesus,” I whispered.
“Yes,” Vito said. “We could use his help.”
I threw his hand off me. “Why didn’t you tell me? I never would have brought Elizabeth here. You said you would turn the tables on them.” I looked at Salvatore and then Angelo. “Is it just you three and Busolato? Four men?”
He shrugged, and in that moment I realized I had misjudged him. His penitence may have had some basis in reality, but he was just using us. We were pawns in his last-chance gambit.
I stared into his eyes. “I should have killed you.”
“Let us pray you have another chance to try.” He looked up the hallway. “Don Mirabile, if you please?”
Mirabile hurried back to us. Adamo might be willing to cede his fate to the Gianollas, but I wasn’t. “Don Mirabile, what are the security arrangements?”
“I have two men on both doors, and they’ll be locked. The only people inside will be you and two waiters, both loyal to me.”
“You’re sure about that,” I said.
Mirabile scowled. “These boys—”
“It is not necessary for you to explain, my friend,” Adamo said. “I accept your word.”
In an apologetic tone, Mirabile said, “Mi scusi, Don Adamo, but my men gotta search you in front of the Gianollas. If ya got anythin’, I should take it now. Might be embarrassin’.”
“We are unarmed.”
Mirabile locked the door and gestured toward the front. “Awright. Whattaya say we start?”
I pushed against the door, which stayed shut, and gave Mirabile a smile before following Vito, Salvatore, and Angelo down the corridor. Two of Mirabile’s men shadowed us, pistols held by their sides. The Gianolla brothers watched us approach with phony smiles on their faces.
I sat again next to Elizabeth, leaned over, and whispered in her ear, “Be ready to run.”
She glanced at Sam, whose eyes were locked on the Adamo brothers, and looked at me with a question in her eyes.
I gave a slight shake of my head and mouthed, Be ready. I took a nervous gulp of coffee.
She nodded and shifted her weight forward on the chair.
Mirabile’s men frisked the Adamos, who were unarmed as agreed. When the search was complete, the Gianollas and their man stood and greeted the Adamos, who returned the greetings with much less enthusiasm.
Mirabile waited until everyone was seated before he stood at the end of the table and started speaking in Italian.
I interrupted him. “How about English so we know what’s going on?”
He looked at the two sets of brothers. Vito and Tony both nodded.
“Awright,” Mirabile said, “you’re here to fix the problems between ya. Nobody’s got weapons. Ain’t even no silverware. It’s up to you.” He said something to his men in Italian and looked at Vito, who nodded to Angelo.
Mirabile escorted Angelo and the Gianollas’ other man, along with all his men, to the door. He held it as they filed out, then turned back to us. “Buona fortuna.” He stepped out of the restaurant and locked the door behind him. Both of the windows went red as fireworks burst somewhere in the distance. The light pulsed and then faded.
It was down to the Gianollas, the Adamos, and us.
Tony spoke first. “Let’s have some drinks.” He looked at Vito and laughed. “A war like this gives ya a thirst, am I right?” Vito’s head raised a fraction, but he said nothing. Tony looked over the Adamos’ heads and waved a waiter over. “’Nother espresso for me. How’s ’bout you, Adamo?”
“Nothing.”
“I’ll have some more coffee.” With my hands under the table, I began pulling off the glove. I steeled myself against the pain and set my jaw, trying to keep a neutral expression on my face.
“What you doin’?” Sam leaned over the table, trying to see my hands.
“Nothing.” I stopped.
“Get your hands on the table,” he demanded.
I raised my hands and set them on the edge of the table, keeping the knife in the pinkie finger of the glove tucked underneath my hand.
It was quiet until the waiter returned. He set Tony’s espresso in front of him and refilled my coffee. Tony stood. Salvatore flinched but managed to stay seated.
Spreading his hands in front of him, Tony said, “My thanks to Don Mirabile for settin’ up this meetin’ today.”
I slipped my hands under the table again, but Sam glared at me. “Get ’em up.” He knew I was up to something. He just couldn’t figure out what. Unfortunately, it didn’t matter. I wasn’t going to be able to get at the knife with him watching me.
“Adamo,” Tony continued, “I know we got bad blood. But we’re both losin’ too many men. This war has to stop.”
I glanced at Sam to gauge his reaction just as his eyes flickered over Vito’s head.
Turning, I saw the waiters sneaking up behind the Adamo brothers. The one nearest me had a bead of sweat on his forehead. His right arm was held close to his body, his hand grasping something he was trying to hide. As he moved forward, a sharp point caught a light and glinted into my eyes.
* * *
I picked up my coffee cup and flung it into the waiter’s face just as he was raising the dagger. He screamed, and the knife fell from his hand, clattering to the floor. Everyone leaped up from the table. Vito grabbed the dagger from the floor and slashed it across the waiter’s throat just as the Gianollas’ thug dived over the table and knocked him down. The other waiter stabbed Salvatore in the back as he was twisting out of his chair.
I grabbed Elizabeth and pushed her away from the table, shouting, “Go! Hide!”
Sam Gianolla threw the table aside and tackled me. Vito and Salvatore wrestled with Tony Gianolla and his thug. Chairs and tables crashed to the floor.
Explosions like gunfire erupted outside the building.
Sam held my left arm down and reared back to punch me in the face, but I slipped my head to the side, and his fist smashed into the wooden floor. He howled in pain. Holding the fingers of my mangled right hand stiff, I jabbed him in the eyes just as Elizabeth hit him in the head with a chair, knocking him off me.
I looked at her, startled. “Elizabeth, why—?”
Someone kicked in the front door. Gunshots rang out. I looked toward the sound and saw Gianolla’s men running in.
Elizabeth grabbed my hand and wrenched me to my feet. One of the waiters’ daggers lay on the floor. I scooped it up as we ran for the back hall. Bullets ripped into the wall in front of us. I tipped over a table, and we dived behind it. The air was hazy with smoke, and my ears rang with the cracking of guns coming from all around us.
Between gunshots, police sirens became audible, but they were a long way off. Rogers, I thought. Finally.
“Adamo! Adamo!” a familiar voice shouted from the back of the restaurant. I turned and saw Abe Bernst
ein at the entrance to the rear corridor. He saw me looking at him. “Get Adamo!” he shouted, pointing to my right.
I looked. Vito and Salvatore were crouching behind a table, Angelo’s twisted body next to them. Salvatore’s white shirt was stained red. Bullets thwacked into the table in front of them. Sirens blared, close now. Tony Gianolla shouted something in Italian, and his men began to fall back, sliding one by one through the doorway. While they did, they kept a steady barrage of bullets going at the Adamo brothers. No one was firing back. Filipo Busolato lay slumped just inside the door.
“Adamo!” Abe yelled. “This way!”
I took hold of Elizabeth’s hand and ran for Abe. Vito must have noticed him about the same time, because he and Salvatore almost ran into Elizabeth and me as we ran down the hallway.
Abe shoved the back door open and ran out into the alley. We followed him, jumping over two men’s bodies lying on the dirt, their eyes staring sightlessly at the sky. The sirens were suddenly louder.
Joey Bernstein leaned against the redbrick wall of the building opposite Giuseppe’s, his derby tipped low over his forehead, a toothpick in the corner of his mouth, a sawed-off shotgun in his hand. Without a word, he raised the gun and shot Salvatore Adamo in the face. His head exploded in a mass of bone, brain, and blood. He fell over backwards, dead before he hit the ground.
Elizabeth screamed.
Vito stopped in his tracks, staring at Abe with a look of disbelief.
Now I saw the pistol in Abe’s hand. “Sorry,” he said, and shot Vito in the chest. Vito staggered but took a step toward Abe.
“Abe!” I shouted. “No!”
Abe shot him again. Vito fell to his knees and pitched over onto his face. But he pushed himself up and began crawling toward Abe.
“We gotta go,” Joey said, and blew out the back of Vito Adamo’s head with the shotgun.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Motor City Shakedown Page 34