I motioned with the gun. “After you.”
“If you insist.” He strolled to the door, opened it, and walked around a small wooden desk to a chair set against the back wall. The office was small and cramped, lit by a pair of gas lamps mounted on either side of the room. The Italian unbuttoned his coat and sat at the desk, empty save for a telephone, and gestured toward one of the chairs facing him. “Please, sit.”
I stepped to the side of the door, keeping the gun pointed at him. The barrel was trembling. “I’ll stand, thanks. And keep your hands where I can see them.”
He looked amused, but his hands stayed on top of the desk. “My name is Vito Adamo. I would like to speak with you about Miss Hume.”
“What have you done to her?”
“Done? Nothing. I have not seen her since you took her away.”
“Look, I’m fairly certain you killed John Cooper and the Doyles, or had one of your men do it. I know you blackmailed me. But I don’t care about any of that. I just want to find Elizabeth.”
He twisted the ends of his waxed mustaches and squinted at me for a moment, as if trying to understand a new language. Then he broke out in laughter. “The newspapers say you killed John Cooper. I did not. I do not know of the Doyles, and I know nothing of any blackmail.”
He seemed sincere, but I had no idea how good an actor he was. I wouldn’t give him the benefit of the doubt. “Where is Elizabeth?”
“What business is it of yours?”
I walked around the desk and stuck the barrel of the gun against his forehead. “Tell me.”
“If you are going to kill me, please, do so. Otherwise, I would like to change the topic.”
Pulling the trigger wouldn’t help me find Elizabeth. I stepped back, keeping the gun trained on him. “So talk.”
He pushed back his chair and crossed his legs, tugging at his trousers until the crease was straight. “As you are no doubt aware, the judge can be a most difficult man. I do not trust him. Even if I do find his daughter, I still need some, what is the word? Lev-er-age?” He spoke carefully, feeling the word in his mouth. “Is this it?”
“Yes. Something you can use against him.”
He clapped his hands together one time. “Esattamente. Leverage.”
“Like what?”
“Information that might cause him distress should it become public. I could use Miss Hume’s situation, but I am trying to keep family out of this. It’s not . . . professionale.”
“I don’t know anything.”
“I did not expect so. But Miss Hume does.”
“How could you possibly know that?”
“I have an excellent source of information.”
“I don’t believe you.”
Adamo sighed. “John Cooper told me.”
“What? How do—did—you know John Cooper?”
“That is not important,” he said. “Suffice it to say that Mr. Cooper and I were acquainted.”
“Why would he tell you anything about Elizabeth?”
“He did not want Miss Hume’s situation to become public. I helped him, he helped me.”
The office door burst open and slammed against the wall. Big Boy stood in the doorway, his body stiff, eyes darting between Adamo and me. I swung the gun over to him.
Behind him, Wesley said, “Easy there, big fella.” He pushed the giant into the room.
A blade pressed against my neck. Startled, I cut my eyes toward Adamo’s chair. It was empty.
“Give me the gun, Mr. Anderson,” he purred from behind me.
Wesley held his revolver up to the base of Big Boy’s skull, his middle finger against the trigger. He was grimacing from the pain in his hand. “Let him go, or I’ll blow your pet giant’s brains all over this room.”
“I do not think so,” Adamo said. “You are a friend of Mr. Anderson?”
Wesley didn’t respond.
“Well, no matter.” The Italian’s voice was cool and steady. “I will kill him unless you lay your gun on the floor.”
“Let him go,” Wesley said.
I felt a sharp sting as he pressed the blade into my neck. “Wes, get out of here. I’ll handle this.” I kept the gun pointed at Big Boy, but I couldn’t hold it still. My guts were roiling.
“No, sorry,” Wesley said.
Warm blood began to run down my neck. “I’m giving him the gun, Wes.” I tried to steady the trembling in my voice. “Now get out of here.”
He glanced around Big Boy. When he saw the blade cutting into my neck, he shoved the big man against the desk and aimed his gun over my shoulder.
“You’ll be killing your friend,” Adamo said.
“But I’ll be killing you, too,” Wesley said. “And muscle-boy.”
Big Boy glared at Wesley, but stayed by the desk. The room was small enough that he could almost reach Wesley from where he was.
“I’m going to count to three,” Adamo said, his voice coming from directly behind me, “and if you don’t drop your gun I’m going to slit Mr. Anderson’s throat. Of course, if you try to shoot me or Big Boy before that, I’ll do it sooner.”
I held both hands in front of me, palms out, the Colt dangling off my thumb. “Wes, leave.” I couldn’t put him in any more danger.
“One,” Adamo said.
Wesley took a step toward us, trying to keep an eye on Big Boy at the same time. His eyes were wide, his confusion apparent.
The blade cut deeper into my neck. Blood ran down my chest. “Wes, get out of here.”
“Two.”
Wesley’s mouth opened and closed. He finally shouted, “All right!” and set his Colt on the floor.
Adamo reached around and relieved me of my pistol. Big Boy picked up the other gun, turned to Wesley and, with a short chopping motion, hit him in the forehead with the pistol’s grip. It made a sickening thud. Wesley staggered but didn’t fall. Blood streamed down his face from a ragged cut above his left eyebrow. Big Boy raised the gun a second time.
“That’s enough,” Adamo said. “I have a need for these gentlemen.”
The giant frowned at him but lowered the weapon.
“Now, to business.” Adamo walked around the desk and sat. He opened a drawer and placed the gun in it. “Please, sit, both of you.”
Big Boy shoved Wesley toward the desk. Wincing, he caught his balance and turned back to the giant.
“Wes,” I said. “Sit. Please.”
He glared at Big Boy a moment longer before sliding into the chair. I sat next to him, pulled out my handkerchief, and pressed it against the wound on my neck. Wesley did the same with the cut on his forehead.
Adamo clasped his hands on the desk in front of him. “Now, Mr. Anderson. The newspapers say you and Miss Hume were engaged. Is this correct?”
“Yes.”
“And then she fell in love with John Cooper.”
“Yes.”
“What is she to you now?”
“She’s my . . . friend.”
Smiling, Adamo looked over our heads at the giant. “You would face Big Boy—twice—for a friend? No, I don’t think so.” He thought for a moment. “Does Miss Hume still love you?”
I grunted out a laugh. “Hardly.”
“I have a proposition for you, Mr. Anderson. You have heard the phrase, ‘One hand will wash the other’?”
I nodded.
“I will find Miss Hume for you, but I need something in return.”
“What?”
“Of course I’m talking about her father’s secret. She wasn’t willing to tell me, even to get her drugs.” Vito Adamo raised a finger to his chin, and his head inclined toward me. “Perhaps you would get it from her to save her life.”
I wiggled around and blew into my hands. It was freezing. The cots in the Bucket’s basement were hard and threadbare, and we had no blankets. The bleeding from my throat had stopped, but not before my shirt was glued to my chest. My teeth were chattering, from more than the cold.
Wesley and I lay, our hands and feet bound, o
n cots surrounded by dozens of others, all empty. Hundreds of cases of liquor and kegs of beer lined the walls. From time to time the newspapers alleged that Italian criminals brought in illegal liquor and immigrants without papers from Canada—this looked to be a way station, and the fact that Adamo was letting us see it made me very nervous.
A rumbling cacophony of music, shouts, and laughter poured down the steps, while playing cards splatted against a table near my cot. A swarthy young man with dark eyes glittering over sunken cheeks sat at the table with a deck of cards, practicing dealing off the bottom of the deck. It wasn’t the first time he’d tried it.
I glanced over at Wesley. The blood on his forehead had dried in a crust on his skin, and his blond hair was matted and dark. “I’m sorry I got you into this,” I whispered.
He frowned. “If you don’t stop apologizing, I’m going to whack you a good one.”
“Sorr—” I stopped myself. “Are you all right?”
He nodded. With a grim set to his mouth, he said, “But when I get out of here, these guys won’t be.”
“Remember,” I whispered. “Elizabeth.” In the back of my mind, I envied his confidence. I was too frightened to think about revenge.
“I know.” He looked over the top of me at our guard and then met my eyes again. “When I saw Judge Hume walk out of that back room I just about went apoplectic. If he’s involved in this, it can’t be good.”
“You know the judge?”
“I’ve been a guest in his courtroom. What was he doing here?”
“I think he was just trying to get Adamo to give him Elizabeth.”
Wesley raised his bound hands to his forehead and tried to push a lock of hair out of his face. It didn’t move, stuck in place by the blood. “How would he even know Adamo?”
The young Italian man shouted, “Zitto!”
I lowered my voice. “Adamo is p-paying him off.” My teeth were chattering again. I clenched my jaw.
Wesley’s eyes widened. “For what?”
“I don’t know. But I think Adamo has Elizabeth stashed somewhere. I’m certain he’s not going to hurt her, though. She’s his bargaining chip.”
A chair scraped. My cot flipped over on its side, and I tumbled onto the cold concrete floor.
The young Italian man stood over me, eyes blazing. “Zitto!”
“Settle down there, Michelangelo,” Wesley said. “We were just chatting.”
Without a word, the man walked around my cot and flipped Wesley’s over. When he hit the floor, he groaned, followed by a sharp intake of breath. The Italian man kicked him in the side. Wesley cried out in pain.
“Hey!” I yelled. I rolled over, wedging myself between the two of them. “Leave him alone!” The Italian just walked back to the table and began dealing cards again. It wasn’t likely that he even spoke English. The majority of Detroit residents were immigrants, and most lived in enclaves with their countrymen, so learning the language wasn’t a necessity.
“I’m all right,” Wesley said with a grimace. “Listen, Will, we’d better try to sleep. Who knows when we’re getting out of here?”
I agreed. Wesley rolled over onto his side with his hands under his head and soon was snoring softly. I didn’t expect sleep to overtake me tonight. Surrounded by a thousand bottles of liquor, I had nothing to drink.
Instead, I thought.
I was pathetic. The woman I loved and the man who’d helped me beyond all reason were both in the clutches of a ruthless criminal. I had to do something, but I couldn’t concentrate. I couldn’t even stop shivering. Fear had become my normal state. Since the moment I found John’s body, I’d been afraid. Afraid of the police, the blackmailer, Judge Hume, the criminals in jail, John Dodge, Big Boy, and now Vito Adamo. And when I listed them off, I conceded I had very good reason to be afraid. But this wasn’t anything new. It was simply a variation of the fear I had lived with since I could remember.
I had always been afraid of not living up to my parents’ expectations, or Elizabeth’s expectations, of letting down the people I loved. But as I considered the events of the past week, it occurred to me that the problem was something else entirely. It wasn’t that I was afraid to look like an idiot to everyone else. The problem was that I wouldn’t risk a serious effort toward a goal, for fear I would fail and prove to myself I wasn’t good enough. Instead, I complained, threw blame elsewhere, and raised my eyebrows at the mistakes of others, all the while making it clear to everyone that I wasn’t trying. If I didn’t try, I couldn’t fail. Everything I’d ever done had been motivated by the fear of failure.
If I was ever going to change that, I had to do it pretty soon. And in a way, my imminent death was liberating. Once my debt to Elizabeth was paid, I really didn’t have a cause for fear.
But I couldn’t stop shivering.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
A woman’s piercing scream cut through the noise above us. The crowd quieted and the band faltered for a moment, but seconds later the volume level was back where it had been. I had no way of telling what time it was. At some point, the saloon quieted and, despite my shivering and thirst, I caught a few moments of sleep.
In the morning, the basement door opened, and Adamo shouted down the steps, “Angelo?” and something else in Italian.
The young Italian man grunted, pushed back his chair, and stood.
Adamo walked down the steps with a swarthy man who looked to be his younger brother. They stopped in front of me. “We were able to find Miss Hume and have moved her to a safer location,” Vito Adamo said. “Are you ready to see her?”
I sat up. “Please. I can’t take any more of your man’s sparkling conversation.”
“Oh, a funny man, very good.” He turned to Angelo and barked out an order in Italian.
Angelo squatted down at my feet and worked the knots until the rope came free, then nodded toward the stairway.
I stood, shaking my legs to get some blood flowing, and turned to Vito Adamo. “I’m not leaving without him.” I tilted my head toward Wesley.
“Angelo will safeguard your friend until such time as I am satisfied with your effort.”
“He’s got nothing to do with this, Adamo. Let him go.”
“I am sorry, Mr. Anderson, but I also need some of this leverage with you. Salvatore.” He nodded to his brother. “Bring the boy.” Vito Adamo began walking up the steps.
Adamo’s brother shoved me toward the stairs. I glanced back at Wesley.
“Don’t worry about me,” he said. “I’ll be fine. Take care of Elizabeth.”
I called up the steps. “If Angelo hurts him, Adamo, you’re going to pay.”
He stopped and turned around. With a smile, he said, “Your friend will be fine. So long as you do your job.”
“He better be.” I followed Adamo up the stairs and out the front door to a green Hudson roadster. Salvatore and I sat in back, with Adamo in front next to the driver, a fireplug of a man barely five feet tall, with a heavy beard and what looked to be a permanent scowl.
Vito Adamo turned around. “I apologize for the delay. It took some time to find her.”
“No apology necessary. It was a lovely night.” I don’t think terror normally activates my sarcasm, but for some reason I couldn’t stop.
He frowned. “I hope you find the rest of your day as humorous, Mr. Anderson.”
After a number of twists and turns, we stopped in front of a tenement in an Italian neighborhood. It was one of the old buildings—four stories of crumbling brick that was perhaps fifty years old but already falling apart. They were kind enough to allow me the use of a filthy street-side privy. As soon as I walked out the door, Salvatore pushed me inside the building to a battered wooden stairway that rose from the shadows. At the first landing, three young boys took one look at our party and bolted up the steps, leaving the pennies they’d been pitching on the floor. I tried to get a look at their faces, on the off chance one of them was the boy who took the blackmail money, but they were g
one before I got a glimpse. Salvatore stopped long enough to steal their pennies before shoving me up the next flight. It was dim, almost too dim to see the gaping holes in the stairs. I tried to tread carefully, but it was difficult to do while getting a push in the back every few steps.
He pulled me out on the third floor, and we headed down a filthy corridor, stinking of fried fish and rot. Voices surrounded us, carrying through the walls—men, women, and children all speaking or shouting in Italian. We stopped at a small apartment with yellowed walls, darkened by a half century of smoke from the candle sconces around the room and the tiny stove in a soot-blackened corner. Though none of the plank floor was clean, most of the food remnants and trash had been thrown into a moldering two-foot-high pile. The only furniture in the room was a rickety oak table and a chair. Another young Italian man sat at the table, facing a closed door. A revolver lay in front of him.
“Where is she?” I said.
Vito Adamo motioned to the door. I turned the knob with my bound hands and hurried in. Elizabeth lay facing away from me atop a stained mattress, partially covered by a thin gray blanket. She wore a dark burgundy day dress and black button-top shoes. Behind her, some of the plaster had been torn from the wall, leaving gashes here and there of bare wooden planks, wet and rotting. Trash and moldy bits of food covered the floor. A sharp animal stench filled the room.
I knelt down next to her. “Elizabeth?” I nudged her shoulder. “Elizabeth?”
Her hand fluttered toward me and then settled back down at her side. She mumbled something, but I couldn’t make it out. I leaned in closer. She stank of urine and a sour body odor. “Elizabeth. Talk to me.”
“Go ’way,” she muttered. “Leave me . . .”
I reached out and turned her onto her back. What I saw made my eyes close for a moment. A string of saliva stretched from her slack mouth to her shoulder. Dark half-moons painted her face underneath her eyes. Her cheekbones stood out in sharp relief from her skeletal face.
My heart ached. Slowly, she raised an arm and covered her eyes.
“Elizabeth? Lizzie?”
No response.
I looked up at the Adamos with venom in my eyes. “You sons of bitches. How can you do this to another human being?”
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