H.J. Gaudreau - Jim Crenshaw 02 - The Collingwood Legacy

by H. J. Gaudreau

  That winter she visited the Detroit riverfront whenever she could get away from the diner. She felt like she was hunting deer with her father. She would sneak into the tool shed and sit and watch the boathouse for hours. It was guarded night and day. She couldn’t be sure the big cruiser was still inside.

  She didn’t see the boat at all that winter. But her father had taught her how to hunt. She’d sat on a deer stand many, many cold mornings waiting for a big buck. She knew you could go an entire season without seeing a deer, but they were there. She was certain the boat was there too.

  Dolly didn’t have a plan, but she had plenty of time to think. She thought about how to search the boat once she made it inside the boathouse. Where she would look, how she would search. She thought about tools and saws and drills. But the more she thought about it the more she realized how long it would take to really search the boat.

  Finally, her mind was made up. Searching the boat made no sense. Why not do what she and Sol had intended? She decided to steal the boat and go to Canada; just like Sol had planned.

  She began to study boats. She visited the library and read everything she could about boats. She especially liked the magazines, they showed lots of pictures of Chris-Craft boats. She found one picture that included the controls and she familiarized herself with them all. It didn’t look hard, she had driven the neighbor’s tractor; she could do this. She talked to the sailors about boats. She asked questions about motors and steering. She showed them pictures of powerboats and asked about the controls.

  Dolly figured it out.

  One evening Dolly was in the town library reading about ships and sailing when the question of navigation began to nag. She’d not thought about navigation, Sol was going to do that. Dolly went to the card file and quickly found several books about maritime navigation. It was complicated, it took a lot of figuring and she felt as if she’d hit a stone wall. She wasn’t good at math and didn’t know the names of any of the stars except the North Star. Dolly began to doubt she would ever understand latitudes and longitudes and sextants and all the other things associated with navigating a ship at sea.

  A week later Dolly was pouring coffee for one of the sailors and decided to ask for help.

  “Honey, I don’t use none of those tricks. Hell, if I want to go to Chicago I go south until I run into it. If I want to go to Milwaukee I go west until I git there. Ain’t that hard.”

  Dolly thought about his answer the rest of the day. It made sense. She would be in a river or a lake, not an ocean. There’s only two ways to go on a river, up stream or down. And on a lake, well, even a big lake like Erie, she would eventually come to the other side. Dolly had renewed hope.

  One morning Dolly was sitting in the tool shed watching the comings and goings of the riverfront. The gang’s boathouse guard sat on a stool, leaning back against the building’s wall, and smoked a cigarette. Dolly watched the boats on the river. They always stayed between the colored buoys. That was it! There was a road out there defined by the colored buoys.

  Back at the diner she tested this theory with the sailors. One, a sailor named Brian took the time to explain to her about the colored buoys. “Red, right, returning” is the saying he told her, “keep the red buoy on your right when in the river or the channel, it’s where the deep water is.” Seemed simple enough. She kept repeating it to herself. “Red, right, returning.”

  She found an atlas of the United States at the library and poured over its maps. After a while she decided that if she kept in the middle of the river, between the buoys and headed south, turned left when she got to Lake Erie and went east until she was low on gas that should get her out of danger. She’d get gas wherever she ended up and continue until she got to Buffalo or Toronto whichever came first. She decided to buy a road map of Canada, at least she’d know where Toronto was.

  There was only one problem. If she was going to steal the damn thing she had to know where it was. She hadn’t seen it since the morning they arrested Sol and the others. She spent every minute she could in the tool shed. Sometimes, she spent the entire night in the boathouse, shivering and watching. Maybe it wasn’t there; maybe she was a fool. She didn’t know, but she was determined to get a look inside the building.

  Finally, in late April she got her break. Mel had given Dolly three days off in a row in the middle of the week. She wasn’t happy about it, the extra day off was a day without pay, she needed the money. However, it did give her an extra day to watch the boathouse.

  That Thursday afternoon four cars - two Chryslers, a Ford and a Packard, arrived within minutes of each other. Several men got out and stood around the empty lot talking and smoking. One man from each of the vehicles went inside the boathouse.

  Ten minutes later she heard the low rumble of a big engine. Not sure what the sound was she tried find a hole in the shed wall that would let her see further south. It was no good. Then, like an evil monster crawling out of the swamp, the cruiser crept north up the river, swung it’s bow toward the shore and slid into the darkness of the boathouse.

  A man came to the door and waved his arm.

  Immediately all the “extras” standing around their cars dashed inside. In less than a minute they were back, arms full of cases of whiskey, gin, and vodka. Dolly watched it all.

  As the last Chrysler drove away she scanned the area around the boathouse intently. No one. They hadn’t left a guard. She waited; maybe he was inside. Five minutes passed. She eased herself through the tool shed’s door, moved right to the edge of the water and knelt behind a stack of wooden crates. She carefully studied the boathouse and the shadows beyond. The building looked deserted. Moving around the crates she put two large barrels between her objective and herself, then crawled to the barrels. Peering between them she again studied the boathouse. No one was there. Now what? Inhaling deeply Dolly stood. Slowly she walked toward the boathouse, then veered to the water’s edge. She knelt and picked up a stone, just an innocent girl at the river edge. She threw the stone into the river. Casually she glanced around; she was alone.

  Chapter 16

  Eddie Fletcher sat in the back seat of his Packard Light Eight. “That was a good run Fred,” Eddie said. “We’ll get the rest tonight.”

  “The boys said they didn’t see anyone else on the water. Joey thought someone was tailin’ em in Windsor. They got eyes over there Eddie, it ain’t gettin’ easier,”

  Fred’s eye’s flicked between the rear view mirror, his boss’ face and the street ahead.

  The Tocco gang had hit two of the last five runs. Hijackings were up, the Purple’s had competition and Eddie didn’t like it. He reached for his cigarette case; it wasn’t in his jacket pocket. He looked on the seat, then the floor. He felt his pants for his Zippo. Not there.

  “Fred, turn around.” Eddie said to the driver. “I left my damn cigarette case and lighter on the boat.”

  Fred did as he was told and the new Packard did a U turn in the middle of Woodward Avenue. Ten minutes later Fred parked the car on the hardpack dirt outside the boathouse and Eddie got out. He took several steps and then stopped. A loud rumble erupted from inside. Shock then anger washed over Eddie. He screamed,“What the hell…!” and watched the big Chris-Craft slowly back out of the boathouse.

  Eddie ran to the waters edge. The cruiser was already sixty feet into the middle of the river. Slowly the bow came round into the current as the driver increased the power.

  “You son of a bitch!” Eddie yelled as he pulled his pistol from a jacket pocket. A short man in a heavy coat stood at the boat’s controls. The boat began to pick up speed and Eddie fired four quick shots with no apparent effect. The rumble turned to a roar, the stern of the boat erupted in white foam and the bow lifted. It seemed to pause, like the moment just before a sprinter explodes from the blocks. Then the Chris-Craft shot forward and sped south down the Detroit River.

  Dolly let out a scream of joy, she had done it. She pulled her hat off and let her hair blow in the wind a
s the boat’s motor settled into a content throb. She’d seen a man on the shore, he’d pointed a gun at the boat. She was certain he’d fired, she’d seen the gun flash. But she hadn’t heard any gun shots and she certainly hadn’t been hit by any bullets.

  She headed toward Fighting Island. In a few minutes the island flew past and the passage at Stony Island appeared. The wind made her eyes water and the bouncing of the boat scared her, but she had never, not once in her life, felt this alive. She screamed at the wind, she punched the air.

  Slowly Dolly began to relax. The adrenaline rush she’d experienced at the boathouse began to subside. She pulled an atlas from under her coat. Holding the atlas with her left hand and the steering wheel with her right she found Bois Blanc Island. Squinting through the sun and the spray she studied the river. Moments later she spotted the island. Lake Erie wasn’t much further, after that Canada.

  After his last shot Eddie knew he’d been had. He sprinted to the car, yelling at Fred. “Tocco! The SOB took the boat!” By the time Eddie reached the car Fred had the trunk open. Eddie grabbed a Thompson submachine gun and ran back to the river’s edge. Too late, the big boat was too far away. Eddie was furious. Swearing, he ran back to the car yelling, “The Wyandotte boathouse! I’m gonna kill him! I swear I’m gonna kill him.”

  When Fred’s confusion showed Eddie shoved the machine gun in his gut and yelled, “MOVE! Now, you fool!” Fred suddenly understood the urgency of his boss’ demand and ran to the driver’s door. Spraying gravel and dirt, the Packard shot up the hill, bounced over the curb and rocketed out of the side street onto Jefferson.

  Fred dodged traffic and ignored traffic signals. Cops walking the beat blew whistles but no one gave chase. In twenty minutes they swung into a small riverside lot next to a large warehouse. Both Fred and Eddie ran from the car to a ramshackle boathouse standing some twenty yards to the south of the warehouse. Five minutes later a Gar Wood Runabout Model 30 launched from the boathouse.

  Eddie turned south. He pushed the throttle as far forward as it would go. The little boat instantly began to skim across the water, the occasional wave nearly bouncing the two men overboard. He shot between Grosse Ile and Stoney Island and searched for his target. He tried to decide if the boat was south or north of him; he wasn’t sure so he kept racing south. After ten minutes he thought he saw the big cruiser in the distance. He pointed, told Fred to get his Thompson ready and adjusted his course a bit to the east.

  Dolly spotted the small speedster just as she turned east into the lake. It was coming fast and she knew; she knew deep in her heart that it was the Purples. They weren’t going to let her get away. People like her never got away. Her father had died when their one horse had kicked him in the head. Try as he might he’d never been able to get off that damned, broken down, good for nothing farm. He was even buried there.

  There really was no fighting it. She wasn’t going to get away from her hopeless life either. She screamed, she cried, she pushed the throttle forward so hard the metal bent and her hand and arm ached. Still the little runabout was catching her. She edged closer to the Canadian shore. The road map showed a small inlet to an area called Big Creek. If she could get in there she might have a chance, it would be dark soon. Maybe she could hide the boat in the cattails and bulrush.

  The runabout was closer, the daylight was fading, she thought she saw the inlet and turned toward it. The Chris-Craft sped toward the narrow gap. Suddenly a loud bang, the boat slammed to a stop and Dolly was thrown forward onto the dash. It took a moment to clear her head and then to her horror she realized she’d missed the inlet, she’d hit a rock. She could hear water flooding into the front of the boat. The little runabout was fast approaching. The shore was just a hundred yards away, maybe she could swim for it.

  Dolly ran forward and jumped into the cold water. A second later she shook off the cold and started swimming. It was a valiant attempt, but it wasn’t going to succeed. The men in the boat saw her. They followed her, staying just ten yards away, not saying anything. It didn’t take long. Exhausted she began to tread water, then she floated and tried to rest. The runabout idled closer. Eddie was a little surprised the thief was a woman, but business was business. Fred stood, took careful aim and fired the Thompson. Dolly’s body slowly sank to the bottom.

  Chapter 17

  Jim balanced on the top step of the ladder. “Hold tight,” he called to Eve. Then, arms outstretched hard against the wall he balanced on one foot and lowered the other to the next step of the ladder. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead. The still heat of the building was oppressive. Some light leaked through the blacked-out windows, but it wasn’t enough to see anything more than vague shadows. He lowered himself one more step and stopped.

  “You alright?” Eve called.

  “Yeah.”

  Jim considered. Then, after a moment he climbed back to the top step, “Eve?”

  She leaned in the window. “You forgot something didn’t you?”

  “Hon, ya got a flashlight?”

  Eve thought a moment then said, “You climbed all the way up here and forgot a flashlight?”

  “Yeah, well, I thought more light would come through the broken window.”

  Eve grinned. “Good thing I know you.” She said and, reaching behind her back she removed a flashlight she had stuffed into her belt in anticipation of this very request.

  “Thanks hon! Oh, I’ll need some tools too.”

  “How did you expect to open the rusted shut doors

  without tools?”

  “Eve, I was just going to look around, then I’d get the tool I needed. It’s a process, very well thought out and methodical. Don’t you see?” Jim did his best to look innocent.

  “Oh brother, it’s getting deep and I’m ten feet above the ground!” Eve grinned back, turned and shouted:

  “Sherrie…in the truck. Jim needs the tool box.”

  Sherrie was back in a moment. Gerry lowered the bucket and Sherrie handed the box to Eve then climbed into the loader. “I want to see what’s going on,” she said as she surveyed the inside of her metal steed.

  Both women knelt on one knee, grabbed the sides of the steel box and gave Gerry a thumbs-up. He gently touched the control lever, raised the tractor arms, and set the box against the wall. Then Gerry watched as the toolbox was pushed through the open window and lowered to Jim.

  A moment later Gerry was staring at the backsides of two women who had their heads thrust inside a broken window. He grinned, took his cell phone from his pocket and snapped a picture. “This will be a great Christmas card,” he said to no one in particular.

  Jim stuffed the flashlight in a pocket and gripped the toolbox with one hand. Using the other hand he slowly climbed down the ladder, put the tools on the floor and scanned the building with the light. Immediately Eve and Sherrie let out a gasp. The flashlight illuminated a large wooden cabin cruiser.

  “Are you guys seeing this?” Jim shouted as he moved closer to the boat. He flicked the beam of light across the craft as he walked. Finding a dusty metal name plate Jim used his free hand to wipe off a layer of dirt. Slowly the words ‘Chris-Craft Express Commuter’ emerged. He stepped back and tried to get some perspective on the large boat. The darkness was too much. He couldn’t take it all in.

  Jim slowly walked around the boat. Rounding the bow of the craft his flashlight found a small stack of crates against the block wall. The crates were covered with dirt and he couldn’t tell their contents. Jim suppressed his curiosity and began looking for the building’s doors. Spotting the main doors he was about to pick up the toolbox when his light swept the bow of the cruiser. A hole had been smashed into the left forward area. The damage was about four feet long and two feet wide. It appeared to be fairly deep and Jim wondered at the story he would never hear.

  Focusing on the immediate task Jim recovered the toolbox and went to the large garage doors on the end of the building. After a short examination he found two spring loaded latches, on
e secured the top of the door to the frame and the other at the bottom secured the door to the building’s concrete floor pad. A chain extended from the top and Jim used it to release the latch. A bar extended up from the floor latch and he pulled it up and swung it out of the way, releasing that latch. Jim then pushed on the doors, but only succeeded in flexing them outward a few inches. He pulled on the doors and didn’t do much better.

  Examining the door handle he found a steel cylindrical lock. It looked completely rusted and Jim was certain it was unusable. Taking a flat head screwdriver and a hammer from the box he was able to knock the cover off the rusted lock. This revealed an inner steel cover plate and a portion of the lock’s bolt as it extended into the lock plate on the opposite door. The bolt was covered with rust. This gave Jim an idea.

  Removing the tray from the top of the toolbox he began searching through the larger items beneath. Eventually Jim selected a large ball peen hammer and a cold chisel. The chisel, designed for metal, not wood, would cut the rusty deadbolt. Placing the blade of the chisel against the bolt he set to work. Two sharp blows with the hammer and the bolt snapped. With a smile Jim pulled the doors open and the first daylight to enter the strange block building in years flooded past.

  Chapter 18

  Abe Axler and Eddie Fletcher stood in the wheelhouse of a large towboat. It was just after midnight and the current leaders of the Purples were staring hard into the night. Phil Bronski, the boat’s owner, hadn’t found a lot of work for his boat in the past two years. The heavily built craft had been designed for pushing barges and other workboats of various types around the construction sites of the new Detroit-Windsor tunnel.

  That work was gone now. The tunnel, nearly a mile long, had taken just two years to build and had finished in November 1930, a year ahead of schedule. A fact that both the Purples and Phil bemoaned.

  As the work had dried up Phil had been forced to work harder and harder to find fewer and fewer customers for his boat. Gradually he began to find the bottom of a bottle. Now, his tab with the Purples dangerously high, he was thankful for any chance to work some of the crushing debt off. Even if that chance involved a small invasion of Canada.