Motor City Shakedown (45 page)

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

Elizabeth fell to her knees. Palming the dagger, I knelt down and took her in my arms, shielding her from the Bernsteins. Her face was blank, eyes staring off at some vision in the distance, like a soldier I saw years ago who'd just come back from the war in the Philippines.

The sirens began to fade into the distance. I looked off toward the sound as the police cars raced away down Rivard. Rogers wasn't going to save us.

Abe's footsteps crunched on the dirt behind me, moving closer. My shoulders hunched in anticipation of the shot to the back of the head. I twisted around so Abe couldn't see the dagger. I had to wait until he was close enough. I'd stab him, grab his gun, and shoot Joey.

“Let's go,” Abe said.

I half turned and looked at him, my hand still hidden. He was ten feet away, holding the gun loosely at his side. “Go?” I said. “Go where?”

“We got a appointment.”

I kept looking at Abe. “Why the hell did you kill them?” A string of firecrackers went off a street or two away.

He squinted down at us. “You gotta know which way the wind's blowin'. It wasn't blowin' their way.”

“But, my God, Abe,” I said. “Joey's what? Fifteen? You've got him killing men?”

“Stop bein' such a pussy. Let's go.”

“I thought I knew you.”

“Yeah, well, you thought wrong.”

“If you're going to kill us,” Elizabeth said in a shaky voice, “do it here.”

The sirens were getting louder again. Joey slid two more shells into the breech of the shotgun and snapped it shut. “Abe, they ain't gonna cooperate.” He pronounced it
coop-erate
. “We gotta get out of here. I don't mind shootin' 'em if you want.”

“Shut up, Joey. We need 'em.” Abe released the hammer on his pistol. “Let's go,” he said to me. “Nobody's gonna shoot ya. We're getting paid for killin' the Adamos, not you.”

The sirens were still probably half a mile away, but they were getting closer. Maybe we had a chance. “Paid?” I said.

“Five hundred big ones,” Abe crowed. “Two-fifty apiece. This is gonna keep us in smokes for a long time. Might even finance somethin' big. You're my witness.” He looked off toward the sound of the sirens and then gestured down the alley with the gun. “Now move.”

He said they wouldn't kill us. I didn't know if that was true, but it was unlikely I could kill both of them before we got shot. The police were no more than a minute away. If we were here when they got back, someone was going to get killed. Probably more than one. And Joey wasn't going to wait all day.

I stood and held my hand out to Elizabeth. “Come on, honey.” She took my hand, and I helped her to her feet.

“Gimme the pigsticker,” Abe said.

I looked at him.

“Come on.” He raised the pistol and gave me a
hand it over
motion. “I seen it.”

I gave him the dagger.

“Go. Double time.” Abe pointed down the alley with his gun. I put my good arm around Elizabeth, and we began trotting, skirting the bodies of the Adamo brothers. Abe and Joey followed behind us. Tires squealed in front of the restaurant, and the sirens shut off.

We had just turned down a dark lane, perhaps ten feet wide with three-story buildings on either side, when behind us a man called out, “Will! Elizabeth!” It was Detective Riordan. He'd gotten out.

Abe shoved me forward and directed us on a zigzag path down dark alleys and unpaved lanes. Farther up the road, a pair of roman candles fired almost simultaneously.

“So, Joey,” I said. “I thought you preferred the razor. Isn't that what you're known for?”

“What do you mean?” he said.

“Isn't that what they call you? The Razor?”

“Shut up,” Abe growled. “Keep movin'.”

As we walked, the brothers talked quietly. Certain they were discussing our fate, I strained to listen in. Joey was agitated, but the only words I could make out were “He better not hit me again. That's all I'm sayin'.”

Abe's response was too quiet to hear. Moments later, he pushed me up the walk toward a big white two-story home and knocked on the door.

Waldman answered.

Waldman?
Elizabeth and I exchanged a startled glance. “What the hell?” I muttered.

“Come in,” he said. “All weapons stay here.”

Joey pushed me in the back with the shotgun, and I stepped up into the house, Elizabeth beside me. The Bernsteins followed. The foyer was dimly lit by electric sconces on the dark paneled walls.

“They're clean,” Abe said, waving toward Elizabeth and me.

Waldman glowered at him. “You don't tell me anything. I tell you.” He closed the door and began giving me a pat-down but stopped and glanced at Joey. “What are you looking at?”

Joey shifted the toothpick to the other side of his mouth and gave him a lazy grin. “Nothin'. Just want my money.”

Waldman barked something at Joey in Yiddish, then added, “Every time you see me you get paid.”

“Seems like you get paid a lot more,” Joey said.

“You think you're a big shot now? Huh?”

Joey started to say something, but Waldman turned to Abe. “Are you going to shut him up, or am I?”

Abe nudged Joey and shot him a warning glance. The grin didn't leave Joey's face, but he shut up. Without getting anywhere near my hands, Waldman finished with me and began searching Elizabeth.

It finally hit me. “The craps game.” I pointed at Waldman. “That was you.” I turned to Abe and stared into his eyes. “You've been playing me from the start.”

He just gave me a shake of the head, clearly disgusted with my stupidity.

Finished with Elizabeth, Waldman held out his hand toward the main hallway. “Mr. Anderson and Miss Hume, dining room. Second door on the right.”

“Why?”

Joey pushed me in the back. “Go,” he said.

Elizabeth looked at me, and I nodded. We walked down to the doorway and stepped into the dining room.

At the end of a twenty-foot table, with Minna on his lap, sat Ethan Pinsky.

*   *   *

Minna had one arm draped over his shoulders, running her fingers along his lapel. In her other hand, she held a semiautomatic pistol. It was pointed at me.

Pinsky said something quietly to her. She stood and slipped into the chair next to him. “Please.” He waved us in. “Sit.”

I stood in the doorway. “You were arrested. You're supposed to be in Boston.”

He chuckled, his breath rattling, and started laughing harder before breaking into a coughing fit. When he finished gasping, he smiled at me again and said, “No.
Ethan Pinsky
was arrested.”

“What?”

“Think, Mr. Anderson. My Lord, you are dim at times. Now sit.”

I stood there openmouthed. Minna used the gun to motion us to the table. I took Elizabeth's elbow, and we sat. I shrugged at him. “I don't understand.”

“You made an appointment with Ethan Pinsky,” he said. “Waldman went to your apartment and changed the meeting date.” He gasped in a breath. “He gave you a new telephone number … with which to call Ethan Pinsky. Except it wasn't Ethan Pinsky.” He grinned, pleased with himself. “It was me. The real Pinsky wanted you to facilitate … getting the Teamsters into Detroit Electric. I simply want the money.”

I stared at him until my mind caught up. Joe and the Gianollas asked me why I hadn't met with Pinsky—the real Pinsky. “You son of a bitch. Who are you?”

“To keep things simple, why don't you just think of me … as Ethan Pinsky the Second.”

“You weren't working with the Gianollas.”

He gave a faux shudder. “Of course not. I never associate with Sicilians.”

“But…” I glanced at Minna. “Wait. She was feeding you the information from them. She was your spy.”

“Congratulations,” the albino said.

I glared at him. “What do you want?”

“Are the Adamo brothers dead?” he wheezed.

I nodded.

“And who is responsible?”

I nodded toward the hallway. “Butch and Sundance back there.”

“The Gianolla brothers? Are they dead?”

“Not as far as I know.”

“Mm.” He worked his mouth around for a few moments.

“What's your angle?” I said.

He sat back in the chair and smiled at me. I wanted to plant my fist in the middle of those yellow teeth. “Did I not tell you I arrange things?”

Under the table, I began pulling off my glove, one finger at a time. “You did.”

“Well, then…”

Was it really this simple? “You provoked a gang war. Why?”

“The Sicilians have taken over virtually all the … Detroit rackets,” he gasped. “I needed them out of the way. Unfortunately, we are still only halfway there.”

The picture was falling into place. “It wasn't the Gianollas.
You
set me up.
You
had Moretti killed.”

He did nothing other than to look at me from behind the dark glasses.

I got the glove off and worked the switchblade out. “You had it done while I was there so the Gianollas would have leverage over me.”

“Good. Now you're thinking,” the albino said.

Pushing the blade end against the seat of my chair, I pressed the release button on the knife and eased it up so the blade would extend quietly. Hooking a thumb over my shoulder, I said, “The Bernsteins killed Moretti too, didn't they?”

“Please. You insult me. Tonight they got lucky. Do you really think I would send boys … to do that sort of work?”

“But you sent your daughter to be used by Sam Gianolla, didn't you?”

“She's not his daughter,” Elizabeth said.

I glanced at her and then at Minna. She stared back at Elizabeth, a cool smile on her face. Both her hands were on the table. The gun was pointed at my chest.

Elizabeth stood. “Besides confirming your thugs killed the Adamos, was there anything else you wanted with us?”

He looked from her to me and smiled his yellow-toothed smile. “There is still the matter of my fifty thousand dollars.”

“You can't be serious,” I said.

“It's only a matter of time until the Gianolla brothers are out of my way. Fifty thousand dollars will buy me enough men to take over the city.”

“Joe Curtiss died so you could take over the rackets?” It hit me then that Sam Gianolla hadn't killed Joe. “Oh, Christ. You had Joe killed so it would look like the Gianollas did it. Did you send boys to do that?”

He shook his head, amused. “Do you really think they could have tortured a man that way?”

“If they didn't do it, then how do you know he was tortured?”

“Believe me when I say work like that requires a specialist.”

“Oh,” Minna said. “I'm blushing.”

My jaw dropped. “You?”

She gave me a coquettish smile. “You'd be surprised what a woman is capable of, Will. For example…” She opened her purse with one hand and pulled out a black satin case—the shaving kit. After flipping it open, she took out the straight razor and angled it so the blade would shine into my eyes. “Nearly cutting off a man's head, for example. I so wanted to do you and your girlfriend, but my sweetheart said no.”

The albino had ordered Joe's death, and Minna killed him. And she killed Moretti. A cold rage burned through me. They were responsible for all of this. They had to die. I did a quick reckoning. The doorway split the table exactly. I estimated the distance between the albino's chest and me—twelve feet. Minna—nine feet. I needed fifteen. She had the gun.

Three steps. Kill her. Take the gun. Kill him.

I palmed the knife and stood. Minna's gun barrel tracked me. I turned and walked toward the end of the table with my head in my hands, then turned back to the albino, anguish on my face. “How could you?” I sobbed. Now I was fifteen feet from Minna. I'd wait for my chance.

Elizabeth leaned over the table. “So now what do we do?” she demanded. “What about the Teamsters? And the Gianollas?”

“If”—Pinsky held a gloved index finger in front of him—“if Mr. Anderson pays me my money, I will end the Gianollas' threat.”

“You son of a bitch,” I said. “Why would we believe you?”

“He just wants his money,” Minna said in a honey-laced tone. She kept her eyes and the gun trained on me.

Elizabeth cocked her head at Minna. “Just like
you
want his money. Why else would you be here?”

Giving Elizabeth a languid smile, she reached under the table, massaging the albino's groin. “Besides his brains, you mean?” She was leaning forward, her left arm on the table, her heart about two inches above her forearm. Her gun was still trained on me.

My eyes focused on the gap between Minna's ribs. I'd never tried such a difficult shot. Miss and she gets nothing more than a flesh wound. And we both get killed.

“Whore,” Elizabeth spat.