H.J. Gaudreau - Jim Crenshaw 02 - The Collingwood Legacy (7 page)

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 as 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, one 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.

“It should be in here someplace.” Eddie said.

“Ready your light,” Phil called to his deck hand.

The boat coasted gently into the night. “How far are we from shore?” Abe asked.

“I’d guess about a hundred forty, maybe a hundred fifty yards. See the edge of the beach there?” Phil pointed.

Only a few brave stars shown in the black sky, but to Phil the night was bright. To Abe and Eddie it was dark as a coal mine.

“There!” Phil called and pointed. “Light to port, just off the bow. You got it?”

In answer a deckhand had shined the spotlight in a zigzag across the water, finally resting on the Chris-Craft. The boat sat with its bow above its stern and pitched on its left side twenty degrees. The surface of the lake strained to reach the stern rail but fell short by a foot. They quickly dropped anchor and tied to the wreck.

Few words were spoken. One member of Phil’s crew jumped to the stranded cruiser while another passed tools, a large tarp, and a long, wide-mouthed hose. Then they attached a line to the stern cleats and prepared to pull the boat off the rock that had doomed Dolly Grongoski.

When all was in readiness for the pull the tarp was lowered into the water and pulled under the boat with lines affixed to each side. These lines were then tied off on the boat rails so the tarp hung under the boat like a sling.

A voice from inside the Chris-Craft called, “Start the pump!” Another man, stationed at the bow of the towboat gave a sharp tug on a pull cord starting a small gasoline engine. The engine caught and soon a rhythmic clatter filled the air. An instant later the discharge hose of the pump filled, gushed water and settled into a steady stream.

Once Phil was satisfied the pump was working he backed the towboat’s engines. The Chris-Craft slowly slid off the rock. The stern nearly swamped, the bow bobbed up and down but the cruiser eventually settled bow down in the cold water. Immediately water tried to rush into the hole caused by the rock. They were ready for this. Two men ran from line to line and pulled the tarp tight against the hull. The pump caused a slight decrease in water pressure inside the hull, the natural displacement of the craft caused pressure outside the boat and pushed the tarp into the hole. Immediately the gash was sealed.

The pump did its job and slowly emptied the flooded craft. Gradually the bow raised itself out of the water and the boat leveled. Both Abe and Eddie smiled and shook Phil’s hand. “Impressive Phil,” Eddie said with a grin.

“We ain’t done until she’s back in her happy little boathouse,” Phil replied. He knew that his job wasn’t done and they had a long way to go across a sometimes angry lake. More importantly, Phil knew that seeing the morning sun wasn’t a sure bet until the Chris-Craft was back in the boathouse.

“Yeah, well…this is a good start ol’ buddy,” Abe replied.

They began the long tow back to the boathouse. Forty minutes later Abe leaned over to Phil and said, “Put in at Grosse Ile.” Phil started to question the change, thought better of it and kept his thoughts to himself. Slowly reducing the throttle Phil gradually approached the haul-out bank.

Several men directed the Chris-Craft into position using a combination of ropes made fast to the bow and stern. Finally, the big cruiser was in place and a pair of lines were directed forward to a matching set of winches, began to tighten. Gently the boat was pulled forward until it came to rest on a wooden boat cradle. The cradle sat on a steel wheeled dolly, which rode on a pair of rails. A large engine turned a drum and a cable attached to the dolly pulled tight. Gradually the dolly was pulled up a shallow incline until the Chris-Craft sat in a cradle on dry land.

Phil was impressed with how efficient the operation had gone, but this was not terribly new or unusual to a man who had spent his life around boats and boatyards. Then the unusual did occur. A large diesel powered crane roared to life and came rumbling toward the Chris-Craft. As it approached, a truck with an oversized flatbed trailer drove into position next to the crane. Men swarmed around the Chris-Craft. Six-inch wide straps were strung from side to side and over the top, culminating at a single universal hook, which was then attached to the crane’s lift cable.

Moments later the cruiser lifted from its cradle, swung through the air and was gently lowered to a similar cradle on the back of the truck.

Abe Axler and Eddie Fletcher had left the towboat and were supervising the loading of the Chris-Craft from next to the cab of the truck. As the last cable was being secured to the side of the truck trailer Eddie grabbed the driver’s arm.

“Forget what you’ve been told. I want you to take it to the orchard. One of the boys will have the equipment. Change the paint, I want the top blue. Change the name; call it…” He stopped, searched the yard for Axler then called, “Hey Abe! What the hell was that horse’s name. You know, the Derby winner?”

Axler flicked his cigarette. “Eddie, how the hell could you forget a name like Burgoo King?”

“Have ‘em paint Burgoo King on the back. Then put it in the shed and lock it up. We’ll get back to it next spring.” The driver nodded.

“I don’t want anyone seeing it go in the shed, understand? That means you do all this at night. In fact, you drive only at night. Take the back roads, no state roads. You got all that?” Eddie jabbed a finger into the driver’s chest. The man’s eyes widened slightly.

“Yeah. Night, no state roads, backroads only. I got it Eddie.”

“Good, don’t screw this up.” Eddie pointed and lifted his thumb, the universal sign of a gun. “Or…” His thumb flexed forward.

“Really, I got it Eddie, no worries.”

Eddie grinned and slapped the man on the back. “Good” he said.

Several minutes later Abe and Eddie watched the truck leave the boatyard. “We all good here?” Abe asked.

“Yeah.”

“What about Phil?” Abe glanced in the direction of the towboat.

Fletcher thought for a moment, then decided, “He’s okay. Who knows, maybe we’ll need him again.”

“I’ll tell him.” Abe said, then turned and walked back to the towboat. “Phil” Abe yelled the name as he jumped from the dock to the boat.

“Yea…Yeah?” Phil could feel his chest and throat tightening.

“Phil, you know you owe us a good amount of money? We’ve extended a lot of credit.”

“Ah geeze Abe. Times is hard. I’ll pay you back as soon as I can, I promise I will.” Phil could feel his bladder convulse and wondered if he was going to wet his pants before they killed him.

“I don’t like debt Phil.” Abe stopped. The silence nearly crushed Phil as he shifted his weight from foot to foot. Abe was enjoying Phil’s discomfort. “Phil, I don’t like debt, yours or mine. And if I didn’t pay you for tonight’s work, I’d be in debt to you right?”

“No, no Abe. Really, consider it a favor, really.”

Phil could feel the warmth on the inside of his leg.

“Phil, I don’t do favors and I don’t want favors. You understand Phil?”

“Yeah, yeah, sure Abe. But I was just considering this to be among friends.”

“I don’t have friends Phil.” Abe studied the man. Several seconds passed, Phil began to shake. Urine began to run down his leg. Finally Abe said, “Well Phil, tell you what. You did us a favor tonight. We’ll call it even.”

Phil couldn’t believe his ears. He could feel his heart pounding. He thought about his wet leg, then he smiled, and then he slumped back against the rail. “Thanks Abe. Thanks. Any time I can do something for you boys you just let ol’ Phil know.” His relief was palatable. Phil knew he could just as easily have ended the night as carp food.

Axler and Eddie Fletcher didn’t get back to the Chris-Craft the next spring. The raging war among the Italian Mafia spilled into Detroit. The East Side Gang became the Detroit Partnership. As time slipped by Charles “Lucky” Luciano took over the New York organization and the Mafia war ended. Luciano formed ‘La Cosa Nostra’ from the nation’s twenty-four most powerful Mafia crime families. The Partnership was one of them. The organization was too big, too powerful for the Purples or anyone else. In November, Abe and Eddie were taken for a ride. Their bodies were found in a car on an isolated country road. It was just business.