Motor City Shakedown (15 page)

I gawped at him. “I'd say you're off your rocker. It's impossible. Unless, perhaps, you're going to build a ten-mile-long assembly line so you can get the paint to dry before the car runs out of belt.”

His smile wavered. “That's the only holdup. Here, let's…” He motioned toward the rooms enclosing the belt, and we began walking toward them. “Our engineers have tried thousands of different kinds of paint, and so far have found only one that dries fast enough.”

“Really?” I said. “I can't believe there'd be even one. But I don't understand. Why isn't one enough?”

He stopped at the entrance to one of the rooms, which I saw now was a paint room, and pulled one of many large pieces of steel off the belt. He held it up so I could see the shiny black finish. “Not just one kind of paint. One kind and one color—Japan black.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“Black?” I said. “You've never made an all-black car, have you?”

“No,” Edsel replied. “Blue with black trim this year. Otherwise red, gray, and green.”

“They'll look nice in black.” I nudged his arm and grinned. “Or as nice as a Tin Lizzie can look, anyway. The black might help hide the ugliness.”

He gave me a shove. “They're not built for beauty.”

“You can say that again.”

We spent half an hour wandering up and down the conveyors, discussing the stages of the assembly line. The floors around the paint rooms were littered with steel parts in reds and greens and blues, the colors the buying public expected.

“Too bad about the paint,” I said. “I can't imagine how much money you'd save on production.”

He shrugged. “Ah, they'll get it. It's only a matter of time.”

“You know, you need to put that mind of yours on another problem—traffic. Figure out how to apply assembly line efficiency to the madhouse out there.” I gestured toward the street.

He laughed. “Conveyor belts stacked at different heights for different directions—sure, I'll get right on that.”

“Something's got to be done, and soon. Unless there's a cop on the corner, it's nothing more than a giant game of chicken.”

“I hear they're going to put up a mechanical semaphore at Woodward and Michigan.”

“A what?”

He laughed. “It's a most inelegant solution to the problem. A policeman stands next to a big sign and switches it from Stop to Go and back again.”

“Perfect. They'll be taking bids—the driver with the biggest bribe gets to cross the street.”

Edsel laughed again and clapped me on the shoulder. “Will the cynic.”

“Thanks for showing me around. This will give me some good ammunition. Any chance you'll chuck this and finally go to college?”

He ducked his head and toed the floor. “My father thinks it's all poppycock. He wants me here. And, really, he needs me here.” He looked up at me. “He needs a counterpoint. Everything to him is price. Make them cheaper, which will sell more, which will make them cheaper, which will sell more, and so on. The Runabout dropped from nine hundred to five-ninety in the last two years—and if we get this done who knows how far down it'll go.”

“And your sales are doubling every year. It's working, right?”

“Yes, but what about style? What about speed?”

“Not in an ‘everyman's' automobile. You're stuck in the most successful car company in the world. Tough luck.”

He grinned. “I know. It's tough all over. But if I could just get him to make something besides flivvers. The opportunity is there.” He pulled out his watch and glanced at the face. “Dinnertime. Mother hates it when I'm late.”

“Oh, hey, I almost forgot. I want to buy one of those cheap cars from you.”

“For yourself?”

I nodded. “I can't deal with the streetcars anymore.”

“A Runabout?”

“Torpedoes are faster, right?”

Edsel gave me a sidelong glance. “Say, if you want speed, why don't you buy
my
Torpedo?”

“You want to sell it?”

“I'm working on a new Speedster right now. I could drive the electric for a while, so”—he shrugged—“sure.”

“How much?”

His face scrunched up while he thought. “How about five hundred?”

“Sounds like a pretty good deal.”

He smiled and wagged his eyebrows. “One owner. Drives like an old lady.”

I snorted. I'd never seen anyone drive faster than Edsel. “I'd like to see that old lady.”

“You know I made a few modifications, right?”

“I seem to remember a getaway at about a hundred miles an hour,” I said with a grin.

“Nah,” he scoffed. “We never even hit fifty on that ride. But it'll go a lot faster than that.”

“Sold.”

“All right. One thing I've learned from my father is when they say yes, stop selling and get the money. When do you want it?”

“How about Friday? I could come by in the evening.”

“Deal.” He held out his left hand, and I shook it.

“Wait,” Edsel said, looking down at my gloved right hand. “The throttle control is on the right. How are you going to run it?”

“I hadn't even thought about that.”

He clapped his hands. “I'll move it! Why can't it be on the left? But…” He trailed off. I could see the gears turning in his head. Now he spoke slowly, staring off into the distance. “Will you be able to steer well enough with your right hand so you can use your left to adjust the throttle?”

“I'm sure I can.”

He rubbed his chin, then grinned and met my gaze. “I'll have it ready by Friday.”

*   *   *

When I walked into my apartment the telephone in my den was ringing. I hurried to answer it.

“Will, it's Joe Curtiss. Don't hang up on me.”

Joe was the head mechanic at the Detroit Electric garage. “Why would I hang up on you?”

“That's a good question.” Joe and I hadn't exactly been close since the first time I was accused of murder, but he sounded downright belligerent now.

“What do you want?”

“We need to meet—tonight.”

“Why? What's so important?”

“Listen, my next call is going to be to Tony. You ain't gonna duck me again.”

“Tony?”

“Don't even try it, Will.”

“Tony Gianolla? Wait, you're the Joe with the Teamsters?”

He blew out a deep breath. “I'm not with the Teamsters, but I'm sure that's how the Gianollas would describe me. Nine o'clock at the Merrill Fountain. Don't be late.” He hung up.

I sat at my desk and thought. Could this have something to do with Joe's wife, Gina? She was Italian, but I didn't think she was Sicilian. And what was Joe doing fronting for the Teamsters Union? Beyond the fact that he used to be one of my best friends, he was a mechanic, not a driver. The Teamsters were apparently branching out.

The wall clock showed ten minutes after eight. It couldn't hurt to be early. I went back out and caught a streetcar to the corner of Woodward and Monroe. It was dusk, and the Detroit Opera House, directly across the street, was dark, so I waited in the shadows of the entrance and watched the fountain, a brilliant white archway lit by electric floodlights. Crowds of people passed in front of me on the sidewalk and crossed the street to the fountain and beyond.

At nine, it was fully dark. I lit a cigarette, strolled across the street, and took a seat on the marble railing, my back to the fountain. A few minutes later, Joe stepped out of the billiard parlor across the street and looked around for a moment before crossing to me and standing a few feet away. He was aging, though it could have just been the floodlights. His skin looked like parchment. Lit from below, he was a specter. His normally pink, open face was ghostly white, his thinning hair nearly invisible.

He jammed his fists into the pockets of his jacket and said, “Jesus, Anderson. I'm glad you showed.” His eyes darted back and forth. “You alone?”

I stood and held out my left hand. “Hello, Joe. Yes, I'm alone.”

He hesitated, then shook my hand awkwardly. “Let's go inside.” He nodded toward the billiard parlor.

I followed him back across the street and inside. The room was narrow but deep, with half a dozen green-felt-topped billiard tables, a long bar, and small tables scattered about, everything hazy from a thick glaze of smoke. It was crowded with men from all social strata, from corduroy and denim work clothes to the finery of the city's elite. The click of pool balls, the cursing of men, and the thunk of beer mugs onto tables filled the air.

Joe stopped at the bar for a couple of beers. He handed me a mug and led me past the tables to a booth in back. When he slid into the seat, his beer slopped onto the table. “I'm sorry you had to get involved in this, but listen, Will, I need your help. The Teamsters want in. They want everybody, but I can get them to take just the drivers and mechanics. You have to make it happen.”

I eyed the beer in front of me but didn't drink. “How in the world do you expect me to do that?”

He took a gulp of beer and sat back in the hard wooden seat. “You better figure it out fast. You know they're in the AFL?”

“Yeah.” I tried to concentrate, but I was distracted by the amber glow of the beer in front of me.

“Well, they're going to call for a general strike. Shut the city down. They can do it too. But that's the least of our troubles. You need to arrange a meeting between your father and Ethan Pinsky.” He gave me a piece of paper. “Here's his number.”

“Who's Pinsky?”

“A lawyer. He's negotiatin' for the union.”

I shook my head. “I don't see how we're going to get this done.”

“If you don't, we're gonna be in big trouble.”

“You too?”

His face hardened. “These guys aren't messing around. If we don't deliver…” He took a quick swallow of beer.

I pushed my mug aside. “Are they going to hurt you?”

“My family.” He bit his lip and looked down at the table.

“Is it the Teamsters? Or the Gianollas?”

He shook his head. “Tony Gianolla's the one that threatened me.”

“Why are you their spokesman?”

“Because he said I was.”

“Does this have something to do with Gina?”

He nodded. “Her dad has been paying off the Gianollas for protection on his flower business. Somehow they connected me with him.”

I thought for a moment. “What's your take on this, Joe? Do you want the Teamsters in?”

His head recoiled in surprise. “Hell no. I got no complaints. Your dad's a fair man. But what I want's got nothing to do with anything.” He shook his head. “I got kids, Will. We have to do this.”

I reached out and laid my good hand on his forearm. “Maybe there's a way out, Joe.”

He grunted out a laugh. “You don't know these guys.”

We talked for a few minutes, catching up in the awkward fashion of men thrown together after a long history ended by a disagreement—in this case, his belief I was a murderer.

Joe left, saying he needed to get home to say good night to his wife. I looked at the beer in front of me. The head had disappeared, now just a soapy-looking ring around the top of the mug. I picked it up and held it to the light. Half a dozen of these, and I would feel good. A dozen, and I wouldn't feel anything.

I set down the mug and looked around the billiard hall. No one was watching. No one cared in the least if I drank. They were drinking. Most had been drinking heavily. It was what we did.

Once again, the burn clued me in that I was rubbing my hand. I stopped, took a deep breath, and slipped out of the booth.

Time for bed.

*   *   *

I went into the factory the next morning. Mr. Wilkinson directed me to a vacant office on the second floor of the administration building. I needed a strategy. With Edsel taking care of my efficiency project, I spent my time doodling on a piece of paper, trying to determine how to deal with the Gianollas.

My only lead on the Adamos was the boy who had taken the blackmail money. I was going to have to get him away from the other boys and make him talk. He was a tough little monkey and would be a challenge. But it might be the only way to take care of the Gianollas. Until I could eliminate them, I had to play out the charade. I picked up the telephone's receiver and asked the operator for the number Joe had given me.

After several rings, a woman answered. “Good morning.” Her voice was brisk, her tone efficient.

“Yes, could I speak with Mr. Pinsky, please?”

“Mr. Pinsky is not available, sir.”

“Oh. This is Will Anderson. I was told to call this number.”

“Yes. Mr. Pinsky had been expecting your call earlier this week and was quite disappointed not to hear from you, as was his client. Unfortunately he has business that will keep him out of Detroit until Monday the twenty-third. He insisted he must meet with you and your father the day he returns.”

That was a week and a half away. Not calling had bought me some time, at least.

She continued. “You will meet him at the Cadillac Hotel in the boardroom at one
P.M.
on June twenty-third. Do you understand?”

“Yes, but … I don't know if my father will attend.”

“His presence is required. Good day.” She hung up.

This Pinsky must be a serious man, I thought. And not someone from the Gianollas' social circle. I had expected to talk to a criminal lowlife and instead spoke with a woman who was clearly educated and intelligent. Fooling the Gianollas into believing I was working in their behalf was going to be difficult enough. But this Pinsky—could I fool him too? One more complication in an equation that already had too many variables.

Later that morning, Wilkinson pushed my door open. “Mr. Edison would like to say hello.”