Motor City Shakedown (16 page)

“Really? I didn't know he was here.”

Wilkinson beamed. “He and your father came to a very important agreement this morning.”

I arched my eyebrows and waited.

“I'll let them tell you.”

I hurried down the stairs to my father's office. Mr. Edison and a younger man sat in the uncomfortable chairs in front of my father's desk. They both rose. I hadn't seen Mr. Edison for more than three years, since my father and I had visited him at his factory in New Jersey. Though sixty-five years old, he was still in good physical condition and full of energy. His thin gray hair was carelessly pushed across his forehead, his light gray suit rumpled, and his blue striped tie askew, but I had never seen him completely put together—too busy for those kinds of details.

He smiled, and his bright blue eyes crinkled at the corners. “Will, so nice to see you.”

I crossed the room with my gloved right hand behind my back. When I reached him, I held out my left hand. After only a brief hesitation, he took it with his. His fingernails were long and rimmed with grease.

“Very nice to see you as well, sir,” I said.

“None of this ‘sir' stuff, Will. You're not a boy any longer.”

“Thank you … Mr. Edison.”

He introduced me to his secretary, a slight man with a clean-shaven face, pale skin, and small wire-rimmed glasses. We shook hands as well.

My father sat on the edge of his desk and grinned. “Tom's finally agreed to sell that Waverly and get himself a real electric.”

“That's good to hear,” I said.

“But, more important, we've extended our exclusive arrangement.”

Mr. Edison's eyes twinkled. “This father of yours is an old Indian trader. Hoodwinked me right out of my profits.”

“Were that only true,” my father retorted. “We're paying a premium, but we'll continue to be the only company with the Edison nickel-steel battery.”

“And therefore the only electric with an average range of one-hundred-plus miles,” Mr. Edison said.

His secretary interrupted. “With the exception of Colonel Bailey, of course.”

Mr. Edison waved him off. “A personal commitment, Will, which your father is well aware of. Unlikely to be a hundred vehicles.”

My father nodded. “And Tom's guaranteeing the batteries will hold their rated capacity for four years. We're going to extend our battery warranty to five.”

“That's wonderful,” I said. “The most expensive piece guaranteed to a hundred miles for five years—and exclusive?”

“Nearly exclusive,” Edison's secretary fit in.

I clapped my father on the back. “Congratulations. Detroit Electric will continue to dominate the market.”

My father put a smile on his face, but it didn't reach his eyes. “This will help.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

At two thirty I caught a streetcar to Winder Street and walked down to the Bishop Ungraded School. I figured the boys would be heading back toward Gratiot again, so I took a seat on a bench about 150 yards southwest of the school, which gave me a good view of the school yard and would keep me out of their path when they left.

A few minutes after I settled in, the school let out. The craps game commenced about thirty minutes later. Shortly after that, the newsboy traipsed around the corner and met up with the other boys. They gambled for the better part of an hour before the man came to collect the money. Again he shouted at the boy in the derby and shook him by the collar. This time he left without giving him anything.

I followed the boys along the same route they'd taken previously. By the time they neared Gratiot all but three had peeled off from the group—left were the blackmail boy, the newsboy, and the derby-wearing boy I believed to be their older brother. I thought my odds were as good as they were going to get. I hurried to catch up.

“Hey, boys, excuse me?” I called when I was only about twenty feet behind them.

They stopped and turned around slowly. The oldest one, a toothpick stuck in the corner of his mouth, looked at me and cocked a hip. “Help ya?” He hooked his thumbs into his trouser pockets. The top of the pockets sagged from the weight of his hands, and I saw the yellowed bone handle of a straight razor sticking up from the pocket on the right. The blackmail boy started when he saw me but recovered quickly. His face blanked, but he took half a step behind the leader. The newsboy just scowled at me.

“Yes.” I caught up to them. “I'm looking for someone, someone your brother knows, and perhaps you do too.”

“Who's 'at?” the oldest boy said. He was a little thinner than the others and shorter for what I guessed his age to be, but he shared their thick black hair and a face that could have belonged to the same person at ten, twelve, and fifteen years of age.

“You guys help me, and I'll give you five bucks.”

“I'm listenin'.”

“And nobody's getting into any trouble.”

“Yeah?” he said.

“Ain't worth it,” the blackmail boy spat from behind his brother. “Chicken feed.”

“Shuddap, Ray,” the oldest boy said. He nodded at me. “You're Anderson, right?”

I was surprised he knew. “Yes.”

He appraised me for a moment. “Don't look like a killer.”

“You don't look like you've got five bucks,” I shot back. “But you could in a minute.”

“Who you looking for?”

“Vito Adamo.”

He laughed. “Five bucks to rat out the White Hand? I look like I was born yesterday?”

I hadn't heard Adamo called that, but I didn't want to slow down enough to ask. “What's it going to take?”

“Why do you think we'd even know?”

“Your brother”—I gestured behind him—“as I'm sure you know, took blackmail money from me. I'm guessing that was arranged by Adamo, which means you know him.”

He chewed on the toothpick and said nothing. Finally he said, “If we could find him—if—it would cost you fifty bucks.”

It was my turn to laugh. “You're joking, right?”

“Hey, you came up with a grand last year. And we work with the dagos. Can't go pissing in our milk for free, can we?”

“I'll give you ten,” I said.

“Forty.”

“Twenty.”

“Thirty.”

“Done.”

“And he never knows it was from us, right?” Joey said.

“Sure.”

“You got the money?”

“No, I'll have to get it.”

“And we gotta figure out where he's at,” he said. “Meet me behind the Bishop School Saturday mornin' at ten.”

“All right.”

“Bring the money.”

“I will. But who am I working with?”

“Why do you care?”

“You know who I am. I've got to know who I'm doing business with.”

He gave me a dead-eyed stare that put a chill into me. Finally, he said, “Joey.”

“Joey what?”

“Bernstein.”

“And your brothers?”

He hooked a thumb toward the newsboy. “Izzy.” Izzy just looked at me.

“And you've met Ray,” Joey said. “Satisfied?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

They turned and strolled off down the sidewalk. When they reached Gratiot, Joey Bernstein looked back at me with a sly grin.

I was going to have to be very careful with these boys.

*   *   *

I was walking up the sidewalk to my building when I noticed a beautiful white touring car parked at the curb. I looked closer. It was a Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost. I'd never seen one before, other than in the trade magazines. It was long and stately, with a chrome grille and an engine compartment that seemed to go on forever. I closed my mouth so I wouldn't drool on myself.

Now I noticed a driver sitting in the front. As I got closer, he turned and said something to another man in the backseat. I wrapped my hand around the butt of the pistol stuck in my belt. I wasn't going to be taken by surprise again.

The man in back opened the door, climbed out, and began crossing the patch of lawn to intercept me. His hands were empty. I glanced from him to the driver. Neither looked to be a threat, but I kept my hand where it was. The man walking toward me wore a dark suit and derby, was perhaps thirty years old, and had a handsome, angular face—marred, I saw as he closed on me, by a large pair of buckteeth that strained against his upper lip. He was dark but didn't look Italian. Jewish, perhaps?

“Mr. Anderson?”

“Why?”

He held out his right hand. “My name is Waldman.”

I kept my left hand on the gun and did nothing with my right. “And?”

He let his hand drop to his side. “Mr. Pinsky would like to meet with you for lunch tomorrow.” He had a strong accent—Russian, I thought.

“Oh.” This wasn't good news. “He's back in town?”

“Yes.”

“And what is your relationship with Pinsky?”

“I am Mr. Pinsky's personal secretary.”

“Then who did I speak with on the phone?”

“Was it a woman?”

I nodded.

“That would have been another of his secretaries. Mr. Pinsky is a very busy man.”

“As am I. I'm busy tomorrow, Mr. Waldman. And I'm sure my father already has lunch plans.”

“Perhaps you should come alone,” he said. “Mr. Pinsky is aware of the … delicacy of this matter.” He reached inside his coat, and I tensed, but all he did was pull out a piece of paper and offer it to me. “Mr. Pinsky's home address and telephone number. He will be looking for you at twelve o'clock. Please be punctual.”

I let go of the gun and took the paper. Waldman tipped his derby and walked back to the car. I looked at the address. It was on Gladstone, not far from the Fords' home.

Even though I was dreading the meeting, I have to admit I was intrigued.

*   *   *

The next morning I stayed home throwing knives rather than going in to work. I was getting pretty good. In fact, the dartboard was shredded—nothing more than a metal ring with a few stray pieces of wood. Dr. Miller's nurse called me to schedule an appointment. I begged off, telling her I'd call back. Finally it was time for my meeting with Ethan Pinsky. I caught a trolley and got off just down the street from Gladstone. The sky was gray and heavy. Rain was coming. Hammers pounded, and saws slashed all around me as I walked the last few blocks. New homes were under construction in all directions.

I stopped in front of a large redbrick colonial, every curtain drawn. The house looked empty, though the landscaping was immaculate. Feeling more than a little nervous, I rang the bell.

Waldman answered the door. “Come in.” He held the door open as I entered and then closed it behind me. “Please, sir,” he said. “Hold your arms out from your sides.”

“Why?”

“I have to search you, sir. No one is allowed to bring weapons into the house.”

“I'll spare you the trouble. Here.” I reached behind me, pulled the gun from my belt, and gave it to him along with the switchblade. “Give them back when we're finished.”

“Certainly, sir. Thank you. But I still have to search you.” He set the knife and pistol on a table and looked at me expectantly.

What was one more indignity? I raised my arms, and he patted me down. “Thank you, sir,” he said, and led me down a dim hallway. The curtains were drawn, with only a meager light leaking in onto the deep green wallpaper and walnut trim. As my eyes began to adjust, I could see the house was well appointed and meticulously neat. Waldman stopped at the entrance to the dining room.

A man in a tan suit sat across the room at the end of a long table. An auburn-haired woman bent over him from behind, wiping his neck with a towel. His skin was startlingly white, chalky, glowing in the shadows of the room. His round head was as bare as a billiard ball, and he wore a pair of tiny wire-rimmed dark glasses. A large bowl of water sat on the edge of the table, foamy with shaving cream.

“Son of a bitch,” I muttered. It was the albino.

He smiled. His teeth looked yellow against the pallor of his skin. “Ah, Mr. Anderson,” he wheezed. “Sorry, I'm running a little late. Please come in. Sit.”

The woman—Sam Gianolla's girlfriend—meticulously cleaned the blade of the straight razor and set it into a small black satin shaving case. Waldman pulled out the chair at the opposite end of the table and left the room.

I sat. “You're Pinsky?”

“Indeed I am.” He smiled again. The woman retreated from the room with the case, towel, and bowl.

“And you work for the Gianollas.”

“No, I've been contracted by the Teamsters. The Gianolla brothers have insinuated themselves into the union,” he gasped in a breath, “using methods that are best left to the imagination.”

“If you don't work for the Gianollas, what was
she
”—I waved toward the hallway—“doing with them?”

“Hmm.” His mouth worked like he was trying to get something unstuck from between his teeth. “Oh. Minna. She serves as a liaison between the union and the Gianollas.”

“She's doing more than liaising.”

He didn't comment, so I changed tacks. “How did you get Esposito to confess?”

“I had nothing to do with that.” He took a breath. I could hear the air rattle in his lungs. “I imagine Mr. Esposito was overcome by guilt.… I assume he's a Catholic.”

“So what exactly is your role in this?”

He worked his mouth around some more. Finally he said, “I arrange things.”

“And what of Minna? Does she also arrange things?”

He looked at me from behind the dark glasses. “She assists me.”

“I'd like to speak with her.”

He looked at me a moment longer. “I will allow you that opportunity.”

“In the meantime, perhaps you could tell me what the hell you want of me?”

“I have been tasked with delivering Anderson Electric Car Company to the Teamsters.”