Motor City Shakedown (17 page)

“So you're the public face of the Black Hand. Your mother must be proud.”

He didn't rise to the bait. Instead, he smiled. “There is no reason for this to become personal. It is simply business.”

Minna carried in a silver platter loaded with two steaming bowls of soup and set it on the middle of the table. She wore a simple blue skirt and a white shirtwaist.

“Turtle soup,” Pinsky said. “My grandmother's recipe.”

She brought a bowl to my end of the table and set it in front of me. I thought about the prostitute I'd seen with Moretti. Before she could leave, I took hold of her wrist. “It was you, wasn't it? At Moretti's?”

She jerked her arm from my grasp and narrowed her eyes. “Do I need to teach you some manners?”

“Please, Mr. Anderson,” Pinsky said. “I said you would have an opportunity to speak with her. And you will.”

After giving me one last glare, she stalked back to the center of the table and took the other bowl of soup to Pinsky. I saw now that his bowl contained a clear broth rather than the turtle soup. He waited patiently until she had centered it exactly in front of him.

“Bon appétit,”
he said, and began to slurp his broth.

“Tell me what you want from me.”

He smiled and dabbed his lips with his napkin. “In time, Mr. Anderson.… I must concentrate on my digestion.” He went back to eating and said nothing further. I tasted the soup. It was delicious. After we finished, Minna again appeared with the tray, this time with a plate of fish, caviar, and crackers for me—just crackers for Pinsky—and again with a plate overloaded with beef, potatoes, and bread for me, another with some sort of mush for her employer.

A light rain began to patter against the windowpanes. Pinsky never looked up from his food and didn't say a word.

*   *   *

I picked at the food and waited for Pinsky. When he finished the last of his mush, he sat back and looked at me across the expanse of the table. His dark glasses flashed as they reflected the light of the chandelier. “I appreciate you being patient with what I know to be rather eccentric behavior on my part, Mr. Anderson.” He paused and took a deep breath. “I have a particularly difficult time with my physical health … being susceptible to all sorts of maladies to the extent … that I go outdoors only when absolutely necessary. Nevertheless, when called upon for my services, I deliver as best I can.” He steepled his fingers under his chin. “I suppose you should talk to Minna … so your mind will be clear for our discussion.” He raised his voice. “Minna?”

The young woman appeared from around the corner, carrying an empty platter.

“Sit, please,” Pinsky said.

She set the platter on the table before striding down to Pinsky. She pulled out a chair next to him and sat, her posture perfect.

“Mr. Anderson would like to ask you some questions, my dear. Please answer them all as completely as you can.”

“Certainly.” She turned to me. In the dim light, I could see her in twenty years—and it was a decided change. She was one of those women—one of those people, I suppose—who would enjoy a brief window of attractiveness in her child-bearing years before her appearance turned hard and severe.

“What is your name?”

“Minna.”

“Minna what?”

“Pinsky.”

I looked at Ethan Pinsky in astonishment. “She's … your daughter?”

He pursed his lips. “You find that so unbelievable?”

“No, ah…” I realized what I had implied. I was glad I couldn't see his eyes. “I'm sorry.” Turning back to the girl, I said, “How long have you been in Detroit?”

“We arrived in May,” she said, her diction perfect. “During your trial.”

“Were you in Detroit in August of last year?”

“No. I've not had the pleasure before now.”

“Do you own a green satin dress?”

“I imagine I do.” She gave me a haughty smile. “I have a lot of dresses.”

All right, she had a green dress. But I had no evidence she was the woman who had gone with Moretti to his apartment. “Why are you here?” I said.

“To assist my father.”

“Assist in what?”

She smiled again. “In whatever he requires.”

“Such as murder?”

One side of her mouth turned down in a disgusted frown. “Of course not.”

“Mr. Anderson,” Pinsky said. “Minna is one of my secretaries, not a criminal.”

“Please,” I said. “I saw her with her boyfriend.”

“Boyfriend?” Pinsky said.

“Sam Gianolla.”

His face turned hard, and he glanced at Minna. “We will need to talk.”

She gave him a sulky glance, but was quiet.

Pinsky looked back to me. “Was there anything else you required of her?”

I gave her a dismissive wave. “No. She won't tell me anything anyway.”

He said something quietly to her, and she got up and left the room, her heels clacking against the hardwood floor. Turning back to me, he said, “You are a most frustrating young man.”

“Thank you. I'm pleased I have that effect on you. Now, what do you want?”

He clucked his tongue. “The Teamsters Union would like nothing more than a toehold in your company.… How do you suggest we go about facilitating that?”

I stared back at him. “Surely you must know it's not possible.”

He allowed me a condescending smile. “Everything is possible, Mr. Anderson. And a union organizing a Detroit automobile company … is not only possible, it's inevitable.”

“Perhaps someday, Mr. Pinsky, but not while the Employers Association of Detroit exists.”

He leaned forward. “What do you know of economics and politics?”

I shrugged. “Little, I suppose.”

“Perhaps I could enlighten you a bit, if you don't mind.”

“Not at all.”

“Millions of immigrants are entering this country every year.” His voice took on a professorial air. “Right now they are viewed as nothing more than … organisms that consume the goods of this country … and supply ready workers that allow the barons to keep wages low. And it works. To a point.” He steepled his fingers under his chin. “The barons don't comprehend the danger … of allowing European anarchists and socialists into this country. You see, Mr. Anderson,” he wheezed, “we could be a few short years away from revolution. The next economic downturn will put millions out on the street.” He shifted in his chair. “A million revolutionaries, not programmed by the American educational system to be … patriotic automatons to serve the rich. The barons will be washed under in a tidal wave of the poor.”

He smiled broadly. “If they let it get that far. Which they won't. Instead, they will give a little here … and a little there, and keep the worker pacified.” The rain picked up, the drops drumming against the windows. He sucked in another shallow breath. I leaned in to better hear his wheezy voice over the sound of the rain.

“I believe the AFL is prepared to use your company as an example. If they shut down the city … the barons will be forced to act. The Employers Association … will do as they are told. It won't be immediate, and it won't be easy … but the barons will make a concession. By then, dozens will have died, others will be ruined, and everyone will have been inconvenienced. And”—he paused—“by then the Gianollas will have killed your mother, your father, and Elizabeth Hume.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

I shot up from my chair. It fell back onto the floor with the sound of a rifle shot. “You son of a bitch!”

Waldman raced through the doorway and grabbed me.

“No, Judah,” Pinsky called out with alarm. “That will not be necessary. Will it, Mr. Anderson?”

I tried to shake the man's arms off me, but he was too strong. I glared at Pinsky. “How do they know about Elizabeth?”

“Everyone who knows your story knows about Miss Hume. It's not a secret. Now, will you behave?”

I gave him a tight nod.

He gestured to Waldman, who released me and stepped back against the wall. “Please, Mr. Anderson,” Pinsky said, holding his hands out in front of him. “I have no more control than you over the Gianollas.… My job—our job—is to mitigate the effects of their brutality. Tony Gianolla kept you out of prison. He expects to be repaid.”

“He kept me out of prison after setting me up for Moretti's murder. This was all part of the plan.”

“I know nothing about that.”

“Why is it I don't believe you?”

“Mr. Anderson, as I said, I do not work for the Gianollas. The Teamsters are no more pleased with the intrusion … of the Gianollas than you are, I assure you.”

“Then get them arrested.”

“It does not meet with the needs of the union at this point.”

“What? You think you can control the Gianollas? Have you met them?”

“I am very aware of who they are and what they represent.… I am doing a job—nothing more, nothing less.”

I shook my head. “You're a piece of shit.”

He spread his hands in front of him. “Be that as it may.”

“You can forget it.” I turned and strode toward the doorway. “I'm not helping you.”

“Then you pass a death sentence on your loved ones.”

I stopped and took a deep breath. Turning back to him, I said, “All right. But when this is over I'm going to come looking for you again.”

“That is your prerogative. Now, shall we?” He motioned toward the chair I had knocked over.

I walked back to the end of the table, picked up the chair, and sat. “So talk.”

He looked down at the table in front of him for a moment before his pale pink eyes darted up above the rims of the tiny dark glasses. “So … I have given you the union's position. But you and I are practical men. And we need a realistic alternative. The union does not completely understand … the difficulties of organizing in this city. You have been given a task … that is impossible.”

“That's what I've been saying.”

“If your father were to make a fifty-thousand-dollar gift to the union—in cash—we could bypass all the unpleasantness that may otherwise occur.”

I laughed. “So you're not fronting for the Black Hand. You and the Teamsters
are
the Black Hand.”

“No, Mr. Anderson, I am trying to help you. I understand the difficulty … of achieving what you've been asked to do. And I can convince the union to do the same.”

“And what then of the Gianollas?”

“They will get their share. And they will move on.”

“So you don't care about getting the union into Detroit Electric. All this bluster about the revolution and the worker is simply lipstick on a pig. What you want is a fifty-thousand-dollar bribe.”

He shrugged. “I'd like to end this problem without bloodshed.”

My hand burned. I stopped rubbing it. I was going to have to play out this charade until I could get rid of the Gianollas. I stood. “I'll phone you to arrange a meeting with my father.”

“Before you leave”—Pinsky shot a glance at the doorway—“tell me what Minna did.”

“Oh, you do care about something.”

“Please.”

“She kissed Sam, but the way she hung on him it was obvious they'd been doing more than kissing.”

Pinsky worked his mouth around. “That is most unfortunate.”

“Anything else?”

“Yes.” He grimaced. “Because of my health … I won't be going into the office for a while. Use the home number Waldman gave you. I'll look forward to your call.… I hope you won't be too disappointed … if I don't show you out.”

Without a word, I stood and strode out into the hallway.

“Oh, Mr. Anderson?” Pinsky called.

I stopped, took a deep breath, and walked back into the room.

“The Gianollas are not known to be patient men. I'll need to hear from you in the next few days.”

“I won't be able to get an answer by then.”

“No more than a week.”

“Fine.” I walked to the front door, followed by Waldman. He handed me my gun and knife, and I left the house, ducking out into the rain.

The situation was just getting worse. Perhaps if I could discover who really killed Carlo Moretti, I could get Detective Riordan to do something about the Gianollas. But until then, I had to get the Bernstein boys to help me find Vito Adamo. Without him in the mix, I stood little chance of getting out of this with a happy ending.

*   *   *

I stopped at the Peoples State Bank and withdrew my last twelve hundred dollars—all that remained of Wesley's gift to me—in the form of five hundreds to pay Edsel, and seven hundred dollars in fives, tens, and twenties. I was going to need to move quickly, and I was pretty certain people like the Bernstein boys wouldn't take a check. When I got home, I hid most of the small bills under a pile of magazines in my nightstand.

By that evening, the only evidence it had rained were a few dark spots on the cobbles and a wonderful fresh air smell that lifted my spirits a little. I tucked half the money into my wallet and took a streetcar back to Pinsky's neighborhood to pick up my new automobile. Mrs. Ford answered the door. Before I could even finish greeting her, she pointed toward the garage with a smile. I traipsed across the lawn and walked inside. The pair of Detroit Electric coupés, so tall they almost blocked the light from the ceiling fixtures, took up most of the space inside. They shone, blue and brewster green, both with Henry Ford's initials painted in gold on the doors. They really were beautiful cars—curved glass windows, brass headlamps and fixtures, white Motz cushion tires—luxurious opera coaches that not only didn't need horses but were powered by an all-but-silent motor.

In the last stall stood Edsel's Model T Torpedo Runabout—a custom model he'd built with some of the men at the factory. It was an ungainly clatter-trap with a cheap blue paint job, all sharp angles and cheap fixtures, but capable of attaining mind-boggling speeds in a matter of seconds. To be fair, it was more striking than a standard Model T Runabout, though only slightly. It sat lower to the ground, the engine compartment was a bit longer, the fenders were curved so as to be somewhat less ugly, and it was equipped with an oversize eighteen-gallon gasoline tank, 50 percent larger than normal.