Motor City Shakedown (27 page)

“Now.”

Minna gave an impatient sigh and rolled her eyes.

“Certainly,” Pinsky said. “There is no need for Mr. Curtiss to be concerned.”

“Will?” Edsel appeared at my side, hands on his hips. “Everything okay?”

“Yes,” I said, putting a smile on my face. “I was just discussing Taylorism with these folks.”

“Hello, Mr. Ford.” Pinsky held a gloved hand out to Edsel. “It's a pleasure.”

Edsel shook his hand. “I'm afraid you have me at a loss, Mr.…”

“Pinsky, Ethan Pinsky. This is my associate, Mr. Waldman.”

Edsel gave a start of recognition at Pinsky's name, but quickly blanked his face and shook Waldman's hand.

“And my daughter, Minna,” Pinsky said.

She flashed a big smile at Edsel and held out her hand, palm down. “It's a pleasure.”

He took her hand and gave it an awkward shake. “Mine, I'm sure.”

Pinsky got his attention again. “Mr. Anderson and I have been”—he took a rattling breath—“discussing doing business together. In fact I believe I'll be meeting tomorrow with his father. Isn't that right, Mr. Anderson?”

I gritted my teeth and nodded. “Three o'clock?”

“That will be satisfactory. At my home?”

I nodded again.

“Ah, Miss Hume, is it?” Pinsky said, looking to the other side of me, where, I now saw, Elizabeth stood. “You're quite a lovely young lady.”

She said nothing, just gave him a cold stare.

“I'm Ethan Pinsky. This is my associate, Mr. Waldman, and my daughter, Minna.”

Again, Elizabeth said nothing.

Minna put on an exaggerated smile. “The proper response would be ‘How do you do?'” She spoke as if she were talking to a small child. “Or perhaps ‘It's nice to meet you.'” She turned to Pinsky. “Do you think we could find a governess for Miss Hume to teach her how to—?”

“That's enough, dear,” Pinsky said, taking her hand. “Enjoy the speech, gentlemen, miss.” He motioned toward the front of the auditorium. “After you.”

“Go on, Edsel, Elizabeth,” I said, gesturing for them to leave. “I'll be right there.”

For the first time ever, they both actually obeyed me. When they had gotten far enough away, I said, “I need one thing before I'll continue to cooperate. Tell me who killed Carlo Moretti.”

An amused smile played on Pinsky's mouth. “Haven't we already discussed this?”

I looked at Minna. “Was it Sam?”

She arched her eyebrows at me. “Of course not. Weren't you arrested for it?”

“We don't know who did it,” Pinsky wheezed. “Now, we'd better find our seats. It's nearly time for the lecture.”

“You'll call Tony?” I said. “Tonight?”

Pinsky grinned, showing off yellow teeth against pale lips. “This instant.”

*   *   *

I spotted Edsel and Elizabeth in the fifth row, an open seat between them and a pair of old men who sat on the aisle. I slipped past them and sat. Elizabeth's face was red. She looked at me, and I could see fire in her eyes. “That nasty bitch,” she whispered. “What is he doing here, anyway?”

I shrugged and sat back, thinking. Could he really be here just for the speech? He had the book, which meant he had been prepared to come tonight. To know we were going to be here, he would have had to listen in on my telephone call with Edsel. Not outside the realm of possibility, but given the condition of the book I thought this might well be a coincidence—that he actually was here to see Taylor. Either way, I was shutting Edsel out of this mess once and for all. It was bad enough that I couldn't shake Elizabeth. I wouldn't get Edsel killed.

The hall was soon packed with businessmen in suits and tuxedos, who talked loudly to one another, filling the hall with a deep hum. Edsel and Elizabeth talked quietly with each other. I was lost in thought.

“Say, have you read either of Taylor's books on management?” Edsel said.

No one answered. I glanced at him. He was leaning in front of Elizabeth, looking at me.

“Oh, sorry,” I said. “I haven't read his books, but I'm conversant—improve productivity by measuring everything, breaking down each task to its component parts, and so on. I studied it at university.”

“Well, pay attention tonight. You'll learn enough to satisfy whatever curiosity your father has regarding efficiency.”

“I don't know how concerned he is with the topic at the moment.”

“Still,” Edsel said.

Frederick Winslow Taylor strode to the podium, and the crowd quieted. He was a severe-looking man in his mid-fifties, with thin gray hair and a neatly trimmed gray mustache. He adjusted the lapel of his black tuxedo and announced, “No one will be let in or out of this room once my lecture has commenced. I will be speaking for two hours. No one is to interrupt me. If you need to leave, please do so at once.”

He spent the next two hours (virtually to the second) lecturing about the stupidity of the worker and the best methods to get a ridiculous amount of work from him. He did make a few good points regarding the use of time-and-motion studies to determine the most efficient means of production and that sort of thing, but I stopped listening about thirty minutes in.

He was discussing his work at Bethlehem Steel—how he'd gotten four times the production from a group of pig iron handlers. When he was concluding the topic, he said, “One of the first requirements for a man who is fit to handle pig iron as a regular occupation is that he shall be so stupid and so phlegmatic that he more nearly resembles in his mental makeup the ox than any other type. Therefore, the workman who is best suited to handling pig iron is unable to understand the real science of doing this class of work. He is so stupid that the word ‘percentage' has no meaning to him, and he must consequently be trained by a man more intelligent than himself into working in accordance of the laws of this science before he can be successful.”

I sat in my seat, fuming. The goal of scientific management is to create automatons out of stupid people? But it made me think. Was there an application for Detroit Electric? It didn't take me long to decide it would be very limited. We employed hundreds of skilled craftsmen—machinists, carpenters, upholsterers, painters, mechanics—and only a handful of laborers. And those laborers did a variety of jobs, not one single mind-numbing act day in and day out.

Ford, on the other hand … Taylorism was just the thing for their new assembly line. An automated line assembling interchangeable parts held no room for craftsmen and lent itself perfectly to Taylor's methods. If Ford was able to duplicate Taylor's results and get four times as much work out of men as they were getting now, their profitability would soar, and they could become even more aggressive with their pricing.

It seemed a sea change was at hand. And it was a change that would be entirely at the expense of the worker.

Taylor yammered on for another hour, finally finishing with, “In the past the man has been first; in the future the system must be first.… The first object of any good system must be that of developing first-class men. Thank you.”

He bowed, and the men in the audience leaped to their feet, raucous in their applause.

*   *   *

I watched for Pinsky on the way out of the auditorium but didn't see him. The air was cold and wet, though the rain had stopped. As soon as I started the car and climbed back in, I said, “Edsel, you need to listen to me. As of now you are out of this. I am not going to involve you in—”

“So long as I stay away from the gangsters I'll be fine.”

I cleaned the windshield and pulled away from the curb, edging out into traffic. “We're not talking about this,” I said.

“Will—”

“No.” I turned up Woodward, heading toward Edsel's house. The cobbles glistened in the electric light from the streetlamps. An uncomfortable silence fell over us. The only sound was the Torpedo's tires whizzing over the wet pavement.

Elizabeth leaned forward. “Can you believe that nonsense Taylor was spewing?”

“Nonsense?” Edsel said. “I thought he made a number of good points.”

“Now, wait, Edsel,” I said. “Treating employees like beasts of burden?”

“You're referring to the pig iron handlers?”

“Yes.”

Edsel turned sideways in his seat so he could look at both of us. “I think he went overboard when he said a trained gorilla could handle the job, but still. How much time have you spent with men who do these sorts of jobs?”

“Not much,” I said.

“More like none?”

“Well … yes,” I admitted.

“Elizabeth, how about you?”

“Servants, I suppose.”

“Believe me,” he said, “when I say that your servants have little in common with these men. Listen, you two. Not everyone is meant for the manor house. Some men are fit for that sort of work.”

“But ‘beasts of burden,' Edsel?” Elizabeth said.

“No, you're right.” He turned toward her. “That's too harsh. But those men couldn't thrive in most settings. It makes good business sense to put the right men into the right jobs. And no matter what you think of Taylor or his methods, is it really the better option to have these men set their own schedule of work? Any men, for that matter? There needs to be proper training, expectations, and constant supervision to get a good day's work out of most employees.”

“Well, it's no wonder the unions hate the man,” I said. “He's just turning workers into another part of the machine.”

“And thereby creating a more consistent product at a lower price, which will benefit everyone,” Edsel shot back.

“I'll be honest, Edsel,” I said. “It worries me. One thing Pinsky said to me has stuck. And that's that millions of workers with no allegiance to this country will be ready for revolution if the worker isn't accounted for. It's hard to imagine there could be more strain between management and employees than there is now, but this is going to make things worse. Much worse.”

“It's interesting to me,” he said, “that Pinsky was there. Could Taylorism improve the Gianollas' business?”

“Pinsky told me all businesses needed to think scientifically,” I said. “It scares the bejesus out of me that those animals could apply the scientific method to their organization.”

I pulled into his driveway. Before climbing out, Edsel said, “Will, I want to help you. Just think about it.”

“No. I appreciate the offer, Edsel, I do. But I'm not risking your life.”

“That's what you said last time, Will. If you'll recall, Wesley and I saved your bacon.”

I felt my face flush. “That's right, Edsel!” I shouted at him. “And it got Wesley killed.” I turned to face him. “Now listen to me, God damn it. You stay the hell away from me, and stay the hell away from this mess. I don't even know what I was thinking. You're still a kid. Jesus!”

“Will!” Elizabeth said. I threw her a warning glance.

Edsel didn't say anything. He just looked at me for a long moment, those big dark eyes shining, then threw open the door, pulled himself out of the car, and began striding up to the house.

“Are you really that coldhearted?” Elizabeth said.

I didn't answer. I wanted to say something to make Edsel feel better, but it would only encourage him to help us. With tears in my eyes, I backed down the driveway and tore away up the street.

“Well?” Elizabeth demanded.

“Do you want to see Edsel killed?” I said, my voice cracking.

“No, of course not.”

“So do you think he'd really have stopped?”

She was quiet for a moment. “No. You're right. I'm sorry.”

With a heavy heart, I drove Elizabeth home. Edsel was my best friend. But when it came right down to it, I'd rather lose his friendship than get him killed.

*   *   *

Driving from Elizabeth's house to the garage, I realized how much of a complication it was to own a car. Not only was there constant maintenance—adjusting this, greasing that, and tightening the other thing—but picking up and dropping off the car often took as much time as the trip itself. Unless I wanted to pay a chaser to deliver the car (which I didn't), I had to catch a trolley to the garage to pick it up, then go wherever I was going, then drive back to the garage and take another trolley home. A carriage house or one of these new “home garages” would be a real timesaver, but it wasn't to be. As it was, if I left the Torpedo on the street it would be stripped or stolen. I might be able to get away with it if I owned a coupé or brougham that could be locked up, but there was no way to keep someone out of an open-bodied roadster.

I turned right on Woodward and a few blocks later swung into the Detroit Electric garage, where I dropped off the car and hopped a trolley for the ride back home. It was late enough that I managed to get a seat. The cobbles shone in the reflection of the streetlamps, casting a reddish glow, as if a translucent red veil had been dropped over the city. It was beautiful but surreal, dreamlike. The past year had been surreal, though it was anything but beautiful.

Where did we stand?

Ethan Pinsky and the Gianollas wanted fifty thousand dollars that my father didn't have, or to get the Teamsters Union into Detroit Electric, something my father couldn't do. When we didn't deliver, they would do their best to wipe us out. And their best was pretty good.

We couldn't ask the Employers Association or the police for help. Sergeant Rogers and the gang squad wanted the Gianollas, but Detective Riordan said I couldn't trust them. The Adamos hated the Gianollas, but Vito Adamo still believed that I killed Carlo Moretti. That left us with me, Elizabeth, a few Anderson security guards whose most difficult assignment had been staying awake at night, and a police detective who could help us a few hours a day.