The Detroit Electric Scheme (18 page)

“He's not here.”

I glanced at the clock on the wall. “It's not even five yet.”

“He had something, too. I've got to go.” The line went dead.

I sat back in my chair and stared at the telephone. They both “had something” tonight? Neither of them had ever passed up at least a quick drink. It finally hit me. I was an accused murderer. In their eyes, my friends' eyes, the word “accused” meant nothing.

I sat in the den for a few minutes before walking across the hall and
knocking on the door. When Wesley answered, I said, “Listen. I've caused you an awful lot of pain. I know it doesn't come close to returning the favor, but I'd like to have you over for dinner tonight.” I hesitated, and added, “Just . . . friends sharing a meal.”

He leaned against the doorjamb and crossed his arms. “You want me over for dinner?”

I nodded.

He appraised me for a moment. One side of his mouth turned up in a smile. “That'd be nice.”

I asked him to come over in an hour or so for drinks, then turned to go back to my apartment.

“Will?”

I looked back to him.

A wry smile was set on his face. “I understand what the word ‘dinner' means.”

I felt my face go red. “Of course you—sorry.” I retreated to my apartment. The briefcase my father had given me still lay on the table by the door. I opened the flap. Inside were about a dozen newspapers, from Sunday until this morning. Each had a front-page story about me, “the Electric Executioner.”

I scanned through the articles. My heart began to pound as I looked at story after story of love, revenge, and cold-blooded murder, all prominently naming me, Anderson Carriage Company, and Detroit Electric. Judge Hume had been quoted several times, each time implicating me as the murderer. Enraged, I swept my hand across the table, scattering the papers over the floor, and then stomped into the parlor and fell onto the sofa.

I was no longer William C. Anderson, Jr., son of a successful businessman. Now I was the most infamous man in Detroit—the Electric Executioner.

 

I bit my lip as I waited for someone at the Humes' to pick up the tele phone.

Alberts finally answered. “Hume residence.” He spoke quickly, his voice rising in inflection at the end, almost a question.

I lowered my voice an octave. “May I speak with Elizabeth, please?”

He paused and then answered, sounding like Alberts again, words clipped, tone formal. “She's not in at the moment. May I take a message?”

“Uh, no. When do you expect her?”

“I'm not at liberty to discuss that.”

Still in the deep voice, I said, “May I speak with Mrs. Hume?”

“I'll see if she's available. Who may I say is calling?”

For a second, my mind went blank. Then I said, “I'm with the Detroit police.”

“What's your name and badge number?”

I had no idea what to say. A second later, a quiet click came from his end, and the line went dead.

“Shit!” I had to speak with Elizabeth or Mrs. Hume, but I couldn't go to their house. The judge would almost certainly be home by now. Tomorrow would have to be soon enough. I set down the receiver, and the phone immediately rang.

When I answered, words poured out in a rush. “Will? It's Edsel. I heard you were getting out today.”

“I just got home.”

“How are you holding up?”

“As you might suspect, I've been better.”

“How about I take you out to dinner tonight?”

“Edsel, no. First of all, you don't want to be seen with me. Your father will kill you. Secondly, I'm not going out in public. And I've got plans—”

“Will, if you give in, the bad guys have won. You need to show them you're standing up straight, that you have nothing to hide.”

“I really don't—”

“I'll be there in a few minutes.” He hung up.

I set the receiver down. At least I had one friend—no, two. Neither Wesley nor Edsel had even asked if I was innocent. They just assumed it. Now I needed to convince everyone else.

The telephone rang again. I picked it up. “Hello?”

A reedy voice said, “Will? Will Anderson? This is Herbert Cole from the
Herald
. I just need a few minutes of—”

I slammed the receiver onto the hook and stalked to the parlor. The phone rang again. Another reporter. And again. Now I understood Alberts's suspicion. He'd been fielding lots of phone calls, too. I left the receiver on the table and shuffled back to the parlor, stopping at the window. A dozen reporters stood in front of the large man guarding the door. How in the world was I going to get to the market? I rummaged around in my cabinets and icebox, and came up with two cans of tomato soup, half a box of cornflakes, and a quart of slightly rancid milk.

There was only one thing I knew how to cook. I ran down the back stairs to the first floor and asked Mr. Hatch if he would be so kind as to pick up a roast, potatoes, and carrots from the market around the corner. He gave me a funny look but agreed.

When he returned, I asked him to let Edsel in if he came in the back, and asked him to pass along the information to his partner. On the way back to my apartment, I stopped at Wesley's to let him know Edsel would be joining us for dinner, then locked myself in my apartment again.

I lit a cigarette and wandered into the parlor. The sun was setting, and the light reflected off the top of my coffee table, showing a fine layer of dust. I stopped in front of the side window. The sky glowed around the houses on Second Street, starting red at the horizon and flowing into orange above. The few clouds drifting past glowed a delicate pink, like gigantic puffs of fairy floss from Electric Park. I stood at the window until the blue faded to steel and the final orange light extinguished.

I tried to enjoy it. I didn't know how many more sunsets would be in my future.

 

Edsel Ford, wearing a stylish dark gray suit and derby, rushed into my apartment, saying, “That nose doesn't look so good, Will. Are you all right?” His large dark eyes bored into mine.

Edsel was small and looked young for his age, but behind that facade was a thoughtful young man. Had I not known better, I would have said we were about the same age, which I attributed to his maturity and my lack of same. I had the impression he looked up to me. We could certainly appreciate each other's situation—wealthy, successful, driven fathers, and the expectation we would continue that tradition.

“I'm fine, Edsel, thanks.” My voice was still dull and nasal. I told him about Wesley's injuries and asked if he'd mind eating in with us. Edsel agreed, gracious as ever. I brought him over to Wesley's apartment to introduce him.

Wesley was dressed in a blue pinstriped suit, an ivory cravat draped around his neck. Edsel held out his hand, but quickly dropped it when he saw the bandages covering Wesley's hands. “Wesley McRae. Hey, the Scottish Songster, right?”

Wesley began to give a theatrical bow, but quit, grimacing, after dipping half a foot. “At your service.” He turned to me. “If you'll just give me a hand with this cravat, we can find a better address for dinner.”

Edsel clapped his hands. “That's what I told him. No hiding.”

“Wes, do you really feel up to it?” I said.

His eyes goggled. “Lawdy,” he drawled, “if I don't get out of here, I'll go plumb crazy.”

Edsel laughed. “We're going to get along just fine, I can tell already.” He looked from Wesley to me. “Seriously, are you fellows all right? We
can
eat in, you know.”

“If Wes wants to go,” I said, “I'll go.” The way I cooked, my roast could well be inedible anyway. “So long as we go somewhere dark where we won't run into anyone who knows me.” I thought about how that might sound to Wesley. “I just don't want people bothering me about the murder, that's all.” But that wasn't all.

“I know just the place.” Edsel grinned and rubbed his hands together. “This is exciting. Feels like I'm doing something illegal.”

I began tying Wesley's cravat, determined to treat him like any other friend. But it made me nervous. I certainly didn't want him to think I was interested.

A few minutes later, we snuck out the back door. Mr. Hatch kept the
lone reporter out there away from us while we hurried to Edsel's car. I expected to see his Detroit Electric brougham, but instead a Model T roadster was parked at the corner. This was no ordinary Tin Lizzie. The car was bright red with black fenders and top. It sat lower than a standard flivver, had a longer hood, and seemed to be leaning forward, aching to speed. Again, it crossed my mind there was something I was forgetting, something about a car.

Wesley let out a low whistle. “She's a beauty.”

Edsel's grin split his face. “It's a custom Torpedo model I put together with some of the men at the factory. We're going to produce a toned-down version next year.” He laughed and waggled his eyebrows. “I've had her up over sixty.”

Despite myself, I smiled, remembering a white-knuckled ride in a Model T on the ice of Lake Huron the winter before.

A rotund man stuck his head around the side of the apartment building and began running toward us. “Gentlemen,” he called. “I just need a few minutes.”

I helped Wesley into the right side of the car and squeezed in next to him, no time to worry about touching. Mr. Hatch grabbed the reporter and pushed him away, toward the front, but his rivals and the photographers, alerted by the commotion, streamed around the corner toward us.

Edsel set the spark and throttle, ran to the front of the car, and spun the crank handle. The engine burst out with explosions, first sporadic, then building to a roar, very unlike the normal
putt-putt-putt
of a Model T. Mr. Hatch and the other guard stiff-armed and tackled the reporters they could get hold of, but the rest of the men, all shouting for us to wait, dodged and weaved around them.

“Will!” one man yelled. “I'll give you fifty bucks for a five-minute interview.” Mr. Hatch cut him off at the knees, and he hit the ground with a wicked thump.

Edsel pulled down his goggles, ran back around the car, and vaulted into the driving seat. He shoved the brake lever forward, mashed on the clutch, and jerked the throttle lever down. We squealed away from the
curb, leaving a dozen disappointed reporters in the street behind us. A second later, Edsel pulled his foot up from the clutch, and we were in high gear, hurtling around the corner onto Temple Street.

I leaned across Wesley and tapped Edsel's arm. “So much for an inconspicuous escape.”

He couldn't keep the grin off his face. “Yeah. Great, isn't it?”

I wondered how long it would take Mr. Ford to change him. Like me, Edsel took after his mother. He was an enthusiastic doe-eyed boy with the soul of an artist. His father's flintiness had yet to rub off on him, which gave me hope Edsel would be strong enough to hold his own with Henry Ford. Few people were.

He took Rowena Street into Corktown. After a few more turns, he stopped in the middle of a residential neighborhood in front of a little saloon called Abick's. I helped Wesley down, and we traipsed inside.

Edsel held the door for us. “Just what the doctor ordered. Dark and out of the way.”

Gas lamps cast a sickly light on the interior, a mix of dark wood and plaster. A dozen tables, half of them occupied, took up most of the room. The bar that ran the length of the wall on the right filled the rest. The saloon echoed with laughter and shouts from men with Irish accents. No one paid any attention to us. Edsel led us across the sawdust-covered floor to a larger dining area in the back. A table was open in a dark rear corner. We sat in the shadows, Edsel and me against the walls, Wesley facing us. The aroma of roasting meat nearly overcame the background of beer and vomit.

A pretty brunette waitress sauntered over. “What'll you have?”

“Scotch,” Wesley said and then gestured toward me. “Bourbon for him and—”

“No,” I said. “Ginger ale.” If I was going to do anything for Elizabeth, I had to be able to think.

Wesley cocked his head at me for a second before turning to Edsel, who hesitated, like he was trying to decide what he could get away with. He finally sighed and said, “Ginger ale here, too.”

The waitress handed us menus and left to get our drinks. It was Irish
fare, not my favorite, but for the anonymity the place offered, I was more than willing to put up with it. When she came back, Wesley and I ordered stew, and Edsel the corned beef and cabbage.

“I hope you don't mind me asking, Will,” Edsel said, “but how bad was it? Jail, I mean.”

I hunched over the table and spoke quietly. “I won't lie to you. It's frightening.” I told them about the other prisoners, the taunts and threats, and the guards, menacing with their truncheons and guns. “But I was lucky. I got to stay in my own cell the whole time.”

“But if you have to go to prison . . . ,” Edsel began. He saw the look on my face and didn't finish the thought.

Wesley leaned over the table, jaw set, eyes narrowed. “If you do have to go back, you need to remember something—fur and feathers.”

I just looked at him.

“Fur and feathers,” he repeated. “In the wild, when there's fur or feathers on the ground, it means an animal has been either killed or injured. If it's injured, it's an easy target. And both the predators and carrion eaters like an easy dinner. Prison is the same. If you get hurt or show weakness, you'd better find somebody big to protect you. But if you do that, there'll be a cost.”

“I don't think I'm going back.” I wasn't going back.

“I hope you're right. But if you do, you've got to be tough. The men need to think you're dangerous. Here's something that might give you a fraction-of-a-second advantage.” He tilted his head back a little, and there was just a hint of tension in his brow. But his eyes transformed. His lids had dropped a little, but it was more than that. Wesley the entertainer was no longer looking at me. This new man was scary.