"OK boys, grab the hooch. And you keep your hands up, boy. You hear me?" Joe raised his hands again as two Italian teenagers boarded his boat. He recognized the Licavoli brothers as soon as they stepped aboard his boat. Pete and Yonnie were members of the newly established River Gang that had been trying to gain control of the narrow waterway between Canada and Detroit. Joe quickly glanced down at the men's waists and noted that their belts held no guns, but each had a hammer swinging by his thigh. The Licavoli brothers were recent transports from a St. Louis gang called the Hammerhead Gang, known for hitting their victims over the head with hammers before robbing them.
The brothers unloaded the cargo quickly while Joe stood, hands raised and rocking side to side with the boat. Joe eyed the swinging hammers and tried to continue his friendly tactic. "Warm night," he said, smiling at the older man on the other boat.
"Warm and wet like my first time," he replied, smirking at Joe and laughing. "Course you wouldn't know nothing about that yet, would you, bambino?" His hand rested on the handle of the gun in his waistband.
"I know plenty," Joe replied, trying to figure out who was behind the thick accent. "I know the government hired thirty new customs agents last week, and you're gonna have a hard time docking this load in Detroit."
"Ah, good tip. Guess we'll be taking a ride up the river to St. Clair, boys."
The brothers loaded the last of Joe's liquor into their boat. "Don't know why you'd be helping us avoid the pigs, though. You ain't trying to set us up, are you?" He squinted hard at Joe trying to read his face in the dark.
Joe was sweating from the heat. Perspiration dripped down his back and puddled at his belt. Slowly lowering his hands and putting them on the steering wheel he replied, "I don't think that fast. Just thought it'd be a waste of good whisky if the cops nabbed it after all the work we've both put into this load. You know how they like to call the reporters and smash all the bottles for the cameras."
"Yeah, this hijacking is getting to be a lotta work. How about next time I let you keep your load and we'll just charge you a river tax?" the Italian had taken hold of the wheel of the boat and his right hand had angled the light he was holding upward. The light flashed for a moment across his face and Joe realized his adversary's identity.
Keeping his expression neutral he replied, "How much is that?"
"Oh, let's say twenty-five percent retail." The brother Joe believed to be Yonnie started their engine and revved the motor. "Good doing business with you," the elder man replied, and they sped off to the north.
'Twenty-five percent! I wonder what Charlie will have to say about that,' Joe thought, as he steered south down the river to Wyandotte. When Joe pulled into the boathouse, Cappie was waiting for him inside. Joe related the incident to his friend and they decided that they'd go back to the city with the pickup driver the following morning to explain the situation to their boss.
Chapter Twenty Eight
Joe hadn't been to the city in a couple of months. The volume of noise from the traffic, construction, and people was overwhelming. They drove straight to the Sugar House and into the garage. Their load was small, as they were missing more than half, and they unloaded in several minutes. Joe was nervous as they climbed the wooden stairs to the office. It wasn't uncommon for a rumrunner to try to make a few extra bucks by claiming he'd been hijacked with his boss's load and then selling it on the side. It was imperative that Charlie believed his story. His stomach flip-flopped a few times.
"Didn't know you boys were coming back today," Charlie said, looking up from some papers on his desk as they entered the small office.
"Had us a little problem, Charlie," Cappie replied.
"Oh, what sorta problem?" Charlie leaned back in his chair with a smirk. Joe knew that Charlie was trying to appear friendly so he and Cappie would let their guard down. He also knew that his boss's demeanor could turn on a dime and he had to tread carefully.
"I got hijacked last night coming back from Walkerville," Joe responded.
"With the extra-large shipment? Sounds kinda like a funny coincidence to me, Joe." Charlie's smirk remained.
"That's what I thought, Charlie. I think we might have a traitor or a spy in the barrel."
"Yeah? So you lose five thousand dollars' worth of booze and it's one of my boys. That's what you're sayin'?" Charlie stood up and walked around the desk to where Joe was sitting. Joe swallowed hard and wiped his brow. The office was like a steam bath, and combined with his anxiety he figured he'd lost half the water in his body.
"I don't know, Charlie. You don't pay me to think, and I'm not real good at it. But hear me out for a minute. I get a note from you yesterday morning telling me to increase our load by thirty percent. I don't leave the house till it's time to make the run. We got no telephone in that house, and no one stops by. I run up to Canada like I do every day and hand the order to the foreman. Before I'm halfway back, I'm being chased down and shot at by a bunch of dagos. What's that sound like to you?" Joe's voice grew in confidence and the final question was delivered angrily.
"Hmm, dago's you say? You recognize anybody?" Charlie returned to the other side of the desk and sat back down. (He looked at Cappie and waved him out of the office.) Charlie would get his side later.
"Yeah, those Licavoli bastards jumped in my boat and unloaded the whole lot. I'll have to wash out the whole damn thing to get the garlic smell out, but I'm not sure who held the gun on me… it was an older guy—he had a shiny wedding band on." Joe had to play his hand carefully— he didn't want his boss to comprehend his level of intelligence; better to appear dumb so as not to stand out.
"Yeah? What'd he look like?"
"Like every other dago in this city… short, dark… stupid look on his face." Joe knew Charlie fiercely hated the Italians. A massive war between two Italian gangs had occurred a couple years before in the city, resulting in the deaths of over a hundred of their members collectively. Charlie liked to joke about how the fighting gangs had saved him so much work by killing each other. Truthfully their ranks had been seriously depleted, allowing the Sugar House to move in with little opposition. Joe had no bad feelings toward Italians himself, thinking they were a hard working group—mostly Catholic like his Polish brethren, but he kept his opinions to himself.
"Licavoli brothers… I think I heard their fat sister got married last month. Yeah, they were having a party for her at that blind pig one of them owns… the Subway Café. Cops got wind of it and raided it during the reception! I remember because I laughed my ass off when I heard it." Charlie smiled a true smile at the recollection. "She married… damn—I can't remember."
"I think one of them might have called the guy with the gun Fran," Joe offered, trying to lead his boss down the right path without revealing his hand.
"Fran… Francesco… that's it! Frank Cammarato! That dago bastard from St. Louis—that's who married that fat broad! I should've put that together. I thought his racket was robbing banks. Guess he's branching out. What'd they say to you, Joe?" Joe relaxed slightly, although he had to repeatedly wipe his forehead with his handkerchief. Joe related the twenty-five percent "river tax" threat, his invention of the thirty new customs agents, and how Frank had stated they were going take the load up past Detroit to Lake St. Clair.
"Lake St. Clair, huh?" Charlie peered at Joe over the desk. "You're not too dumb are you, boy? Abe Bernstein told me you had a brain about you when we was looking for an errand boy, but truth be told… besides the fact that you've managed to get every load delivered, I wasn't convinced. Maybe I better have another look at you. But first I'll send a couple boys up to check out your story. If it checks out and they find your liquor, we'll hijack it right back and smash some heads."
"Anything I can do, Charlie?" Joe asked, rising from his chair. Cappie had returned with the coffee and handed it to Joe. The last thing he wanted was a hot cup of coffee, but he took the mug and drank a small sip.
"Why don't you take a few days off and visit with you
r family. Cappie's been asking for a few days off to sow his oats in the city, so I guess this is as good a time as any. Here's your last two months' pay," Charlie said, reaching into the desk drawer and handed two thick envelopes to Joe for him and Cappie. "Come back at the end of the week, and we'll have a sit down, Joe. Oh, and on a side note, there's a small issue with a relative of yours that I need to speak to you about."
"A relative of mine?" Joe questioned.
"Yes… you got an uncle by the name of Felix, right?"
"Feliks, yes," Joe responded, now having an idea of where this might be going.
"Seems like he's had an awful string of bad luck—got caught not once but twice with his pants down by two different dames' husbands, and there's a little matter of him owing quite a bit of cabbage on some unlucky bets."
"How much?" Joe asked.
"Two dimes," Charlie replied.
Joe whistled under his breath. "Maybe he'll win it back," Joe said.
"It's been a couple months, Joe. I'm a patient man but Shorr isn't. He wants to send a couple of the boys over to help encourage him to get off his wallet."
"If he hasn't paid you, he might not have it, Charlie," Joe replied.
"Then that's even more bad luck, Joe. We've turned our heads to this situation for as long as we can. I've already sent word out to all the gambling joints that we run that no more bets are to be taken from your Uncle Felix. I like you Joe, but business is business, and he's in for a lot."
"I'll talk to him, Charlie. Let me see what I can do, all right? Give me a couple of days?"
"Sure, sure Joe, I'll speak to Shorr. Have a nice couple of days off, and I'll see you at the end of the week."
Cappie and Joe left the office and walked out onto the steaming sidewalk. "How'd it go, Joe?" Cappie asked. The smell of sugar faded as they walked away from the building.
"Pretty good, I think. Gonna send someone up to Lake St. Clair to see if they can get the load back. It's probably already back here in the saloons by now. I'll have to hope they find something that proves my story."
"Don't worry, Joe. I'll vouch for you." Cappie clapped Joe on the shoulder.
"I know Cappie, but you didn't see nothing except me coming back with an empty boat and a couple of bullet holes in the sides."
"Try not to worry, Joe. Charlie likes you and he sure hates dagos… I'm sure it'll work out. See you Friday. Say hello to your mama for me." Cappie had met Joe's mother once in the spring when he'd picked him up at his house. He had commented that she looked very young for her age. Joe shook his head at Cappie as they parted ways.
Dressed as he was in fisherman's clothing, he passed without notice among the people on the street. Joe jumped on a streetcar, paid the fare and found an empty seat. Two young women sitting across the aisle observed his poor clothing and twittered and laughed at him to each other. Rolling his eyes at their stupidity, he turned around in his seat and looked out the window.
Beat cops walked down the sidewalk, apparently oblivious to the reverberating jazz music that poured out onto the street from saloons and taverns. Men dressed in the finest suits held doors for women in flimsy short dresses. Bare arms, bobbed hair, and low-cut dresses appeared to be the fashion on a hot summer day for the newborn flappers, as the newspapers called them. Lights and signs flashed from every building, adding heat to the sizzling metropolis. Shiny dark Packards, Chevrolets, Lincolns, and Fords loaded with well-dressed young couples flew past the streetcar honking and weaving their way through traffic.
Getting off the streetcar near his neighborhood he watched two young ladies in short dresses and fashionable boyish caps helping an elderly lady dressed in old world clothing carry her groceries down the sidewalk. The small grocery store on the corner now advertised in both Polish and English, and a little Negro boy manned a shoeshine box near the front door. The sidewalk radiated a heat that felt like a hundred and twenty degrees, and the smell of sweat and body odor overwhelmed his senses. Gratefully, he turned onto his quiet tree lined street and hurried home.
Chapter Twenty Nine
"Joe! Oh my Joe, your home!" Matka dropped the pastry crust she was preparing at the kitchen counter and pulled Joe into her arms. Her pretty face had filled out again, and she was wearing a white apron over a new bright blue dress cut at the knees. "Joe, I never expected you in the middle of the week! I'm so glad to see you. Is everything OK?"
"Yes Matka, just got a few days off. Even a working man needs a couple days of rest and fun now and then." Joe smiled down at Matka, noticing with glee that he had passed her in height. "What's for supper?"
Joe played with his brothers after supper. Matka drew Joe a bath in the new upstairs bathroom. Joe had tried convincing his mother to move to a newer, more modern home; but she had refused, insisting on staying in the house she shared with her sister-in-law. She was comfortable in their neighborhood and felt that was where she belonged. So the year before, Joe paid to have the old house updated with electricity and indoor plumbing. Despite his mother's protests that the updates were not necessary, he found her smiling when she ran the kitchen faucet or turned on the table lamp in the living room. He had already found a fancy new icebox at Hudson's that he was going to buy her for Christmas.
As he lay in the tub of cool water he wondered who Charlie had sent out to St. Clair to retrieve the hijacked load. Hopefully, it was one of the more honest guys… one of the boys could find Joe's cargo, take it for himself, tell Charlie he hadn't found anything, and sell it. Of course, if the Sugar House bosses found out, the traitor would be beaten to a pulp and hospitalized or worse. Or maybe Cammarato had outsmarted Joe and taken the load somewhere else. Or maybe they'd landed it at St. Clair and some other gang nabbed it from them.
Joe explored different possibilities in his head until his fingers were as wrinkled as a prune. He toweled off, slipped on a pair of clean underwear that his mother had laid on the sink, and walked across the hall to his room. The sun still hung in the sky; and he could hear his brothers playing on the front porch with Matka, Aunt Hattie, and Emilia, when he fell into an uneasy sleep.
He woke around ten the following morning feeling rested and less anxious then the night before. Whatever was to occur regarding the hijacked load was to be and worrying wasn't going to help anything. Prayer? That was another thing altogether. He knelt next to the bed, hands clasped, and prayed for God's intercession on his behalf. Finishing, he looked around the bare room and noted that his brothers hadn't slept there.
"Where did Frank and Stephan sleep last night?" he asked, entering the kitchen in only a pair of pants and undershirt.
"They slept with me so you could rest," Matka replied. "Would you like some eggs and bacon?"
"Do you have any cereal? It's too hot to cook, Matka."
"Yes, Frank asked me to get some Kellogg's Toasted Corn Flakes; it's in the cupboard. I'll get you some milk." Matka pulled the milk from the old icebox, and Joe noted that all the ice had melted from the heat.
"There's no ice, Matka. What time does the iceman get here?"
"Pretty soon, he's usually here already. What else can I get you? I have sliced ham in the icebox, or would you like some coffee?" Matka bustled around the kitchen, happy to have her eldest son home to take care of for a while.
"Cereal is enough… that's all we usually eat for breakfast at the house. Cappie and I usually only cook dinner and then eat that for supper too. Hey, I have an idea… it's too hot to cook. Why don't I take you and the boys out to a nice supper tonight?"
Matka blushed and her hands flew to her cheeks, "No, Joe, you do enough for us. I'll cook you something nice for supper. I can get a nice chicken from the butcher."
"No, I have to sleep in this house tonight too, and if you cook in here all day it'll be hotter than Hades. It's decided. Find something pretty to wear, because I'm taking you out for a nice meal."
Matka put the milk back in the icebox and smiled at Joe. "All right, but if I'm getting dressed up I think you should a
t least get a haircut. You look like a lumberjack." She walked over to the table and tousled his blonde hair. Joe picked up the bowl and slurped down the remaining milk before remembering where he was.
"Sorry, Matka, guess I've been eating with Cappie for too long." He put the bowl back down on the table.
"I hope you don't eat like a wild man when you take us out tonight."
"I'll be on my best behavior, Mrs. Jopolowksi. I'll pick you and the boys up at five o'clock."
Joe stopped at the cabbie dispatch to secure a hired car to pick up his family that afternoon. Then he meandered down the street looking for a barber shop. A spinning red-and-white striped barber pole beckoned him not far from the dispatch office. An elderly black man was shaving a customer in a barber chair near the front window. Two empty barber chairs sat along the wall, and there were no other customers in the shop.
"Hello, young man." A small bell hanging in the doorway jingled as the door shut behind him. "Have a seat, and I'll be with you in jiffy." It was slightly cooler in the shop than on the street , but not much. Joe watched the barber scraping the man's beard off with the long blade. He rubbed his chin and cheeks with one hand feeling for any sign of scruff.
"Needing a shave?" the barber asked, observing Joe's not so subtle search for signs of manhood.
"Yeah. Yeah… a shave and a haircut," he responded, unable to hide a smile from the old man. The barber finished with his customer and gestured for Joe to take the seat.
"Slow day?" Joe asked as the barber began to cut his hair.
"Slow every day," he replied. "You're the first white man I've had come in here in a month."
"Why's that? This is a white neighborhood."
"Sure is, sir," the old man replied. "Been here thirty years or so… name's Henry Wade Robbins. I always done a good business, but lately they're trying to push me out. Haven't you seen all the help wanted signs that say "White Only" hanging in the barber shop windows around the city?"
"I've been out of town for a few months… is this your store?"
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