Uncle Feliks laughed and pulled Joe off of him.
"Yes, yes, Joe. Katalina is with your mother as we speak. Let's take a walk down by the water, and I'll finish my story."
The men walked to the river and sat in two rickety wicker chairs while Uncle Feliks told the rest of the tale.
Feliks retrieved Katalina from the family who had taken her in, and they sailed to England for Feliks to find a way to earn passage back for himself and his little charge. He'd hoped he could trade his second class return ticket in for two third class tickets. But the exchange was not equal, and he had to raise more money to afford the return tickets.
Feliks went out every day, taking the little girl with him door-to-door, looking for small handyman jobs that he could perform for the English. After several months, he had almost enough for their fare and was encouraged by a rare sunny morning in the usually gray and rainy city. Feliks and Katalina walked a couple miles to the next hamlet, thinking he could earn the remainder of their passage in a new town. To his shock, the second door they knocked on was opened by Jenney—the woman he'd traveled with from Detroit to England. She let him in, and they made up lost time visiting, as the three young girls played in the garden.
The house didn't belong to Jenney, as he initially thought, but to her aunt, who had gone to a nearby town for some shopping. Jenney and her girls were living with the aunt because her husband had died in an explosion at the factory where he worked, not long after she returned. Her aunt was kind, but Jenney felt as if they were a charity case. She longed to go back to America as she had made many friends there and loved the hustle and bustle of Detroit. She had a little money from the insurance compensation from the factory but not enough to set up a home for her and her girls in the States. Feliks, now in tune enough to know when God was leading him in the right direction, said they should marry, and he would be father to all three girls and be a good husband to her. It took him several weeks of courting and planning and charming until Jenney finally agreed. They combined their savings and bought five third class tickets for America. They had arrived in Detroit two weeks ago.
Uncle Feliks secured a job at a dairy processing plant in the city and had just moved his new family into a little rental house near there. It wasn't in Joe's neighborhood, as his new bride didn't speak Polish; but it was only fifteen minutes away by car. Jenney was a wonderful mother to little Katalina, and they all were adjusting well.
Feliks beamed as he finished his tale. His pride was almost palpable. Joe thanked him for bringing back his mother's niece and congratulated him on his new family. They retreated indoors for a quick lunch of sandwiches.
Feliks noted the exhaustion on Joe's face from being up all night and said it was time for him to leave. Making promises that he would come into the city within the next week to meet Katalina, Jenney, and her girls, Joe reached out his hand to say goodbye.
Feliks grabbed his hand and pulled Joe into his body. Huskily he whispered to Joe," If it weren't for you, my nephew, I'd be at the bottom of that river we were sitting by. You think I don't know it? When I got back to Detroit, first thing I did was got to the Sugar House to talk to your bosses. I told them I've gone straight and I wanted to get set up on some sort of payment plan to pay back my debts. But your boss Charlie told me the money had been repaid a year ago and they had no issues with me. That's when he told me how to find you."
"The money is a non-issue with me too uncle," Joe said. "I'm just so thankful you found Katalina and brought her back so my mother could have a small piece of her sister here."
His uncle squeezed him tighter and whispered in his ear, "I am indebted to you, Joe. I thought I would spend years trying to pay back those gangsters and Jenney and the girls would have to go without. You have given me more than I can ever put into words." His eyes brimmed with tears as he released Joe and went out the front door.
Chapter Thirty Five
1929
"What are you doing down here, Walt? Is there a problem with one of the boats?" Joe looked up as his old friend walked in the door of the river house with Cappie. He was puzzled as to why Walt would come down to Wyandotte. In the five years since the Sugar House Gang had hired Walt to work on their fleet of speedboats, he'd never made a visit down the river to work on them. As was initially agreed, Joe and Cappie had brought the boats to Detroit for Walt to fix or alter in a garage the Sugarhouse had built at the edge of the city. Joe was twenty one years old now, and Walt twenty three. Cappie looked as if he never aged, but and he didn't tower over Joe as much.
"No, the Purples are having a shakeup," Walt replied. The Detroit News had begun calling the men who ran the Sugar House the Purple Gang. "The coppers are coming down hard on them lately, and the judges take their payoffs and still let them sit in trial after trial. With so many of the boys sitting in jail"—"or dead" was left unsaid—"and the gang having their hands in so many pots, they need more help in the city.
"That's right, Joe," Cappie interjected. "We just come from meeting in the city with them. Things are gonna be changing."
Joe didn't like the direction this conversation was heading. He liked his life downriver with Cappie. It was quiet and steady. Sure they had to maneuver through the federal agents on the river, but they'd been doing it so long it just seemed like an average day at work for Joe. He loved being on the river and running the boat or even hauling ass in the Packard sedan he drove over the ice in the winter. The summer before he had had the ingenious idea to pull the liquor in nets under the boat so if they got pulled over they would just cut the nets and let them sink to the bottom. He attached a block of salt to each net. When the salt dissolved a few hours later, they could return to the same spot and find their load floating on the water and retrieve it. His idea had saved them a least fifty loads and certainly a jail sentence or two.
Walt was correct in saying the cops were coming down harder now. In the past three years the Purples had been hauled into court too many times to count, although the jury almost always came back with a not guilty verdict. Juror intimidation, bribery, and buying alibis had started to take up much of the gang's time. New bosses, henchman, toughs, and bookies had to be brought up through the ranks while others sat in their cells. The Bernstein brothers had so far come out unscathed, but many others had been sent to federal prison or were found floating in the river or had been shot down on the streets of Detroit.
"They had to shut down the boat garage in the city… to many snoops around. So Abe said I should relocate down here," Walt continued.
"Abe? He's giving orders now?" Joe said incredulously. "Since when?"
"Since Shorr's been indicted by the Fed's. And Leiter just got off on that extortion case, so he's gotta lay low for a while. Abe, Ray, and Izzy are running things now, along with a couple of other guys." Walt grabbed two beers out of the icebox and sat at the kitchen table. He handed one to Joe and opened his by slamming the cap on the edge of the table.
"What other guys? I work for Charlie, not those damn Bernstein brothers. And certainly not for nobody else."
"You do now, Joe. Harry Keywell and Irving Milberg are running the show with the Bernsteins, and it's all hands on deck, as they say. They want you to report to the Sugar House in the morning. I'm supposed to learn your route tonight. We're supposed to have a little meeting at the distillery with the new owners, and then I'm to drop you off on Belle Isle, where they'll be waiting for you. You can't go against those thugs, Joe. It'll only mean being taken for a ride, and you know it."
Joe did know it. He'd heard rumors that Keywell was at the St. Valentine's Day Massacre and was named by a Chicago landlady as renting a room across the street from the garage where the murders occurred. Harry Keywell had been convicted of extortion, for which he received only probation, and was known as a brute with no conscience. Milberg had been involved with the gang for years but was not widely known.
"So now you're gonna be running booze, Walt? That's against your agreement you had with Charlie.
What do you know about this, Cappie?"
Cappie said that he'd heard it same as Walt. Joe was furious. He'd gotten Walt the job, and now he was putting his friend in jeopardy.
"Agreements change, Joe. I'm no baby anymore, and neither are you. I've been thinking about joining the rum running gig for a while now. Don't know if you heard, but I'm married now and got a little one on the way. I could use the kind of dough you've been making." Walt smiled and slugged Joe on the shoulder. "I heard you've been making a killing in the stock market."
"Oh, a little here and there… Cappie and I have a lot of time on our hands down here, so we read the papers and play in the market a bit. Seems like it just keeps going up and up. And I heard about you getting hitched. Sorry I couldn't make it to the wedding. Congratulations, I'm sure she's real swell. So you and Cappie are gonna stay down here while I… do what?"
"You know I wouldn't be privileged to that type of information, Joe. Just got my orders, and I'm repeating same as I heard them. Well, you ready to take a ride in that fine speedboat of yours?"
The men grabbed their guns and went down to the boathouse for Joe's final run up the river. The late autumn night was cold, and the harvest moon was a glorious orange globe that hung low above the Canadian side. Walt related the details of the meeting to Joe on the trip up to Walkerville. Recently the distillery had begun to allow airplanes to fly liquor out of the country, and the federal agents were getting red-assed from the aerial acrobatics of planes flying over the river day and night. It was against Canadian law to export liquor by airplane, and the Canadian officers were adding heat to the fire. Joe and Cappie were to make an arrangement with the Canadian Club owners to halt the aerial distribution.
Going under the Ambassador Bridge was still a thrill for Joe. He pointed out the large trucks that were most likely smuggling liquor over it to Walt. Joe and Walt pulled into the docks behind Cappie's boat and threw their ropes to the dock men. They climbed onto the shore and were shown a door on the side of the distillery that led to the basement.
Cappie opened a heavy wooden door, and Joe and Walt followed him into a circular room. Warm, red brick made up the walls, and thick wooden beams supported the ceiling. A large bar stood against the right side of the room, and an enormous round table with twelve chairs dominated the space. A painting of a black thoroughbred horse hung on the far wall. Two men in business attire sat at the table and stood when the trio entered. Joe immediately felt like a second-hand player, dressed as he was in his waders and a flannel jacket.
A distinguished man in his forties, Harold C. Hatch had bought the operation from Hiram Walker's sons a couple years before and was training his son Clifford in the distillery business. The self-made millionaire and his son were the no-nonsense type. After offering the three rumrunners a glass of twenty year reserve, they got to the business at hand.
"Where's Bernstein?" the older man asked. "I was told this meeting was going to be with him and his associates."
"Abe couldn't make it. He's got some heat on him in the city, so he sent us. Your men know Joe and Cappie well. This is just a small conversation that never happened anyway, right?" Walt replied. He sounded nervous. Joe gave a look to Cappie to encourage him to take over the meeting.
Cappie straightened out all six foot four inches of his frame in the chair and began, "Mr. Hatch, the Sugar House has come into some heat due to all the aero planes that have been flying in and out of Walkerville. The U.S. government has set up sessions with the Canadian parliament to discuss why they're allowing this to go on when it is against their own laws. Now we've got a good thing going here—all of us—and we don't need no nosy politicians in here trying to make a name for themselves by stirring up a bunch of trouble." Cappie took a sip of the smooth, amber liquid, set it down, and looked Harold straight in the eye.
"I can see your point…"Harold began.
"Cappie."
"I can see your point, Cappie, but we'd lose too much profit if we stop our air distribution. And what does your well-publicized acquaintance think about all this?" Hatch said, referring to the Purples' business associate, Al Capone.
"The Purples have been in contact with all the important parties, Mr. Hatch. We're all in agreement that the airplanes must stop." Cappie reverted to the moniker Purples now, because the millionaire had.
"Well, that's all fine and good for you and your underworld bosses, but we've got to make a living too," Clifford said.
"Course you do… that's why the Purples and a few other organizations are putting together a political group in the city to discuss the building of a tunnel from here to Detroit. It's to be partially financed by private funds, and the rest will come from the Canadian and U.S. governments. After all, the Ambassador Bridge is working out well, isn't it?" Cappie took another sip of the reserve, savoring the flavor. Joe watched in amazement at Cappie's bargaining skills. He'd seen him charm and cajole federal agents on several occasions, but this was something else. Either the gang had prepared him extremely well for this meeting or Cappie had been hiding his negotiating abilities as well as Joe had hidden his intelligence from Charlie.
"A tunnel you say? Well, that is interesting. Large enough for trucks to pass through?"
"Bigger—it'll be a two-lane highway right under the river. We just ask that you keep your steady payments to the Canadian police officials on your side, and we'll do the same with the U.S. agents. I don't think there could be a better solution. They're gonna start breathing hard down your neck soon about the plane traffic anyways. Whaddaya say, Mr. Hatch? Can I go back and let the boys know you're in agreement?"
Hatch sat and looked at the men across the table from him. "Let me confer with my son for a moment, won't you?"
Cappie nodded, and the Hatches left the room through the heavy wooden door. Cappie got up and poured himself another glass of the reserve, bringing the bottle to the table and topping off Joe and Walt's drinks. Joe looked around the room, noting how thick the walls were and how no sounds could be heard from above or near the river. Just then his eyes caught on a small round hole in the bricks above Cappie's head.
"Hey Cappie, there's bullet holes in the walls down here. See?" Joe pointed out the one he saw and Walt found another not far from the first.
"Don't worry boys… we're not here to cut their pricing. Things only get rough when you try to hit them in their pocketbooks. This conversation is just businessmen discussing roads." Cappie winked at them, and Walt smiled. The Hatches returned to the room and shook hands on the oral agreement. The senior Hatch gave each of them a bottle of the twenty year reserve as a gift, and the trio walked back to their boats.
"Guess this is it for a while, Joe." Cappie clapped Joe on the back. "Soon as I get back into town, I'll take you out for a drink, OK?"
Joe said that would be fine and the men shook Cappie's hand. Cappie started his engine and headed south down the river. So many years together and now they were splitting up. And he'd miss the river—the smell of the wildflowers growing on the banks, the hoots of the owls perched on branches searching for their nightly prey—but mostly he'd miss the quiet solitude of just a man and his boat and the water.
Walt took the wheel and guided the boat the five-minute ride over to Belle Isle. He dropped Joe at the shoreline. Walt told him to meet his pick-up at the Scott Memorial Fountain in a couple of hours. Joe thanked him and wished him good luck. He waved goodbye as Walt headed south. Joe removed his gun from his ankle holster and strapped the bottle of reserve to his leg. Now what? he thought, putting his .38 in his coat pocket. Was he just supposed to wander around the park till someone picked him up? He noticed the elaborate arched doorway of the island's aquarium a few hundred yards inland, and he headed in that direction. He knew he could pass an hour or so in the speakeasy in the basement.
"Sturgeon" he said, as the back door opened at his triple knock. Things don't change that much, he thought, as the doorman let him in. The smell of salt water and fish drafted down the basement steps
. Joe laughed to himself at the irony of it all; if he failed to follow the new Purple leadership he'd be swimming with the fishes.
There were only a few men and a couple of ladies sitting at the bar when he walked up to the bartender and ordered a beer. Joe tipped his hat at the women and took a swig of the cold brew. As he looked up he saw a Detroit policeman coming down the stairs. Joe jumped over the bar and crouched down behind it, pulling out his gun. He heard laughter from the other side, and he looked up at the barkeep who was looking down at him, grinning.
"You want to serve the drinks, do ya young fellow?" he asked. Joe looked perplexedly at the barman. "Isn't that why you jumped over here? You're awful jumpy, boy. We're all friends here on Belle Isle. Why don't you hop back on over and I'll pour you another beer. You spilled your first one all over my clean bar."
Joe replaced his weapon and stood up. He saw that all the customers were laughing at his mistake. The Belle Isle cop smiled, faked a shot at Joe with his hand, and ordered a beer.
Joe walked back around the bar and retook his seat, laughing with the other drinkers. "You sure got me," he said. "Hey, if I tip good can I bring in my own hooch?" he asked the bartender.
"What's a good tip?"
Joe laid a fifty dollar bill on the bar. The barman picked it up and said, "Drink what you wish, young man." Joe pulled up the leg of his pants and grabbed the bottle of reserve he'd almost shattered in his leap over the bar.
"Anyone for some good twenty year whisky?" he asked his fellow patrons. In five minutes he was good friends with everyone in the place, including the man he now knew as Inspector Henry J. Garvin. The regulars returned to their seats, thanking him for the drinks. The inspector sat down next to Joe.
"You're fast on your feet kid… what kinda business you in?" the chunky policeman asked amicably.
"Fishing" Joe replied.
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