Sugar House (9780991192519)

by Scheffler, Jean

"Fishing, huh? Ok, have it your way. Thought I might know a few friends of yours, but I guess I was wrong."

  The hairs on Joe's neck stood up, and the muscles in his legs twitched, ready to flee. "Relax boy, I've got friends in high places too, is all I'm saying. I'm just trying to make some small talk with you." Joe recalled hearing the name Garvin before. This was the detective the Purples had helped move up in the police force over the years; thereby ensuring their "innocence" when accusations came through his department. But how had he known who Joe was?

  "I heard you were coming over to the city tonight, and I thought I'd just head this way for a drink and introduce myself. See if there was anything I could do for you."

  "Did Abe send you?" Joe asked.

  "No, he doesn't need to know about this little meeting between two new friends, does he?" Garvin replied. So that was it. The cop was looking for a little extra on the side and had somehow heard Joe would be coming through the park that night.

  "I'm not in need of anything at the moment, but I appreciate your generosity. How about you take the rest of this whisky as thanks from me?" Joe slipped a hundred dollar bill under the reserve and pushed it toward the officer.

  "Well, that's mighty sweet of you, Joey O," the cop replied as he pocketed the bill and grabbed the remainder of the Canadian Club. "Well, I gotta be heading out. Hope to see you around real soon." Joe took a drink of his beer and gulped it back. Every time he came into the city his nerves unraveled. There was something about the close proximity of hundreds of thousands of people and skyscrapers that added a dash of claustrophobia to his normally even-keeled personality. On the river he could hear an enemy approaching, be it a hijacker or an agent. In a city, where the sounds never fall below a low roar and people could approach you from any angle; his senses were dulled and ineffective.

  Finishing the last ounce of his cold beer he decided to head toward the fountain and wait where he could at least be outdoors. Enjoying the quiet of the empty park, he reached the fountain in less than twenty minutes and had a seat on a marble step. Fitting spot for my return to the city. He pulled his brown flannel jacket collar up to protect himself from the cold wind blowing across the water. The fountain had been commissioned from beyond the grave by an eccentric gambler who was so loathed by the public that it took the city almost fifteen years before they agreed to build it. James Scott was infamous for telling loud, boring tales accentuated with a healthy dose of profanity. That the politicians of the city decided to commission the tower despite Scott's lack of civil respect said much about the current political climate.

  Occasionally headlights could be seen driving towards the fountain, but they all turned west. Joe was left to wonder if he should start for the city by foot. According to his watch, it was nearing three o'clock, nearly one hour past the designated pick-up time. A marble lion appeared to glare down at him from his perch on the fountain, and the sculpted frogs jeered at his lonely state. Joe shook off the imaginary antics of the fountain and stood up, resolute that he'd walk back to the city.

  "Bang!" Joe saw the flash of the gunshot and a man fall into the lagoon near the fountain, the force of his fall rocking several long canoes that were tied to the shoreline. He ducked back down behind the fountain feeling his leg for his weapon. Damn, it was gone. Remembering he'd put it in his pocket he reached for it as he crawled around the circular monument, trying to locate the shooter. The flash of the gun had blinded him for a moment, and he couldn't see in the dark. Screeching tires rounded the drive by the fountain, and he cocked the.38. The gunman was driving without lights and Joe had to rely entirely on his hearing. Closer, almost there. Joe pointed at what he hoped was the driver's window and shot twice.

  "What the hell you think you're doing, Joey O?" rang out a deep, raspy voice. It was Harry Keywell—the obnoxious thug Joe had met that night at the Powhatan Club and his new boss.

  "Sorry, boss," he replied, pocketing his weapon. "I had no idea who was flying toward me." Joe descended the steps and opened the door to the Cadillac. He looked over at Harry who still had his gun on Joe. "Honest, Harry—I'm sorry."

  "Get in, you stupid Polack, you almost put a hole in my hat."

  Joe sat down in the passenger seat, leaning against the door. Actually, Joe had only hit the rear bumper once but he kept his mouth shut and tried to look apologetic. "Like I need more attention from the Belle Isle Bridge Patrol by you shooting off your gun like a maniac." Harry pushed the gas pedal down and headed north on the island.

  "I thought we were going back to the city." Joe tapped his fingernail nervously on the door handle.

  "We is, but first I gotta make sure nobody heard your rat-a-tat musical display back there. Damn Joey, I go to all the trouble to make that sap strip down naked before I knock him off so the coppers can't identify him, and you go and shoot off fireworks like it's the Fourth of July!"

  "Y-you shot him naked?" Joe stuttered slightly.

  "Sure, what's the big deal? You knocked someone off before, right?" Harry glared over at Joe as they rounded the avenue and headed back south.

  "Sure Harry, a couple of times," Joe responded. What had Charlie told this goon? "Just never naked is all." Harry laughed and finally pocketed his gun.

  "I just do it so it takes longer for the pigs to figure out who took a swim." Harry slowed the Caddie down as they neared the bridge that led back to the city. A uniformed officer was walking on the sidewalk in the middle of the span and Harry pulled his hat down, as did Joe, to shield their faces as they passed. So many Detroiters had plunged to their deaths from the bridge in suicide attempts that a twenty-four-hour watch had been put in place. "Damn palookas" was all Harry said. He sped back into the city.

  Chapter Thirty Six

  "Just ask for their donation, Joe," Abe Bernstein was saying in the Sugar House office. Abe and Harry had decided Joe would be better used in a position where his boyish good looks, charm, and confidence could increase the Purples' profit margin. Extortion. Harry handed him a list of names and addresses and Joe looked down at it.

  "But I don't know nothing about collecting." Joe tried not to sulk. "I'm better with boats than people." He was treading on thin ice here. The bosses didn't like arguments.

  "You think I don't know how to run a business, Joey O?" Harry stood up from behind the desk and twitched his fingers.

  "Course you do, Harry. I just thought… ."

  "Well, don't think," he growled. "You make the rounds of these stills and bring us our cut, ya here?

  "Yeah, Harry. I hear you." Joe shoved the list in his pocket and walked down the stairs into the warehouse. "Damn." He mumbled under his breath. The Purples had realized that they couldn't control all of the liquor that came into Detroit nor the amount that was made there, so they had pushed up their extortion racket to increase revenue.

  Joe walked to the Purples' parking garage and found the Buick touring car Abe had given Joe to use to make his rounds, the one with false plates. Every morning he'd leave his house, pull the car out of the backyard into the dirt alley, and drive to the Sugar House. He'd greet Abe and Harry, and he'd be handed a list of addresses and the presumed revenues of the stills. Joe would head off into the city, downriver, or to the north for a day of collections. He hated the work but could rationalize it to himself because the people he was taking money from were operating illegally. Other collectors that worked for the Purples had been assigned to rough up the cleaners and dyers operations in the city. If they refused to pay a percentage to the Sugar House, the collectors threw purple dye on the legitimate business owners' product. Joe felt it was a dirty racket and was thankful not to be a part of it.

  Most still operators feared the Purples, and an argument wouldn't even arise when Joe paid them a visit. With the ones who resisted, Joe tried different tactics. With the men he'd bring a bottle of whisky and sit with them in their backyards or basements, pouring glass after glass while he sipped his. After several drinks and multiple explanations, observations, examples, an
d not so subtle inferences, the still owner would concede and part with the obligatory ten percent. Joe remained friendly during even heated altercations, never allowing the men to ruffle his feathers or showing any signs of anger or frustration. If the still owner remained obstinate at the end of the conversation, Joe would leave the bottle as a sign of good will, shake the man's hand, and take his leave.

  The following morning, when the obstinate farmer or factory worker awoke, he would find a stick of dynamite with a half burned fuse at his door. When Joe returned a few days later to "discuss the matter again," the operator would have the money ready for him. After all, it was for the owner's protection: fires, thefts, and beatings were commonplace in Detroit, and the Purples only wanted to help protect him.

  With the few women Joe was assigned to, he took a different approach. Unbeknownst to his bosses, he'd bring toys for their children or a box of food for their pantries. He'd sit in their kitchens and eat their pastries and play marbles or cards with their youngsters. These women were a poor and lonely lot, making small amounts of gin in their bathtubs and selling it to their neighbors. It was a small price to pay to fork over ten dollars in exchange for a visit by a handsome young man who flattered their tired egos, played with their dirty children, and brought gifts. Joe lost money on his female customers, but his conscience was clean.

  Chapter Thirty Seven

  "Hiya Joe." Marya greeted him as he pulled the Packard into the backyard one evening after a long day of collecting. A snow white crocheted shawl was draped over one shoulder of her crimson dress, as she walked over to his car. "How about a ride, cousin?"

  "No dice, Marya. I'm beat, and the family is coming over for supper. Aren't you gonna visit with Uncle Feliks and the girls?" Joe took off his hat and wiped the sweat from his brow.

  "And sit here all night absolutely bo-o-o-ored to death? Not on your life! Come on, just drop me at the Kibitzer Club, will ya sweetie pie? Marya flashed her eyes at Joe and smiled demurely.

  "Now you're flirting with your cousin, Marya? Can you crawl any lower?" Joe asked disgustedly. "Besides, that's one of the Purples' juice joints, and I told you not to hang out near the gang." Marya let the shawl drop off her other shoulder revealing much cleavage. "Geez, Marya, the sun's still out! Cover up. Are you looking for trouble?"

  "Always Joey boy," she replied.

  A shiny Cadillac Victoria pulled into the alley as Marya started heading back toward the house. She stopped on the steps to see the visitor's identity. Cappie stepped out of the elegant car and waved at Joe. Joe sprinted over and shook his hand. "Cappie! It's been months since I've seen your ugly mug."

  "Got a weekend pass ,and I thought I'd stop in and see how you're faring in our fair city."

  "Arent ya gonna introduce me to your friend, Joey?" Marya called, descending from the stairs.

  "Well, I would but you've already had the pleasure, Marya. Cappie carried your spifflicated ass home the night I pulled you out of the Powhatan." Marya blushed slightly and held her hand out for Cappie to take.

  "My apologies, Mr. Cappie. I must thank you for helping me home then. It seems I'd forgotten to eat that evening, and the champagne went to my little ole head. It was kind of you to assist me home." She batting her eyelashes. "Won't you join us for supper?"

  "I thought you were leaving, Marya."

  "Why I never said such a thing, Joe. I just wanted to have a quick cocktail before supper is all. How about you, Mr. Cappie? Are you thirsty?"

  "It's just Cappie, Miss Marya, and sure I'd be happy to take you for a drink if Joe here don't mind. You are as pretty as a little baby dove, Miss Marya, if you don't mind me saying. Whadda ya say, Joe?"

  "Oh, I don't care—but it's your funeral, Cappie. Have fun."

  Cappie helped Marya into the Cadillac and darted to the other side. "I won't have her out late, Joe. I'll keep a good eye on her."

  "That had better be all you keep on her."

  But Cappie had already shut the door and was pulling away. What could Joe do? Marya was a grown woman, and if she was going to go out with anybody, Joe couldn't be too upset it was Cappie. He was a good man and had always treated Joe like a son or at least a brother. And Marya was going to do what Marya was going to do anyhow.

  Uncle Feliks made raspberry fizzes after supper for Matka and Jenney, and he and Joe drank beer as they sat on the front porch shooting the breeze. Katalina had learned English remarkably fast and she could chant the sing-song rhymes as well as her stepsisters as they jumped rope on the sidewalk. Emma twirled the rope with one of Jenney's daughters on the other end, as Katalina skipped and hopped merrily through the twirling line.

  "She's adjusted well, Uncle Feliks."

  "We all have, Joe. Seems like this is the life I was meant to live. Jenney is a wonderful woman, and the girls are a joy. Katalina still cries for her mother at night, but not as often as she used to. And Jenney just pulls her into bed with us and cuddles her till she falls asleep. She's going to start school in the fall."

  "I hope she doesn't get Sister Mary Monica for a teacher. She used to scare the living hell out of me."

  "We're not sending her to St. Josaphat, Joe. We want to send all three of the girls to the same school, and Jenney's girls don't know Polish."

  "Oh, of course… well, I'm sure she'll do great. Maybe she'll go to Marygrove College someday, like Pauline."

  Pauline was living at Marygrove College, studying to become a teacher—an education partially financed by Joe. Joe hadn't thought of Katalina attending another school besides St. Josaphat, but his uncle's rationale made sense. He waved to his old neighbor Sam as he exited his house across the street and got in his Model T.

  "Sam's doing well, I hear—got himself a job at the Chrysler plant in Hamtramck. I wonder if he's ever gonna leave his mama's house and get married?"

  "I've heard he's a bit of a gambler…" Feliks looked uncomfortable bringing up a reference to his not so distant past.

  "Really? Hope he's a better one than you were!" Joe laughed and hit his uncle in the arm. Feliks chuckled in spite of himself.

  "Me too."

  Joe looked at his uncle, and a slight pang of jealousy struck him; envious of his quiet, simple life and loving family.

  "Katalina! Emma! Josie and Julie! Come inside. I have a treat for you girls," Matka called out the kitchen window. Joe's mother adored spoiling her nieces and would bake for days before the family got together so she could dole out sugary sweets to her heart's content.

  "Where'd your brothers take off to after dinner, by the way?" Feliks asked.

  "I'm sure Stephan is at the baseball diamond, and Matka told me Frank has a little girlfriend he meets at Sanders on Saturday evenings. She says they sit at a table for hours and share one milkshake."

  "How about you, Joe? You gotta girl you haven't let on about?"

  "Oh, I've been seeing this one kinda steady. She's a real firecracker, but we're just having fun." Joe had been dating the mulatto girl he had met at the Powhatan for a few months but didn't want anything serious. Adelaide was a transplant from New Orleans. Each of her parents was half black and half white. She passed for white in the north and held a job as a salesgirl in an upscale women's boutique. Joe took her out dancing a couple nights a week, but they mostly wrestled around in the back of his car.

  "Well, be careful Joe. When you play with firecrackers there's a chance you'll get burned," Uncle Feliks said.

  Just then Joe and his uncle heard the sound of sirens a few streets over. Uncle Alexy and Aunt Hattie came out onto the porch to investigate.

  "That's an awful lot of fire engines," Alexy said. "Hope it's not a big fire."

  "No. I think its police sirens," Joe said. He knew it was the police but didn't want to let on how many times he'd heard that sound coming in his direction. The sirens died down, and Matka brought out three more beers for the men. Aunt Hattie went in after her to gossip in the kitchen, and the men sat companionably on the porch. Joe sat on the top step leaning
against the brick pillar, sipping his beer and listening to his uncles. He tried not to think how much he wished his father was there. Of course, if Ojciec was here, Joe probably wouldn't have started running for the Sugar House, and his uncle might not have gambled all his money away and slept with married women, and Joe wouldn't have sent him to Poland, and Katalina would still be there living as an orphan. But maybe not… only God knew what was meant to be.

  A fly buzzed near Joe's ear and he swatted at it, spilling his beer in the process. His uncles laughed, and he got up to grab another from inside the house. A long sedan sped down the street, and Joe turned to yell. "Slow down! There's kids playing here. " The car screeched to a stop in front of the walk. A driver opened the door, and Charlie Leiter got out of the back seat. Joe could tell by Charlie's eyes he was there with bad news.

  Leiter walked up to the porch and stopped at the foot of the stairs. "Joey, its Cappie. Those dagos hit the Kibitzer. Shot it all to hell. Didn't hit no one inside, but Cappie had just walked out the front door when they started shooting. I'm sorry, Joe. I know he was a good friend to you."

  Cappie. It couldn't be Cappie. "It can't be Cappie," Joe said in disbelief. "He's too big. He's an ox. No bullet could take him down. Not Cappie."

  "They used Tommy guns, Joey. He didn't stand a chance. Threw himself in front of some dame trying to protect her." Charlie looked up apologetically at Joe's uncles, who were standing uncomfortably on the porch, not wanting to leave Joe yet not wanting to be part of the gangster underworld. Joe looked frantically at his Uncle Alexy and back at Charlie.

  "Some dame?" Joe dropped the empty bottle onto the porch. Marya! "Where's the girl?" he demanded. Charlie looked confused. "Where's the dame Cappie stood in front of, Charlie?" Joe yelled bounding down the steps.

  "She's in the car. We're taking her to the hospital now… I wanted to get her out of there before the cops showed up." Joe pushed past Charlie and flung the back door of the car open. Marya was cowered in the corner of the backseat covered in blood. Cappie's blood? Her blood? Joe scooped her up and started toward the house. Uncle Alexy's eyes grew wild with fury, and he bellowed a raw, animal-like growl and jumped off the stoop. He stormed toward Joe but stopped short as he reached Charlie; bringing his arm back, he slugged the gangster, knocking him down. The driver and Charlie's bodyguard were on Alexy in a second, holding his arms behind his back as he hung his head and wailed.