Detroit Is Our Beat

by Loren D. Estleman

  “How’s he feel about the war?”

  “Oh, he’s all for it, buys bonds and contributes to the scrap drives. He’s registered for the draft, but his number’s high on account of he works in a defense plant where he’s needed. Which is just as well, I say.”

  “Why?”

  “On account of him being a kraut and all. It stands to reason he don’t want to kill somebody that might be a friend or family.”

  “He could join the marines and fight nips,” said McReary.

  She studied him under lowered lids. “So could you. Can I see them badges again? I didn’t get a good look upstairs. You could be Cracker Jack cops for all I know.”

  They showed her their shields and IDs. She sat back, blowing smoke at the ceiling. “What kind of jam’s he in? He’s no rackets boy, I’d swear that on a stack of Bibles.”

  Zag rolled the dice. “He’s in custody on suspicion of spying and sabotage.”

  “Banana oil. He came here to get away from the Nazis. I’m Jewish on my father’s side. Hanging around with me wouldn’t win him points back home.”

  “On the other hand, it’s good cover.”

  She stabbed out her cigarette.

  “You boys are full of hooey. If you had Fred in jail, if you spent any time with him at all, you’d know he’s a better American than the two of you put together. He couldn’t tell a lie if lies was water and he was on fire.”

  “I didn’t say we had him in jail. I said he was in custody. The FBI’s got him.”

  She’d plucked another Camel out of her case. She stopped in mid-tap and stared at Zagreb.

  “Tell me something about the man in charge. He have a crewcut?”

  “Plenty of them do.”

  “Maybe thirties, maybe forties, eyes like a dead mackerel? Slings around words like ‘satisfactory’ and never sweats or takes off his coat?”

  The two plainclothesmen exchanged a look.

  Zagreb rested his forearms on the table. “Didn’t you tell us you came here from Brooklyn?”

  “I left when I was eighteen. I was a file clerk in Bureau headquarters in Washington for seven years, the last three of which I threw away on that snake in the grass. He’s the reason I bought a bus ticket, just like Fred leaving Germany to duck Hitler.” She lit the cigarette and shook out the match viciously. “I dropped fifteen pounds, changed jobs twice, went through four stylists, got a complete new wardrobe. It’s just like that creep Holinshead not even to change the way he cuts his hair.”

  * * *

  Time seemed to have stood still at the California since yesterday, and for that matter since Repeal; even the flies in the bowl fixtures lay frozen in the same death throes. The same bored clerk was reading the same pulp magazine behind the desk. Only the elevator man was different, and that was just Hank, who wasn’t likely to take another day off before old age caught up with him.

  This time Canal opened the door to 1102, minus his jacket and cigar. The air in the room was fetid as ever and he wore two dark circles under his armpits. A thread of dried blood bifurcated his lower lip. Zagreb asked if he’d run into something.

  “Washington red tape.” The big man grinned, wincing when a fresh trickle broke through the scab.

  Inside, Holinshead was at his station near the open window, looking as crisp as usual. The color scheme was the same, but he must have gone home to rest and change, because the two cowboys had the unpressed look of men who’d taken turns sleeping in the hard wooden chair. Both men needed a shave. Junkers, the scarecrow, had a purple welt under one eye the size of Canal’s ham fist. Dial, his stocky partner, leaned back against a grimy papered wall with his arms folded and a swelling on one side of his jaw.

  Zagreb grinned. Holinshead bridled.

  “It took my service piece to back that mad bull of yours off my agents. I’m considering filing federal charges.”

  Canal grunted. “I told ’em they ought to take better care of their pets. Some guys just don’t take advice.”

  Fred Taylor, alias Alfred Schneider, was sitting up now on the edge of the bed, dressed in wrinkled Packard Motor Car Co. coveralls and oil-stained black work boots. His hands dangled between his spread knees and his chin rested on his chest. The lieutenant approached and lifted Taylor’s chin gently. His face was swollen and his breath whistled through a broken septum.

  Zagreb lowered the prisoner’s head. A greasy paper sack leaned at a drunken angle on the nightstand. “He eat anything?”

  “Couple bites of burger,” said Canal. “That’s all he could chew. I gave him some water, he took more of that. I wouldn’t go away and trust these boys to water my plants.”

  “Let’s all file charges, starting with false arrest and unlawful detention.” The lieutenant looked at Holinshead. “This isn’t the Fred Taylor your snitch gave you; but you knew that.”

  The Special Agent in Charge smiled, lips pressed tight.

  “You’re a day short and a dollar late, I’m afraid. This man has confessed. Your sergeant’s a witness.”

  “That’s right, Zag. I think he said he started the Chicago fire, too. There was something about a quake in Frisco, too, but I didn’t catch it. He mumbles.”

  Zagreb said, “We get a lot of confessions in this room; something about the atmosphere. After a half a dozen or so you pick up a sense for when they’re on the level and when they’re talking just because when they’re talking they’re not getting slugged. Taylor!” he barked. “Who burned down the Reichstag?”

  “I did.” The man on the bed spoke into his chest.

  “That was pointless,” said Holinshead. “He’s not so far gone he wouldn’t recognize a way out when you gave him one. I told you these spies are clever.”

  “Tell your men scram.”

  “This is a federal operation, Lieutenant. You don’t give orders. The commissioner—”

  “Molly Wenk.”

  The FBI man’s mouth closed with a snap.

  “Chief?” Dial looked at his superior. Junkers’ eyes were on him too.

  “Step outside. If I need you I’ll call.”

  Canal opened the door. “Scat.”

  Junkers took a step the big man’s way. Canal let go of the knob and squared off in front of him. Dial’s hand wandered to the butt of the revolver in a holster snapped to his belt. McReary drew his own in one smooth motion and flicked the barrel across the stocky man’s temple. Dial stumbled, caught himself on a bedpost, and clapped a hand to the side of his head. Blood oozed between his fingers.

  Burke said, “Told you he wasn’t your errand boy.”

  The cowboys left, Dial still holding his head and muttering. Burke kicked the door shut behind him.

  “I thought they’d never leave,” Canal said.

  Holinshead spoke calmly. “Molly Wenk was next on our list. If you’ve spoken with her, you’ve compromised our case. Your behavior is treasonous.”

  “Molly?” Taylor raised his head, blinking his one visible eye.

  “She’s okay, Fred. Worried about you.” Zagreb didn’t look away from the FBI man. “Investigating her for what, running out on you? That’s outside your jurisdiction.”

  “Is that what she told you? I’m surprised a professional like you would fall for such an obvious attempt to divert suspicion. We’ve had her under surveillance for years as a premature anti-fascist.”

  McReary laughed. “A premature what?”

  “You heard me. She came out against Hitler well before the war, when he posed no threat to America. We have files to cover that. Taking such a stand so early put her under suspicion as a possible Communist sympathizer.”

  Canal shoved his hat to the back of his head, exposing his unruly black curls. “Jeez, you miss Winchell one day, you fall behind. Last I heard, the Communists in Russia was our allies.”

  “You’re confused. That’s understandable. In Washington, we’re engaged in fighting more than one war: the next one as well as this. The Bolsheviks represent just as great a challenge to our
national interest as Hitler, Mussolini, and Tojo combined. If we don’t identify and isolate the enemy now, we’ll be at a serious disadvantage after the cessation of the current hostilities.”

  Burke scratched his chin. “Hell, we might as well take out the Dutch while we’re at it. Get ’em before they sneak up on us in them wooden shoes.”

  “You could burn Molly as a witch,” Zagreb said. “It wouldn’t be any less trumped up. You lived with her for three years in Washington, and when she got fed up and dumped you, you tailed her to Detroit, wangled yourself an assignment here, and arrested the first man she took up with, to use as leverage to get her back. You’re lucky he didn’t croak on you. Next time try hiring less enthusiastic help.”

  Taylor seemed to be paying attention now. His chin was off his chest.

  Holinshead stood immobile. “You’d take the word of a subversive over that of an agent of the United States government?”

  “No.”

  “Well, then.”

  “I’m a pro, like you said. We ran up a whale of a phone bill getting corroboration. Her old landlord and her former neighbors backed up her Washington story. The landlord still has the lease with both your signatures on it. Not enough? We can ask Molly about scars and moles. I don’t guess you can claim she saw you out swimming in the Potomac.”

  Holinshead paled. “Taylor’s file—”

  “You’ll have a drawer full of files on Fred Taylors and Alfred Schneiders. If one of ’em didn’t show up in ledgers at the North American Aryan Alliance, it’s easy enough to plant it through your snitch.” Zagreb shook his head. “I gave you too much credit. I had you down as a flag-waving fanatic. Turns out you’re just a jealous ex-boyfriend.”

  “All right, we were involved. I can still link her to a conspiracy to overthrow the government.”

  “How’d that look, one of Hoover’s own twiddling toes with a Red? You’re washed up, Holinshead. They probably won’t shoot you. Maybe you’ll get a work detail: carrying a shovel after Patton’s horse in the Victory Day parade.”

  “That dirty little tramp!” He went for his revolver. The Four Horsemen beat him to the draw; but Fred Taylor obstructed their field of fire.

  With an animal roar, the defense worker sprang from the bed and tackled the Special Agent in Charge, who fell against the window behind him, shattering it. He got his gun free, just as his attacker collapsed at his feet; he was too weak to follow through. Burke and Canal barreled into Holinshead as he pointed the muzzle at the man on the floor. He went down under their weight, gun arm flung to the side. Zagreb took two steps and brought his heel down hard on that wrist. It cracked like a stick of kindling.

  Junkers and Dial burst through the door, guns first. McReary and Zagreb drew down on them, pinning them in the crossfire. The cowboys dropped their weapons and threw up their hands.

  “Hi-yo, Silver,” McReary said.

  “The Lone Ranger.” Canal got up off Holinshead, who writhed on the floor, clutching his splintered wrist. “Another Detroit invention. Just like Johnny Weissmuller.”

  * * *

  “Fred and Molly.” The big sergeant folded the Free Press to the society section and handed it to Zagreb. “Sounds like somebody you’d have over for bridge.”

  As always happened in those photos, the bride looked radiant, the groom as grim as a pallbearer. Taylor’s face had healed, but he looked wan. It had only been five weeks. U.S. warships were pounding Guadalcanal. Rommel was in trouble in North Africa. “Poor sap thought he had it tough with the feds.” Zagreb gave back the paper and bent over his arrest reports.

  “How you getting on with the new Special Agent in Charge?” Canal asked him.

  “Swell. Been here a month and I haven’t met him yet.”

  “Maybe he’s scared.”

  The lieutenant consulted his Wittnauer. “Mac and Burke should’ve checked in by now.”

  “They’re still softening up that guy gave us the bum tip on the warehouse on Orleans. He’ll spill his guts okay, if Burksie’s fists hold up. He’s got delicate knuckles.”

  “It means more stakeouts when he does.”

  “Our work’s never done.” Canal returned to his crossword. “Here’s one I been saving. What’s another word for ‘government agent’?”

  “Convict Number 6672, Alcatraz.”

  — GET —

  Sinatra

  “What, no whitewalls?”

  Get Sinatra

  Belle Isle Beach was white in late sunlight; Westinghouse white, Max Zagreb thought. Slanting rays put a Gillette edge on the waves where the river broadened into Lake St. Clair. Little boys searched the water with toy telescopes for U-boats, pretty girls cocoa-tanned their legs so they could pretend they were wearing nylons when they danced at the Club Congo, the Green Hornet was busy stinging the bejesus out of Japanese spies on someone’s portable radio. It was a peaceful summer Saturday in the middle of a war, and here he was with a stubby .38 stuck inside his swimming trunks.

  “Lieutenant? I mean Zag?”

  Zagreb looked up, scowling at the slip-up, then felt his face crack into a grin as McReary came trotting up from the water, trunks wet and sagging, holding down a winter-weight gray fedora with one hand against the wind from Canada. He was freckling badly and resembled nothing so much as a polka-dot scarecrow.

  “You might as well give me the rank, Mac. That hat screams cop. Where’s your shoulder holster?”

  The young detective flushed. McReary was a good-looking kid, but he’d lost his hair early and was sensitive about it. “Sorry. I had a Panama, but I think I threw it out during the last snowstorm.” He sat on the edge of Zagreb’s beach towel, drew his service piece from under it, and put it in his lap. “I don’t think they’re coming. It’s almost sundown, and torches mean gasoline. Even phony Nazis aren’t crazy enough to burn up all their ration stamps just to celebrate the anniversary of the fall of France.”

  “We got another hour. Eastern War Time, did you forget?”

  “Half this town’s got kin serving overseas. They had that kind of guts, why not enlist in the Wehrmacht?”

  “Keep your shirt on. Put it on, I mean. Vice picked up the Bundesfuhrer an hour ago, trying to lure a fourteen-year-old girl into his Studebaker with a lollipop.”

  “Where’d you hear that?”

  Zagreb pointed at the radio, still playing The Green Hornet under someone’s colorful umbrella.

  Suddenly they were both in shade. Sergeant Canal stood over them with his square feet spread, listening to the Hornet’s chauffeur reporting to his boss. In a striped robe, green cheaters, and a glob of white zinc on his nose, he was as quiet and petite as the Big Top. “Didn’t Kato used to be a nip?”

  “That was before Pearl,” Zagreb said. “Now he’s a Filipino.”

  McReary said, “You hear? We nabbed Heinrich on a jailbait rap.”

  “Maybe he was recruiting for the Hitler Youth.” Canal bit down on his cold cigar and spat out sand.

  They were joined by Officer Burke. He wasn’t as big as the sergeant, but made up for the difference in body hair. Tight white trunks made him look like a Kodiak bear that had been shaved for gallbladder surgery. Briefed by the others, he said, “I bet the girl was Shorty O’Hanlon. When he puts on a girdle he looks just like Linda Darnell.”

  Lieutenant Zagreb broke the pungent little silence that followed this remark. “Mac, I’m putting you on that black market case at the Detroit Athletic Club. Burksie’s been staking out the locker room a little too long.”

  Burke’s face darkened while the others laughed.

  “Why didn’t you call us an hour ago?” McReary was the youngest member of the Racket Squad and the most earnest.

  “When’s the last time any of us got the chance to top off his tan?”

  “This detail’s the bunk anyway,” said Canal. “We can’t even make an arrest, just get a look at the faces under the storm trooper caps and match ’em to the mug books downtown.”

  Zagreb said
, “So far there’s no law against playing dress-up and singing love songs to Schicklgruber. If they’ve got a record we can haul ’em in and sweat ’em later, put the fear of FDR in ’em.”

  Burke scratched his chest hair. “Busywork’s what it is. The commissioner can’t break up the squad because we get headlines, so he’s going to bore us into quitting and joining the army.”

  Canal said, “The navy for me. Them sailor boys get laid more.”

  McReary said he thought Canal was saving himself for a nice girl from the Old Country.

  “There won’t be any left if we keep dropping bombs on ’em. Man’s not made of stone.”

  Zagreb got up and folded his towel. “Let’s get dressed. I’ll talk to the commissioner.”

  Burke leered at Canal. “I hope you know all the words to ‘Anchors Aweigh.’”

  * * *

  “These rats in the Bund are a serious threat to the Home Front,” Commissioner Witherspoon told the lieutenant. “You’ll stay on the detail until further notice.”

  Witherspoon, a sour parsnip in a stiff collar, considered the Racket Squad the chief impediment to his ambition to run for mayor. He resented the tag the press had hung on Zagreb and his men—the Four Horsemen—and reprimanded any department employee who used it.

  “Setting up their leader on a morals charge has scared the sauerkraut clean out of them. They’re tearing up their brown shirts to donate to the armed services.”

  The commissioner put on his pinch glasses and shuffled the papers on his desk, gesturing dismissal. “You’re insubordinate, Lieutenant. This department doesn’t railroad innocent men.”

  “Heinrich and I bowled in the same league before the war. He’s a blowhard and he’s got a screw loose when it comes to Jews, but he’s never so much as looked at a woman except his wife. Putting Sergeant O’Hanlon in a pinafore wouldn’t change that.”

  “It wasn’t O’Hanlon. I’d like to know how these rumors get started. We used a female volunteer from the steno pool.”