From the entrance, I did a quick scan and didn’t see her. I trotted through the store, looking around racks of colorful dresses and row after row of ladies’ hats. Turning the corner into the men’s department, I caught a glimpse of periwinkle as it disappeared out the back door. I ran through the store and burst out the back just in time to see Elizabeth, holding up the hem of her dress to keep it out of the alley’s mud, turn the corner of the building, and head back toward Gratiot.
My first impulse was to chase her down and force her to tell me what was going on, but I decided that following her might be more enlightening. I peeked around the corner and waited until she turned east on Gratiot, then ran through the alley after her. I expected her to turn off on Broadway, Randolph, or Brush, but she kept going, walking a few steps and then running, seeming torn between speed and inconspicuousness. She looked back a few times, but I stayed a block behind her and out of sight.
Gratiot is lined with businesses and generally safe, but now she entered a dark territory of crumbling tenements and cramped wooden houses. When she turned down Hastings I almost broke into a run to catch her and drag her away. Gray buildings with laundry draped from broken windows slumped over a muddy dirt road filled with trash. The air was foul from the overflowing outhouses along the street. Filthy children played in the mud. Women talked and shouted to each other in Russian, Hungarian, Italian—a bouillabaisse of cultures crammed together.
Elizabeth slowed in front of a squat wooden building near the corner of Hastings and Clinton. The small sign in front simply read DRUGS. She stopped, and looked up and down the street. I ducked behind a horse cart buried to its axles in mud. When I looked out, she was gone. I took a few steps toward the store. The door of the drugstore banged open, and Elizabeth backed out, shouting curses at someone inside, then turned and ran to the equally decrepit wooden building on the corner. I hurried after her, but when I saw the sign over the door, I stopped short, frozen in place.
The sign, a weather-beaten board splashed with faded black paint, read THE BUCKET. I had never been here before, but I knew the name. The Bucket was the most notorious saloon in Detroit, its reputation for violence so great that the newspapers called it the Bucket of Blood.
CHAPTER TEN
I swallowed hard walking through the mud toward the door Elizabeth had entered. Weathered boards showed through the gray paint flaking off the outside of the building. The sound of a piano playing a surprisingly good version of Joplin’s “Elite Syncopations” filtered out under the thick wooden door hanging crooked over a battered sill. I hopped up on the boardwalk, grabbed the door’s handle, and pulled it open.
The piano player, a young black man with a cigarette hanging from his lips, pounded on the ivories in the corner. The room reeked of stale beer, cigars, and sweat. A gray smoke cloud hung over a dozen men sitting hunched and lifeless at a chipped walnut bar. Three surly looking white men were playing cards with a grizzled Negro at one of the cracked wooden tables scattered about in no apparent configuration. Seeing the black man at the card table stopped me for a second. There were few Negroes in Detroit, and I had never been in a saloon that allowed them as patrons.
The only women I could see were a pair of prostitutes in heavy makeup and calf-length satin dresses who stood near the card players, rooting them on.
The energetic rag ended with a flourish, and the piano player started in on “Bethena,” a mournful tune more in keeping with the environment. The barkeep, unshaven and every bit as unkempt as the clientele, shouted at me, “He’s not here.”
I walked tentatively toward him over the stained plank floor, almost on tiptoes. “Who?”
“Whoever you’re looking for.”
I stopped behind a man on a stool, his head slumped atop the bar. “It’s a she,” I said. “The young lady who just came in here.”
The barkeep spit tobacco juice toward an unseen spittoon and looked back at me with contempt. “She ain’t here.”
“No, she is.” I tried to sound friendly, like I knew he had made a mistake. “I just saw her come in.”
“She ain’t here.” He leaned over the bar and spit a brown wad on my right shoe.
I glanced at my shoe and struggled to maintain an even tone. “Look, I saw her come in here not two minutes ago. Just tell me where she is.”
He hawked up a wad of mucus, and I was pretty certain I knew where it would be headed. “Please,” I said. “I just want to get Elizabeth—”
“Big Boy!” the barkeep shouted. “Got us a tough guy!”
A man, well, more like a mountain, stood up at the other end of the bar and sauntered over to me with an amused smile on his face. He was tall, easily six-four, and huge, two hundred fifty-plus pounds of solid muscle. His head, the shape of an engine block and probably just as hard, had closely shorn dark hair exposing tiny ears. “I like playing with tough guys,” he rumbled, “but you look like you might be a disappointment.”
I held up my hands in front of me and backed away. “I don’t want trouble. Really. I’m just looking for a girl.”
“Ain’t we all.” He wore a sleeveless undershirt that exposed bulging biceps and triceps and a number of other muscles I was quite sure I didn’t even have. I kept backing up until I reached the wall, and he stopped only when his chest touched my chin. Something cold and hard pushed against my ear. Without turning my head, I cut my eyes in that direction. A very large revolver was pointed at the side of my head. My guts roiled.
“We get a lot of hoodlums in here,” the giant said. “But we don’t get a lot of swells.” The cold barrel of the gun caressed my cheek. “And when they get out alive, they never come back.” He smiled. His big teeth stood out like pickets.
“Please,” I said. “You don’t understand. She’s in trouble, and I need to help her.”
He stepped back and used the revolver to turn me toward the door. The barrel jabbed me hard in the back, and I stumbled forward.
“If she wasn’t in trouble before she came in here,” the deep voice whispered in my ear, “then she sure is now.”
He grabbed hold of my neck and slammed me against the door face-first. My nose crunched and exploded with pain. Bright lights flared in front of me. He tossed me out onto the street, and I collapsed in the mud, tears mixing with the blood streaming from my nose. It was quite a while before I could collect myself enough to stand. I gingerly touched my nose and almost fell back into the mud from the pain.
I didn’t know what to do. To go back in would be suicide. Finally, reckoning a live coward had a better chance of rescuing Elizabeth than a dead hero, I crossed the street, hid at the side of an abandoned livery stable, and watched the door. I tilted my head back and pressed my handkerchief against my nostrils, trying to ignore the pounding in my head and the crimson blotches spreading on my shirt.
A few minutes later I heard a muffled scream. I ran toward the saloon, and the screams got louder. When I was halfway across the street, the door burst open, and the giant, holding Elizabeth by the hair, pushed her through it. Screaming hysterically, she flailed her arms at him to no effect.
“Hey!” I shouted, running up to them. “Let go of her!”
The bouncer pulled the big revolver again and stuck it in my face while continuing to hold Elizabeth at arm’s length. She thrashed and shouted out vile curses.
A deep voice with an Italian accent purred, “No, Big Boy. Let him take Miss Hume away from here. She might need more motivation.” A handsome man around thirty years old sauntered out the door, fitting a gray derby onto his head. He had an olive complexion, waxed mustaches framed by a sharp nose and a small mouth, and a thick shock of black hair.
Elizabeth reached around and slashed her fingernails across the giant’s face. He backhanded her, and she flew onto the muddy street. I jumped toward him, but stopped when he thumbed back the hammer on the huge gun.
“I thought I told you to get out of here,” he said, and threw a short left into my stomach that felt like it went al
l the way through me. I landed on the street near Elizabeth. My chest heaved as I struggled for air, a strange groaning noise coming from deep in my diaphragm.
The Italian man leaned over the edge of the boardwalk, careful not to get his shiny black shoes muddy, and looked into Elizabeth’s face. “Think about my proposal, Miss Hume. I can make you happy again.”
She screamed and leaped to her feet, swinging her fists, but the giant put a hand against her sternum and shoved her off the boardwalk, knocking her on her back again. This time she stayed there. The two men walked back inside the saloon.
Eventually I caught my breath and picked myself up from the mud. Elizabeth was still lying on the street, sobbing. I helped her up, pulled her hat out of the mud, and began walking her toward Gratiot, speaking in a soothing tone. “It’s going to be okay. We’ll get through this.” My nasal voice sounded like someone else.
Elizabeth’s body was shaking. I took my first good look at her face. Her eyes were wide, pupils huge. Her face glistened with perspiration, and a line of clear mucus ran from her nose.
“We need to get you to a doctor.”
“No, Will,” she murmured. “Just leave me alone.”
“Elizabeth, you have to see someone.”
She wiped her face with her hands, leaving dirty tracks, and tried to straighten her muddy dress. “I said leave me alone, Will. I’m taking care of it.” Her voice quavered from the shivers racking her body.
I made up my mind. “No. You’re going to a doctor.” I bent down and picked her up by the legs, flipping her over my back. My nose started to bleed again. While I trudged along, she screamed and beat me with her fists. On Gratiot I flagged down a cab.
The driver, an old man with a long, wispy beard, said, “Extra buck on account of you’re gonna mess up my cab.” I nodded, and he jerked on the reins. His horse, which looked every bit as ancient as his owner, clopped to a halt and began to nuzzle at the weeds beside the road.
I climbed up on the step and dropped Elizabeth onto the seat. She curled up against the opposite side and cried. The cabbie turned around. After a long look at Elizabeth, he shot a conspiratorial grin in my direction that made me want to hit him. “Where to?” he said.
“Thirty-five hundred Mount Elliott. Dr. Miller’s place.”
I swallowed the aspirin and looked up at Dr. Miller. “Are you sure? She’s a dope fiend? You didn’t leave her in there by herself, did you?” Every time I spoke I was surprised by the nasal sound of my voice. I’d have thought the constant pain would have kept me clued in.
“Stay still.” He held my head in both hands, turning it a little from side to side while he looked over his glasses at my nose. “If you’re worried she’ll disappear, she’s locked in the other examination room. As far as the addiction is concerned, I can’t say with absolute certainty, but she seems to be in the throes of withdrawal from an opiate. If I had to guess, I’d say heroin.”
“How could that happen?”
“It’s not as unusual as you might think. Most addicts are women, though they tend to be older than Elizabeth. Most often they become addicted to a patent medicine containing opium, and they try to cure that addiction with heroin.”
I just looked at him, dumbfounded.
He shrugged. “That’s what it’s for. Though progressive doctors don’t use it anymore.”
His examination rooms were small but well appointed, with paintings of bucolic landscapes on the papered walls. Through the window I could see his garden, stark and lifeless under the gray November sky.
He opened a cabinet and grabbed a small white towel off the top shelf. Handing it to me, he said, “Hold this to your chin.”
I took the towel. “I just can’t see Elizabeth as an addict. Could it be something else?”
“I suppose so.” He stroked his white beard. “She’s certainly not volunteering any information.”
“How long has it been since she’s come in to see you?” I asked.
“Not since her . . . hospital stay last year. I believe she’s changed doctors.” He thought for a moment. “When was the last time you saw her?”
“Four, no, five days ago.” I was losing track of time.
“Was she like this then?”
“No. She was thin, of course. She’s lost a lot of weight since I last saw her before that. But she wasn’t perspiring and shaking and acting like a lunatic. She was strange, but the opposite of today. When I told her her fiancé had been murdered, her reaction was muted, to say the least.”
“Her fiancé was murdered?” Dr. Miller plopped down onto the chair facing me. “When?”
I’d never told him about Elizabeth and John. It was too late to withdraw the words. “Her fiancé was John Cooper, the man who was killed at the Anderson Carriage Company last Monday.”
“Good Lord!” His eyes widened behind the little wire-rimmed glasses. “But you . . . Elizabeth . . .”
“I had nothing to do with it, Doctor. You’ve known me for fifteen years. You know I’m not a killer.”
“No . . . no, I suppose not.” He shook his head, clearing it. “No, of course you aren’t.” He was quiet for a moment. “But you say she had little reaction to receiving the news?”
I nodded.
“Then I’d hazard the opinion she is indeed a heroin addict and was under the influence when you saw her last. She should have twenty-four-hour-a-day medical supervision, starting immediately.”
“Can she be cured?”
“Temporarily, at least. She needs a week at a hospital to have the drug purged from her system, along with a regulated belladonna delirium to ease the pain. Whether it’s a permanent cure is entirely up to her.”
I put my hands on my knees and levered myself to my feet. “Then let’s get her to the hospital.”
He pushed me back into the chair. “First, there’s the matter of that nose. Towel to the chin.”
I held the towel up, and he stepped around behind me. “Say, Will, I’ve had a strange noise coming from the undercarriage of my automobile. Perhaps you could—”
He jerked my nose to the right. Cartilage crunched. I shrieked. Blood poured down my face until he grabbed the towel, held it to my nose, and tipped my head back.
Dr. Miller went on with the conversation as though he had not practically ripped my nose from my face. “We can take my automobile to save time. I really would like your opinion on that noise.”
I whimpered an okay. A few moments later, he gave me an ice bag for my nose and left the room. I sat with my head tipped back, ice bag held carefully, until he returned five minutes later with a clean pair of trousers and a white shirt for me to wear. He cleaned my nose, getting only a couple of yelps out of me, and plugged it with cotton. I put on the clothing and carefully held the ice bag to my nose. “Could we go now?”
“If you’re ready.” He put a finger to my chin and tilted my head back before opening the door and walking into the waiting room.
I followed him out. “Would you mind if I tell Elizabeth what we’re doing? She’s not going to be pleased.”
He pulled a key from his pocket and handed it to me. “Here. I’ll get the car ready.” He took his duster from the coatrack and walked outside while I knocked softly on the door.
“Elizabeth? Lizzie?” There was no response, so I knocked a little louder and raised my voice. “Elizabeth? Can I come in?” Still nothing.
I unlocked the door and opened it slowly, peering into the room over the ice bag. “I’m coming in. Elizabeth?”
The curtains fluttered in front of an open window. The room was empty.
I hopped into Dr. Miller’s coupé, and we scoured the streets around his office. When that produced no sight of Elizabeth, I asked him to drive me to her home. It was the only place I could think of. She wouldn’t be going back to the Bucket.
Dr. Miller pulled to the curb and turned toward me, resting his left arm on the steering lever. “You know she can’t be cured if she doesn’t want to be.”
“Will, you’re not going to be able to help her.”
I thought about Elizabeth. “Doctor, I owe her more than I could ever repay.”
His lip twitched, a hint of a frown, but he started up again and drove to the Humes’, parking just down the block in the only open space, wedged between a red Model T and a horse-drawn milk wagon. “I’ll wait here for you. If she’s home, and if she’s willing to go, I’ll drive you to the hospital. More likely, when she tells you where you can go, I’ll drive you home.”
I left the ice bag in the car and walked, head tipped back, down the sidewalk and through the gate to Elizabeth’s house. I knocked, somewhat tentatively, trying to frame an argument that would get Elizabeth to cooperate, if indeed she was here.
Alberts peered through the window in the door and gave a little start, I suspect at my condition. He eyed me for a moment before turning away.
“Alberts!” I shouted. “Is Elizabeth here?” Blood dripped into my mouth.
He turned a corner and was gone. I pounded harder. “Alberts! Alberts!”
Mrs. Hume’s voice barked out from above me. “William! Be quiet this instant!” I leaned over the rail and looked up at the window. She was leaning out over the sill. Her eyes widened when she saw my face. “My God! What happened to you?”
“Has Elizabeth come home?”
The Detroit Electric Scheme Page 10
