Whiskey River Read online

  Whiskey River

  By Loren D. Estleman

  To my father, Leauvett Estleman,

  who told the stories

  CAVEAT LECTOR

  WITH NOTABLE EXCEPTIONS—the killing of Jerry Buckley, the Collingwood Massacre, the recall of Mayor Charles Bowles and succeeding election of Frank Murphy, the McDonald murder-suicide, and the 1939 Ferguson-O’Hara grand jury investigation of the Detroit Police Department, as well as other incidents and people referred to but not seen—the characters and events depicted herein are fictional. There was no Jack Dance, no Joey Machine, no Sal Borneo, or Frankie Orr; saddest of all, there was no Connie Minor. But people like them existed in the city, and the situation in Detroit during the years 1919-1939 was as reported. All other characters and events except those suggested by figures and incidents in places other than Detroit are products of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is coincidental.

  It is simply not possible to tell the truth about the past. My grandmother has become an angel; she couldn’t possibly have been.

  —EDWARD G. ROBINSON

  Contents

  PART ONE 1928-1930 The Black Bottom

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  PART TWO May-November 1930 Bloody ’30

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  PART THREE November 1930-May 1931 Indians

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  PART FOUR May 1931-August 1932 The Collingwood Massacre

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  A Biography of Loren D. Estleman

  The first day: September 25, 1939

  The special prosecutor reminded him of Old Man Prohibition in the old cartoons, only younger: tall and gangling, longish black hair plastered back with water, a razor-slash of mouth in a narrow face with a lantern jaw and eyes set too close together. Only the stovepipe hat was missing. Trouble was he could never tell Old Man Prohibition from John Barleycorn as the cartoonists drew them. Maybe nobody could, and that was the source of the trouble.

  He swore on the Bible, that anomalous ceremony wherein Church and State were wedded in perpetuity, and sat down in the box, experiencing anew that radical change of perceptions, as if he were looking down the wrong end of a telescope; and although there was no gallery, just the judge (one-man grand jury, to put the fine point on it, but a sworn judge notwithstanding and seated behind the high bench) and a paunchy old granite-eyed bailiff with a big revolver behind his hipbone and a young court recorder with a brush cut and freckles on the backs of his hands, he felt like a germ on a microscope slide.

  The judge had white hair with black sidewalls and wild hairs in his heavy eyebrows that swayed like feelers in the breeze from the electric fan on the railing.

  “Please state your full name and occupation,” said the special prosecutor.

  “Connie Minor.” He corrected himself: “Constantine Alexander Minor. I’m an advertising copywriter.”

  “You’re a former journalist, is that correct?”

  “Yes, I worked for the Times and the Banner and wrote a column for the Continental News Syndicate.”

  “Do you know why you received a subpoena to testify before this grand jury?”

  “You’re investigating allegations of misconduct in the police department. I assume you think I know something about the subject, but I don’t.”

  “We’re also looking into crimes perpetrated by certain well-known underworld figures in Detroit, some of whom have been mentioned several times in the course of these proceedings. I believe you’re familiar with Salvatore Bornea, alias Sal Borneo, and Francis Xavier Oro, alias Frankie Orr?”

  “Slightly. I met them both once.”

  “Your name was given to us by Miss Celestine Brown, Negro, who testified here last week. Do you know her?”

  “I met her on two occasions.”

  “You knew her late Negro companion, Bass Springfield?”

  “I did.”

  “You’re aware of the circumstances of his death?”

  “I am.”

  “You were acquainted with Springfield’s associates, Charles Austin Camarillo, Andrew V. Kramm, and John Danzig, alias Jack Dance?”

  They sounded like nothing more than people’s names in the relentless prosecutorial mouth. It was a warm day for late September and the fan, oscillating to right and left like a reptile’s head, looped cool air over the back of his neck once every forty seconds, drying the sweat that formed there in the intervals between.

  “I knew all of them.”

  “You’re aware of the circumstances of the deaths of Dance and Camarillo?”

  “I was present when they were killed.”

  “Indeed? That isn’t what you told the police. We have the report.”

  “There’s a great deal I didn’t tell the police.”

  “Why not?”

  “You’ve been investigating them for five weeks. You should know the answer to that question.”

  “I see nothing to joke about, Mr. Minor. Official corruption is serious business.”

  “Also a high-paying one.”

  “Are you prepared to share your knowledge with the grand jury?”

  “All of it?”

  “Unless you have Fifth Amendment reasons for not doing so.”

  He glanced at the young recorder. “If I used them I’d sound like a thug.”

  “All citizens are protected by the Bill of Rights, Mr. Minor, not just thugs.”

  “You say that and I believe you, but what I see is a headline saying ‘Minor Takes Fifth.’ It would wash me up as a newspaperman in this town. I don’t want to write ad copy forever.”

  “Our concern is truth. It should be yours as well. Now, are you or are you not refusing to share your knowledge at this time of crimes committed in Detroit during your career as a journalist under your Fifth Amendment rights guaranteeing you protection from self-incrimination?”

  The motion of the special prosecutor’s lips, or rather the edges of his mouth since he appeared to have no lips, fascinated him. It reminded him of the up-and-down chopping of the cutters that separated the long printed sheets into pages as they came off the presses.

  “No, I guess not.”

  “Then tell us about your relationship with Jack Dance.”

  “The whole relationship?”

  “If you would. As a matter of fact, I insist.”

  “I hope you brought your lunch, counselor.”

  PART ONE

  1928-1930

  The Black Bottom

  We have the biggest of nearly everything: the tallest building, the biggest electric sign, the longest bridge, the most money …

  —Detroit City Directory, 1925-26 edition

  The “blind pig” conditions are worse in every way than in any other town visited, and the liquor sold is of a ruinous quality.

  —Ernest W. Mandeville,

  “Detroit Sets a Bad Example,”
/>   Outlook, April 1925

  Chapter One

  I SAW JACK DANCE the first time in Hattie Long’s place on Vernor the night the bulls tipped it over. I guess he was going by John Danzig at the time.

  Hattie hadn’t been renting the place long. I remember my hack and I drove up and down the East Side for almost an hour looking for the stuffed rooster in the window. The rooster went everywhere Hattie went and it was how you could tell where she was set up on any particular night. For all the bulls cared most of the time, she could have advertised in the Free Press, but Hattie always had a keener sense of the proprieties than any of the auto-money hags in Grosse Pointe. Last I heard she was running a beer garden in Royal Oak or somewhere. I heard she lost her looks.

  The rooster this time was in a window on the ground floor of a house with an undertaker’s sign out front. She sublet it to the digger during the day and stored the liquor in coffins in back. The joke that made the rounds ran that you could get a bier in the daytime and a beer at night.

  I sent the hack on his way and went in through the front. Although the side door was customary in those places, this one was five feet wide and meant for carrying out the stiffs, and not many cared to use it. We were superstitious in those days.

  Hattie had about an hour between the time the mortuary closed and she opened for the night, but you’d have thought she had a week. The burgundy velvet curtain that separated the entry way from the slumber room had been pushed back, tables and chairs set in place, and a cherrywood bar with a brass footrail erected on the platform where in all probability a corpse had lain in state that afternoon. In place of the stand where visitors signed in stood two antique slot machines weighing two hundred pounds apiece. The bartender, whose name was Johnston, had on a white apron and a red bow tie on a shirt with garters. He parted his hair in the middle and waxed his handlebars like in pre-Prohibition days, but there wasn’t anything affected about it because he’d been mixing drinks for forty years; his favorite boast was that he had once served a pink gin to Bat Masterson. Nobody ever called him on it, not with a faded sepia photograph of a young Johnston sparring with Jim Jeffries tacked to the wall behind the bar. The place smelled of needle beer and Lifebuoy soap from the cribs on the second floor and “Ramona” was playing on a wind-up Victrola by the big door. Hattie hated jazz.

  This kid—I guessed he was twenty, but it turned out later he was barely eighteen—was leaning on the bar with his back to me, watching something. I noticed him because of his size and because the pants of the brown suit he had on were swinging a good three inches shy of his big wingtips. He was built like a lug and if I hadn’t seen his face a minute later I’d have thought he was older still.

  “How’s the boy, Johnnie?” I asked Johnston, clearing a space for my elbows next to the kid. The bars were always crowded in places where there was no one to wait tables, with two full glasses in front of each beer drinker in case the kegs ran out.

  “What’ll it be?” Johnston wasn’t much for the small talk.

  I skidded a half-dollar across the bar and told him the usual. He poured two fingers of Old Log Cabin into a tumbler half full of Vernor’s—Vernor’s on Vernor, that’s how I remember where the blind pig was.

  The kid had turned around and looked at me when I said “Johnnie”—they were still calling him John then as I said—and that’s when I found out he was a kid. He had some baby fat, and curly black hair that needed cutting. It would still need cutting years later when he had a Duesenberg and a tailor to make sure his cuffs came to his shoes. That night he looked like one of the big Polish line workers from Hamtramck that got tired of buying their boilermakers from a parked car in front of Dodge Main and came downtown. They were all youngsters.

  He lost interest in me when he figured out I wasn’t addressing him and returned his attention to the other end of the bar, where a shrimp in a cloth cap and a green tweed suit too heavy for the weather stood fishing in his pants pockets. He came up with a quarter and put it on the bar. Johnston filled a schooner with beer from the keg and set it down directly on top of the quarter. The shrimp put a hand on his cap, tipped down the beer in one easy installment, belched dramatically, set down the empty schooner, and put the coin back in his pocket. Then he went out past the velvet curtain. He was weaving a little.

  “Who is that guy?” the kid asked Johnston.

  “What guy?” The bartender swept the glass off the bar and plunged it into a washtub full of soapy water at his feet.

  “The little guy. I been watching him for an hour. Every time he comes back from the toilet he slaps a two-bit piece on the bar, you draw him a beer, he drinks it, and puts away his money. I seen him drink six beers and you never took the two-bit piece once. Who’s he, the mayor?”

  “Jerry the Lobo.” Johnston shook the suds off the schooner and wiped it dry with his towel.

  “Lobo like in wolf? He looks more like a rat. I seen him try to pick a guy’s pocket. He got his hand slapped.”

  “Not lobo like in wolf,” I said. “Lobo like in lobotomy.”

  The kid looked at me with more interest this time. I tapped my forehead. “Croakers in Jackson cut a piece out of his brain. He was a first-class pickpocket when they sent him up the last time. They did it to relieve him of his criminous intentions. Didn’t work. He’s still a pickpocket; he’s just not too good at it anymore.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “You can see the scar when he takes the cap off.”

  “They do that?”

  “Only if you volunteer. They knocked time off his sentence for it. Anyway, that’s why no bartender I know will take his quarter. They feel sorry for him.”

  “It’s always the same quarter?”

  “Far as I know.”

  “Hell, I’d do better than that. If I had a gun I’d put him out of his misery.”

  I never forgot that, what Jack Dance said about putting Jerry the Lobo out of his misery. Maybe I would have, except that time in Hattie’s was the last time I saw Jerry. He disappeared soon after.

  The kid stuck out a right hand the size of a bucket. “I’m John Danzig.”

  “Jew?”

  “What if I am?” He drew back the hand.

  “Don’t get your balls in an uproar, junior. I’m Greek myself.” I offered him mine. “Connie Minor.”

  “Connie?”

  “Short for Constantine. Some civil jerk at Ellis Island changed the old man’s name from Minos.”

  He took my hand then. His was softer than I’d expected. He wasn’t using it to pull any levers at the Dodge plant. For all that I felt a crackle when we made contact. It was like petting a cat on a dry winter day. “You work here, Connie?”

  “Just on this highball. I write for the Times.”

  “No kidding? Who owns this joint, Connie?”

  “You thinking of buying it?” I was sore about the way he’d dismissed my profession with two words. Most people were curious about it. Radio was boring as hell then and people got most of their entertainment from movies and the tabloids.

  “I’m looking for a job,” he said.

  “What do you do?”

  “Right now I help out my old man in his shop. He repairs watches. My fingers are too big, though. Also I like to see. My old man’s eyes started to go when he was thirty. He’s almost blind, my old man.”

  I wanted to laugh. If he’d ever called his father “my old man” before that night, he’d probably gotten slapped silly. Except for his size he made me think of a squirt trying to talk his way in with the big kids.

  “Well, you came to the right place,” I said. “They don’t fix watches here.”

  “Fresh transfusion, sport?” Johnston asked the kid.

  He put a hand around his half-empty schooner, which he’d obviously forgotten about. “One’s the limit.”

  “We sell drinks here. We don’t rent glasses.”

  The kid dug around inside his pockets and came up with a handful of lint. I bounced a quarter off t
he bar. Johnston caught it and set a full glass next to the first one.

  “Thanks,” said the kid. “I really do stop at one.”

  “Johnston doesn’t care if you drink it. His mother told him if he didn’t use his bar space she’d give it to the Albanians.”

  “You didn’t say who owns the place.”

  “Ask Hattie.”

  Hattie was coming our way from the back where they dressed and painted the stiffs. She was five-two but looked taller because she was so slender, and the drop-waisted flapper dresses she wore added to the impression of height. She was a strawberry blonde, bobbed and marcelled, with a broad forehead, a chin that came to a point, and a mouth that was a little too wide for the beestung lips that Mae Murray was making famous in the movies. Her eyebrows were big surprised circles of thin pencil. The gamblers at the Times were betting she traced them around Mason lids, but I’d seen her draw them on with only the aid of a mirror. Hattie and I went back a few. I remember how calm she looked that night, with all hell breaking loose upstairs and about to come barreling through the front door.

  I was in the middle of introducing the kid to her when she put a hand on my arm. “Connie, I need to borrow you.”

  I gave the kid the high sign and walked off with her a few steps. She looped her arm through mine.

  “They put strychnine in my best whiskey,” she said. “I’ve got a dead justice of the peace upstairs and an Oklahoma oilman throwing up in the toilet.”

  “What brand?” I’d been swilling Old Log Cabin for ten minutes.

  “Stop worrying about yourself. You don’t think I serve this radiator juice to the guests upstairs.”

  “Who did it?”

  “The Purples, the Little Jewish Navy, who cares? I’ve got to get these slot machines out of here before the bulls come and smash them to pieces. They’re worth more than what’s inside them.”

  “Did you call Joey?”

  “It’ll take Joey’s people twenty minutes to get here. I need muscle now.”

  We were standing in front of one of the machines, a baroque nightmare in worked bronze with claw feet and a lever the size of a mop handle. I put my arms around it and heaved. The back legs came up an inch. I let it fall back with a crash. The record on the Victrola skipped a beat; one less fucking boop-boop-a-doo.