strong-arm approach. Sometimes a little stealth is called for. He should have been discreet, met me in a quiet place, out of view ...
Jeez. I finally got it. The scheming sonofabitch wanted me to be seen with him, and for people to think we were pals. The backslapping, going to one of the city’s most famous hotels, specifying a window table so we could be easily seen.
That’s why he was so sure that I’d change my mind about working with him. If the Wobblies thought I was in league with Donner, then I would have to go along with him just to protect myself from the IWW.
I flung the papers on the floor. Like hell I would.
“Can’t miss it,” Sergeant Phelan had told me. As I walked through downtown Detroit, though, finding police headquarters turned out to be something of a challenge. Part of the problem was that I hadn’t been to the city since 1912, the last year I’d played in the American League. There’d been so much growth since then that I had difficulty finding the old landmarks.
Another problem was street names. As the auto industry turned the city from a frontier town to a major metropolis, respectability had become important. Red-light districts, once considered essential entertainment, were no longer quite so desirable. Loath to eliminate them, however, Detroit came up with a novel way of lessening their notoriety. I’d heard from other ballplayers that as certain streets became infamous for brothels and blind pigs, instead of shutting down the whorehouse and unlicensed saloons, the City Council simply changed the names of the streets.
During my search for the police station, I discovered that Croghan was now Monroe, and Champlain had been rechristened Lafayette East. Finally, using Cadillac Square as a reference point, I did work my way to the drab stone building that served as headquarters for the Detroit Police Department.
The desk sergeant inside the bustling front room was more lifelike than his counterpart at the Trumbull station house, but no more helpful in leading me to Detective Aikens.
“Don’t know nobody by that name,” the sergeant said. “What’s yer business with him?”
“It’s about the Emmett Siever shooting Monday night. Detective Aikens handled the case, I believe.”
“Don’t think so.” He called across the room to another uniformed officer. “Hey Vern! The Siever shooting. That’s Mack’s case, ain’t it?”
At Vern’s affirmative return yell, the sergeant said to me, “Detective McGuire’s the man you want to see. Let me check if he’s in.” He reached for a telephone, and after a brief conversation with McGuire, gave me directions to a second-floor office.
Walking along the upstairs hallway to McGuire’s office, I checked the names on each door looking in vain for “Aikens.” When I came to the one with Det. Francis McGuire lettered on the frosted glass, I rapped on Francis.
“Come in!”
I stepped inside to see a smallish man seated at a desk covered with papers and file folders. He was probably about thirty, but his long, rust-brown hair was uncombed and his face so mottled with freckles that he had the look of a twelve-year-old boy.
“I’m Mickey Rawlings,” I said. “Desk sergeant said you’d see me.”
“Sure will.” He stood up, offering his hand. “I’m Detective McGuire. Call me Mack. I don’t stand on ceremony.” McGuire flashed an easy smile, causing the freckles to move around like a kaleidoscope.
I hesitated only a second before returning his grip. The swelling of my wrist was down, and a handshake couldn’t be any worse for it than what Dr. Wirtenberg had done.
“Have a seat,” McGuire offered. “Oh—and close the door, please. Don’t want to let the heat out.”
I did as he asked, though I could detect no heat. Despite a radiator clanging and gurgling behind his oak swivel chair, the room was chilly. McGuire was dressed for the cold, in a heavy three-piece tweed suit. I kept my overcoat on as I settled into
Jeez. I finally got it. The scheming sonofabitch wanted me to be seen with him, and for people to think we were pals. The backslapping, going to one of the city’s most famous hotels, specifying a window table so we could be easily seen.
That’s why he was so sure that I’d change my mind about working with him. If the Wobblies thought I was in league with Donner, then I would have to go along with him just to protect myself from the IWW.
I flung the papers on the floor. Like hell I would.
“Can’t miss it,” Sergeant Phelan had told me. As I walked through downtown Detroit, though, finding police headquarters turned out to be something of a challenge. Part of the problem was that I hadn’t been to the city since 1912, the last year I’d played in the American League. There’d been so much growth since then that I had difficulty finding the old landmarks.
Another problem was street names. As the auto industry turned the city from a frontier town to a major metropolis, respectability had become important. Red-light districts, once considered essential entertainment, were no longer quite so desirable. Loath to eliminate them, however, Detroit came up with a novel way of lessening their notoriety. I’d heard from other ballplayers that as certain streets became infamous for brothels and blind pigs, instead of shutting down the whorehouse and unlicensed saloons, the City Council simply changed the names of the streets.
During my search for the police station, I discovered that Croghan was now Monroe, and Champlain had been rechristened Lafayette East. Finally, using Cadillac Square as a reference point, I did work my way to the drab stone building that served as headquarters for the Detroit Police Department.
The desk sergeant inside the bustling front room was more lifelike than his counterpart at the Trumbull station house, but no more helpful in leading me to Detective Aikens.
“Don’t know nobody by that name,” the sergeant said. “What’s yer business with him?”
“It’s about the Emmett Siever shooting Monday night. Detective Aikens handled the case, I believe.”
“Don’t think so.” He called across the room to another uniformed officer. “Hey Vern! The Siever shooting. That’s Mack’s case, ain’t it?”
At Vern’s affirmative return yell, the sergeant said to me, “Detective McGuire’s the man you want to see. Let me check if he’s in.” He reached for a telephone, and after a brief conversation with McGuire, gave me directions to a second-floor office.
Walking along the upstairs hallway to McGuire’s office, I checked the names on each door looking in vain for “Aikens.” When I came to the one with Det. Francis McGuire lettered on the frosted glass, I rapped on Francis.
“Come in!”
I stepped inside to see a smallish man seated at a desk covered with papers and file folders. He was probably about thirty, but his long, rust-brown hair was uncombed and his face so mottled with freckles that he had the look of a twelve-year-old boy.
“I’m Mickey Rawlings,” I said. “Desk sergeant said you’d see me.”
“Sure will.” He stood up, offering his hand. “I’m Detective McGuire. Call me Mack. I don’t stand on ceremony.” McGuire flashed an easy smile, causing the freckles to move around like a kaleidoscope.
I hesitated only a second before returning his grip. The swelling of my wrist was down, and a handshake couldn’t be any worse for it than what Dr. Wirtenberg had done.
“Have a seat,” McGuire offered. “Oh—and close the door, please. Don’t want to let the heat out.”
I did as he asked, though I could detect no heat. Despite a radiator clanging and gurgling behind his oak swivel chair, the room was chilly. McGuire was dressed for the cold, in a heavy three-piece tweed suit. I kept my overcoat on as I settled into
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