A lime green V-8 Cadillac Sport Phaeton pulled up under the porte cochere.
Texas Walt Hatfield himself strode down the front steps to greet it. The tall western star was wearing his signature J. B. Stetson hat, a turquoise silk shirt, string tie, brocade vest, and ostrich-skin boots. Twin Colts were holstered low on his hips. Strapping doormen flanked him.
“Good job, Walt,” said Isaac Bell, stepping down from the Phaeton in his bootlegger outfit. “The joint is jumpin’.”
“Just like you ordered. Music, gambling, pretty gals, and the best booze south of Canada. Now, will you tell me why I’m operating an illegal alcohol establishment?”
“What do you mean illegal? The cops are directing traffic.”
“And the town council’s in the bar, toasting the mayor. Dammit to hell, Isaac, why is the Van Dorn Detective Agency running a roadhouse?”
“Information,” said Bell. “Moneymaking roadhouses attract gangsters offering ‘protection’ for a cut of the profits. We’ll put the question to every shakedown thug who tries to horn in on us.”
“What question?”
“The same question Marat Zolner is asking: Who is Detroit’s top dog? He’s looking for a bootleg partner, like the Black Hand in New York.”
“Detroit’s different. Top dogs get shot, dynamited, and throat-slit on a regular basis. Every time the cops reckon who’s running things, the sidewinder gets ambushed. It’s bootleg war.”
“I’m betting the Comintern has the muscle and the money to swing the war their way. The boss who Zolner backs will win the war. When we learn who Zolner chooses, we will do the ambushing.”
“Looking forward to that,” said Texas Walt. “Meantime, we’re making money hand over fist. More than enough to cover the bribes— Good evening, Mr. Mayor. Good evening, Judge,” he greeted two plump men in new suits. “Your fair ladies asked me to tell you they’re getting a head start in the bar.”
“Wouldn’t it be funny,” said Bell, “if the Comintern were up to the same scheme we were?”
“Ah’d put nothing past Bolsheviks,” said Walt. “But how do you mean?”
“Bootlegging to pay for the revolution.”
Walt Hatfield laughed. “Personally, Ah’d say the heck with the revolution, Ah’m getting rich off Prohibition.”
“Of course, you’re not a Bolshevik.”
“Not when last Ah looked. Hold on! There’s trouble. Be right back, Isaac, gotta bust a head.”
“Need help?”
“There’s only three of them.”
The tall Texan bounded up the steps and inside where a bootlegger in a flash suit was pummeling a waiter held by a pair of husky bodyguards. Walt’s anvil fists flew. Within moments Walt Hatfield was walking the bootlegger, who now had a bloody nose, and a limping bodyguard to the parking lot. Ed Tobin, dressed as a floor manager in a tuxedo, followed him with an unconscious thug over his shoulder.
Bell headed inside, asking himself how odd was the idea of bootlegging whisky to fund the revolution. Invading armies fed off the land, foraging as they marched. Grady Forrer had chronicled Communist holdup gangs robbing czarist banks: “Stick ’em up in the name of the revolution!” Sinn Féin had paid to smuggle Thompson .45 submachine guns by robbing banks. Bell’s own father, a Union intelligence officer in the Civil War, had hunted down Confederate raiders robbing express cars. Why wouldn’t a Russian Comintern espionage agent plotting to overthrow the United States mask his Bolshevik assassins and saboteurs as a bootlegging crime syndicate?
The bar was seventy feet long and lined three deep.
Bell ordered a napkin and a glass of ice.
Scudder Smith sidled up with a Brooklyn Eagle press card in his hatband and dark tea in a highball glass. Most in the bar were too drunk to notice they knew each other, but, just in case, it paid to keep things private and appear to have just met.
“Brooklyn Eagle?” asked Bell. “You’re out of your territory.”
“The paper sent me to write a feature story on Prohibition in Detroit.”
“Have you found any?”
“I haven’t seen evidence of Prohibition, but I’ve heard rumors about a hooch tunnel under the river. Have you heard about the tunnel?”
“This is the first I’ve heard.”
“Sounds loony, except they all say the Polish gang dug it, which makes sense. The Poles emigrated from Silesia, where they mine coal. So they’re good at digging.”
Bell lowered his voice. “Scudder, find me that black boat. Pretend you’re writing about speedboats. Detroit’s famous for hydroplanes. There’s a guy named Gar Wood who builds the fastest.”
Walt joined them. “Ain’t had so much fun since Ah rode with Pancho Villa. That’s the fourth ruckus tonight and it ain’t hardly dark. Same thing last night.”
The bartender passed him a dampened handkerchief to wipe the blood from his knuckles.
Scudder asked, “Since when did you ride with Pancho Villa?”
“Back when Isaac was in short pants at Yale. Where you going, Isaac?”
“Have a chat with your sparring partners.”
He found the three in the parking lot, slumped against a Marmon, under the watchful eye of a Van Dorn. The unconscious bodyguard was still out cold. Bell hauled the bootlegger to his feet, walked him out of earshot, and handed him the glass of ice and the napkin. The bootlegger wiped the blood off his face and pressed ice to his nose.
“Thanks, buddy.”
“Would you answer some questions for me?”
“Are you a cop?”
The TEXAS WALT’S sign lit the parking lot bright as day. Isaac Bell gestured at his expensive suit, his handmade boots, and his rabbit-felt Borsalino. Then he shot a cuff, revealing diamond links and his gold Tank watch.
“Do I look like a cop?”
“You buddies with that damned cowboy who punched my nose?”
“I just got into town. Trying to get the lay of the land. But I’m hearing strange rumors.”
“Like what?”
“Rumor has it,” said Isaac Bell, “there’s a casino out in the middle of Lake Erie on a big ship.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Ever hear that?”
The bootlegger shrugged. “I heard they got a speakeasy in a dirigible.”
“Like the Germans bombed London with?” asked Bell. He had heard it, too. It was one of the crazier Prohibition tales floating around the Motor City. No one was clear how the giant airship remained invisible in daylight or how the customers
