The Bootlegger (Isaac Bell 7)

“Where?”

Gus followed Bell’s gaze, past the kitchen and across the lot to a black Stutz sedan parked in the shadows, and his meaning sunk in. Leaning against it were Harry Warren’s toughest Gang Squad detectives. Grieving for the murdered Harry, they had no difficulty looking like gangsters who would kill without hesitation and enjoy it. Gus shook his head. “Look, mister . . .”

“What’s his name?”

“Saying it could get me killed.”

“Not saying it will get you killed. What’s his name?”

Gus looked around, ducked his head like a turtle, and whispered, “Stern.”

“First name?”

“Max.”

“Where do I find Max Stern?”

“I ain’t that high up, mister. You gotta believe me.”

“Where do you guess he hangs out?”

“The big guys don’t hang out. Too dangerous.”

Bell believed him. At least he had a name of the boss Zolner might go to. He switched tactics. “I keep hearing stories about that black boat.”

“Boats are old hat.”

“What do you mean?”

“Driving whisky sixes across the ice will be old hat, too.”

Bell said, “What are you talking about?”

“When they get the tunnel.”

“What tunnel?”

The gangster backpedaled. He was either reconsidering the truth of the rumor or the wisdom of talking about it. He said, “If you ask me, it’s talk. Like the dirigible. Like the floating casino.”

“What’s the talk?”

“They’re almost done digging it. Just talk.”

“Where?”

Gus repeated almost word for word what “Joe” had told Bell in the parking lot. “If I knew where, I’d own it, which I don’t. If I did, I wouldn’t need the money for shaking down your roadhouse. Or if I knew and I didn’t own it, I’d be dead.”

“Why dead?”

“You can’t move a tunnel. Only two ways to hide it: pay off or kill off everybody who knows about it.”

Bell said, “If that were true, wouldn’t you hear about workmen—masons, bricklayers, maybe even sandhogs—floating facedown in the river?”

“The river’s full of bodies. Everyone thinks they’re hijacked whisky haulers. Could be some other reason. Could be guys digging tunnels.” The gangster hunched over his wounded hand and fell silent.

Convinced that he had gotten as much as he could out of Gus, Bell walked up the paved path that led to the front of the roadhouse. He was feeling discouraged. This tunnel talk was interesting, but he did not feel one foot closer to Marat Zolner and the Comintern.

It was getting late. Cars were pulling away, and he saw a line of red taillights, driving home to Detroit. The cops directing traffic had called it a night. As he approached the front steps, he exchanged nods with Dashwood, who was keeping an eye on things from the far side of the veranda. Stragglers lingered, swells and flappers prolonging good-byes with hip flasks.