Motor City Shakedown by D. E. Johnson Read Free Book Online

and the fifteen ounces of morphine hidden in the back of my wardrobe contributed to the feeling that I should be sure before I ran.
    A man walked, a bit unsteadily, up the sidewalk on the other side of the street. When he passed under a streetlamp I saw it was my new neighbor, Arthur Preston, his face shining with sweat. He was a puffy though not corpulent thirty-year-old, the head accountant (his emphasis) for the Detroit Salt Mining Company, and an exceedingly dull dinner guest. His collar was sprung on one side, his tie askew, his derby pulled down around his eyes.
    When he reached the sidewalk in front of our building, he turned and looked up at the miniature towers and turrets that festooned the roof of the three-story toy castle in which we lived. He was also interested in the level of activity on the top floor, although his concern would be different from mine—was his teetotaling wife awake? He was probably more relieved than I had been to see no lights on in his apartment. Straightening his waistcoat, he marched up to the door, unlocked it, and stepped inside.
    He stopped. It appeared he was talking to someone, though I couldn’t see the other party. After a minute or so, he walked out of sight, and another man stepped forward and peered out the door. This man wore the navy blue wool of the Detroit Police Department, complete with brass buttons and a badge.
    I cursed and fingered the little morphine bottle in my pocket. I would have to say good-bye to that sixteen-ounce bottle. At least I had plenty of money to replace it. As soon as the cop moved from the door I slipped away and circled around to the south, toward Jefferson Avenue.
    She must have come forward. It was time to leave town and work up a plan.
    *   *   *
    I crept down the shoreline, heading for the downtown Michigan Central Depot. I entered from the track side, hidden by the rows of empty boxcars on the auxiliary tracks. The moon had disappeared. Behind me it was black, the gurgling of water against the bank the only evidence of the Detroit River. The platform lights reached out far enough that I could see the cars’ black shapes.
    I crept forward, careful to make as little noise as possible. This was the main hub of the Michigan Central line. Hundreds of trains left this station every day. If the police wanted me, they might expect to find me here, particularly as it was the only place to catch a train in the middle of the night. Even if they weren’t after me, the railroad cops would be out looking for hoboes. Unfortunately, I felt I had to take the chance. My face was too well known in Detroit for me to hide for long.
    When I reached the set of cars closest to the station, I peeked around the edge of one in the middle. The platform, only fifty feet away, was nearly empty. A man lay on a bench, and a handsome young couple sat slumped against each other, staring straight ahead.
    To my right, a ringing of metal on metal caught my attention. It sounded like a muffled bell clanging violently. It stopped as quickly as it had begun. I crouched and looked to where the sound had come from. A few tracks over, the light from a swinging lantern moved toward me, careening back and forth through the boxcars. Now the sound of boots crunching against stone began to filter to my ears. The ringing sound started and stopped, started and stopped. This time of night it could only be a policeman of some sort. If I were caught here, it didn’t much matter whether he was specifically looking for me or not. At best I’d be arrested for trespassing. It would be only a matter of time until my identity was discovered.
    I took one step away from the light and froze. Another light moved toward me from the other direction. The first light was close enough now that the man would surely see me if I made a break toward the river. I’d have to go through the station.
    I glanced around the side of the boxcar toward the platform again. A