Wheels

  This was drab and cavernous, with a wet cement floor and a permanent stink of urine. A row of big stone washup basins—“bird baths”—was set centrally, at each of which a dozen men normally performed ablutions at once. Lockers, urinals, toilets without doors, crowded the remaining space.

  Rollie rinsed his hands and face at a bird bath and mopped with paper towels. He had the washup area to himself since by now the day shift had gone and, outside, the new shift was settling down to work. Workers from it would begin drifting in here soon, but not yet.

  An outside door opened. Big Rufe entered, moving quietly for a man of his bulk. He was scowling and looking at his wrist watch. Big Rufe’s shirt sleeves were rolled back, the muscles rippling in his raised forearm. He motioned for silence as Rollie joined him.

  Seconds later, Daddy-o Lester came through the same door that Big Rufe had used. The young black was breathing hard, as if he had been running; sweat glistened on his forehead and on the scar running the length of his face.

  Big Rufe said accusingly, “I told you, hurry it …”

  “I did! They runnin’ late. Had trouble at one stand. Somethin’ jammed, took longer.” Daddy-o’s voice was high-pitched and nervous, his usual swagger gone.

  “Where they now?”

  “South cafeteria. Leroy’s watchin’ out. Hell meet us where we said.”

  “South cafeteria’s those guys’ last stop.” Big Rufe told the others, “Let’s move it.”

  Rollie stood where he was. “Move where? An’ what?”

  “Now get on this fast.” Big Rufe kept his voice low, his eyes on the outer door. “We gonna bust the vending machine guys. The whole deal’s planned—a cincheroo. They carry a big load, ’n we got four guys to their two. You get a cut.”

  “I don’t want it! Don’t know enough.”

  “Want it or not, you got it. You got this, too.” Big Rufe pressed a snub-nosed automatic into Rollie’s hand.

  He protested, “No!”

  “What’s the difference? You done time for armed. Now, if you carryin’ a piece or you ain’t, you get the same.” Big Rufe shoved Rollie ahead of him roughly. As they left the locker-washup room, instinctively Rollie pushed the pistol out of sight into his trousers waistband.

  They hastened through the plant, using out-of-the-way routes and keeping clear of observation—not difficult for anyone knowing the lay out well. Though Rollie had not been inside the south cafeteria, which was a small one used by supervisors and foremen, he knew where it was. Presumably it had a battery of vending machines, as had the employees’ area where he bought his Coke.

  Over his shoulder, hurrying with the others, Rollie asked, “Why me?”

  “Could be we like you,” Big Rufe said. “Or maybe the boss figures the deeper a brother’s in, the less chance he’ll chicken out.”

  “The boss man in this too?”

  “I tol’ you this piece of action was planned. We bin studyin’ them vending guys a month. Hard to figure why nobody knocked ’em off before.”

  The last statement was a lie.

  It was not hard to figure—at least, for those with inside knowledge—why the vending machine collectors had gone unmolested until now. Big Rufe was among those who possessed such inside knowledge; also, he knew the special risks which he and the other three were running at this moment, and was prepared to accept and challenge them.

  Rollie Knight had no such information. If he had, if he had known what Big Rufe failed to tell him, no matter what the consequences he would have turned and run.

  The knowledge was: The vending concessions at the plant were Mafia-financed and -operated.

  The Mafia in Wayne County, Michigan, of which Detroit is part, has a compass of activities ranging from the outright criminal, such as murder, to semilegal businesses. In the area, the name Mafia is more appropriate than Cosa Nostra since Sicilian families form its core. The “semi” of semilegal is also appropriate since no Mafia-controlled business ever operates without at least some ancillary knaveries—overpricing, intimidation, bribery, physical violence, or arson.

  The Mafia is strong in Detroit’s industrial plants, including auto plants. It controls the numbers rackets, finances and controls most loan sharks and takes a cut from others. The organization is behind the bulk of large-scale thefts from factories and helps with resale of stolen items. It has tentacles in plants through surface-legal operations such as service and supply companies, which are usually a cover-up for other activities or a means of hiding cash. Its dollar revenues each year are undoubtedly in the tens of millions.

  But in recent years, with an aging Mafia chieftain declining physically and mentally in Grosse Pointe remoteness, a power struggle has erupted within Detroit Mafia ranks. And since a bloc within the power struggle consists solely of blacks, this substratum—in Detroit as elsewhere—has acquired the title Black Mafia.

  Hence, black struggles within the Mafia for recognition and equality parallel the more deserving civil rights struggles of black people generally.

  A cell of the Black Mafia, headed by a militant outside leader who remained under cover, and with Big Rufe as an in-plant deputy, had been testing and challenging the old established family rule. Months earlier, forays had begun into unauthorized areas—a separate numbers operation and increased Black Mafia loan sharking, extending through the inner city and industrial plants. Other operations included organized prostitution and “protection” shakedowns. All cut across areas where the old regime had once been absolute.

  The Black Mafia cell had expected retaliation and it happened. Two black loan men were ambushed in their homes and beaten—one while his terrified wife and children watched—then robbed. Soon after, a Black Mafia numbers organizer was intercepted and pistol-whipped, his car overturned and burned, his records destroyed and money taken. All raids, by their ruthlessness and other hallmarks, were clearly Mafia work, a fact which victims and their associates were intended to recognize.

  Now the Black Mafia was striking back. Robbery of the vending machine collectors would be one of a half dozen counterraids, all carefully timed for today and representing a test of strength in the power struggle. Later still, there would be more reprisals on both sides before the white-black Mafia war ended, if it ever did.

  And, as in all wars everywhere, the soldiers and other victims would be expendable pawns.

  Rollie Knight, Big Rufe, and Daddy-o had come through a basement corridor and were at the foot of a metal stairway. Immediately ahead was a halfway landing between floors, the top of the stairway out of sight.

  Big Rufe commanded softly, “Hold it here!”

  A face appeared, looking downward over the stairway rail. Rollie recognized Leroy Colfax, an intense, fast-talking militant who hung around with Big Rufe’s crowd.

  “Big Rufe kept his voice low. Them peckerwoods still there?”

  “Yeah. Be two, three minutes more by the looks.”

  “Okay, we in place. You get clear now, but follow ’em down, ’n stay close. Understand?”

  “I got it.” With a nod, Leroy Colfax disappeared from sight.

  Big Rufe beckoned Rollie and Daddy-o. “In here.”

  “Here” was a janitor’s closet, unlocked and with space for the three of them. As they went inside, Big Rufe left the door slightly ajar. He queried Daddy-o. “You got the masks?”

  “Yeah.” Rollie could see that Daddy-o, the youngest, was nervous and trembling. But he produced three stocking masks from a pocket. Big Rufe took one and slipped it over his head, motioning for the others to do the same.

  The basement corridor outside was quiet, the only noise a rumble, distantly above, where the assembly line was operating with the fresh eight-hour shift. This had been a shrewd time to pick. Traffic through the plant was never as great during the night shift as in daytime, and was even lighter than usual this early in the shift.

  “You two watch me, move when I do.” Through the mask, Big Rufe’s eyes appraised Daddy-o and Rollie. ??
?Ain’t gonna be no trouble if we do this right. When we get them guys in here you both tie ’em up good. Leroy dumped the rope.” He motioned to two coils of thin yellow cord on the closet floor.

  They waited silently. As the seconds passed, Rollie found himself with a sense of resigned acceptance. He knew he was in this now, that his participation would not be changed or excused whatever happened, and if there were consequences he would share them equally with the other three. His choices had been limited; in fact, there were really no choices at all, merely decisions made by others and forced on him, which was the way it had always been, for as long as he remembered.

  From the coveralls he was wearing, Big Rufe produced a heavy-handled Colt revolver. Daddy-o had a snub-nosed pistol—the same kind Rollie had been given. Reluctantly, reaching into his waistband, Rollie held his, too.

  Daddy-o tensed as Big Rufe motioned with his hand. They could hear clearly—a clatter of feet coming down the metal stairway, and voices.

  The door to the janitor’s closet remained almost closed until the footsteps, now on the tile floor, were a few feet away. Then Big Rufe opened the door and the masked trio stepped out, guns raised.

  The vending machine collectors looked as startled as any two men could.

  Both wore gray uniforms with the vending company’s insignia. One had a thatch of red hair and a pale pink face which, at the moment, had turned even paler; the other, with heavy-lidded eyes, had the features of an Indian. Each carried two burlap bags slung over a shoulder and joined together with a chain and padlock. The pair were big-boned and burly, probably in their thirties, and looked as if they could handle themselves in a fight. Big Rufe gave them no chance.

  He leveled his revolver at the red-haired man’s chest and motioned with his head to the janitor’s closet. “In there, baby!” He ordered the other, “You, tool” The words came out muffled through the stocking mask.

  The Indian shot a glance behind him, as if to run. Two things happened. He saw a fourth masked figure—Leroy Colfax—armed with a long-bladed hunting knife, leaping down the stairs and cutting off escape. Simultaneously, the muzzle of Big Rufe’s revolver slammed into his face, opening his left cheek in a gash which spurted blood.

  Rollie Knight jammed his own automatic against the ribs of the red-haired man who had swung around, clearly with the intention of aiding his companion. Rollie cautioned, “Hold it! It ain’t gonna work!” All he wanted was to have done with this, without more violence. The red-haired man subsided.

  Now the four ambushers shoved the others ahead of them into the little room.

  The red-haired man protested, “Listen, if you guys knew …”

  “Shaddup!” It was Daddy-o, who seemed to be over his fright. “Gimme that!” He grabbed the canvas sacks from redhead’s shoulder, pushing the man so he tripped backward over mops and pails.

  Leroy Colfax reached for the cash sacks of the other collector. But the Indian, despite his cheek wound, which was bleeding, had spirit. He lunged against Leroy, thrusting a knee into his groin and his left fist hard into the stomach. Then, with his right hand, he reached up and snatched the mask from Leroy’s face.

  For an instant the two glared at each other.

  The vending machine collector hissed, “Now, I’ll know who … aaaaaaah!”

  He screamed—a loud, high-pitched sound which descended to a moan then subsided into nothingness. He fell forward heavily—on the long-bladed hunting knife which Leroy had thrust hard into his belly.

  “Jesus Christ!” the red-haired man said. He stared down at the slumped, motionless form of his companion of a moment earlier. “You bastards killed him!”

  They were his last words before unconsciousness as the butt of Big Rufe’s gun crashed into his scalp.

  Daddy-o, who was trembling more than he had originally, pleaded, “Did we hafta do that?”

  “What’s done’s done,” Big Rufe said. “And them two started it.” But he sounded less sure of himself than at the beginning. Picking up two of the chained bags, he ordered, “Bring them others.”

  Leroy Colfax reached for them.

  Rollie urged, “Wait!”

  Outside, hurried footsteps were coming down the metal stairs.

  Frank Parkland had stayed later than usual at the plant for a foremen’s meeting in the office of Matt Zaleski. They discussed Orion production and some problems. Afterward he went to the south cafeteria where, at lunchtime, he had left a sweater and some personal papers. It was when he had recovered the items, and was leaving, that he heard the scream from below and went down to investigate.

  Parkland was past the closed door of the janitor’s closet when something impinged on his consciousness. He turned back and saw what he had observed but not taken in at once—a series of blood spatters extending under the door.

  The foreman hesitated. But since he was not a man given to fear, he opened the door and went in.

  Seconds later, with an ugly head wound, he tumbled, unconscious, beside the vending machine collectors.

  The three bodies were discovered an hour or so later—long after the quartet of Big Rufe, Daddy-o Lester, Leroy Colfax, and Rollie Knight had left the plant by climbing over a wall.

  The Indian was dead, the other two barely alive.

  26

  Matt Zaleski sometimes wondered if anyone outside the auto industry realized how little changed, in principle, a final car assembly line was, compared with the days of the first Henry Ford.

  He was walking beside the line where the night shift, which had begun work an hour ago, was building Orions—the company’s new cars, still not released to public view. Like others in senior plant management, Matt’s own working day did not end when the day shift went home. He stayed on while the next shift settled down, dealing with production snafus as they occurred, which inevitably happened while the plant’s people—management as well as workers—learned their new assignments.

  Some assignments had been discussed during a foreman’s meeting, held in Matt’s office soon after the change of shifts. The meeting had ended fifteen minutes ago. Now Matt was patrolling—an alert surveillance, his experienced eyes searching for potential trouble spots.

  While he walked, his thoughts returned to Henry Ford, the pioneer of mass production auto assembly.

  Nowadays, the final assembly line in any auto plant was unfailingly the portion of car manufacturing which fascinated visitors most. Usually a mile long, it was visually impressive because an act of creation could be witnessed. Initially, a few steel bars were brought together, then, as if fertilized, they multiplied and grew, taking on familiar shapes like an exposed fetus in a moving womb. The process was slow enough for watchers to assimilate, fast enough to be exciting. The forward movement, like a river, was mostly in straight lines, though occasionally with bends or loops. Among the burgeoning cars, color, shape, size, features, frills, conveyed individuality and sex. Eventually, with the fetus ready for the world, the car dropped on its tires. A moment later an ignition key was turned, an engine sprang to life—as impressive, when first witnessed, as a child’s first cry—and a newborn vehicle moved from the assembly line’s end under its own power.

  Matt Zaleski had seen spectators thronging through the plant—in Detroit they came like pilgrims, daily—marveling at the process and talking, uninformed and glibly, of the wonders of automated mass production. Plant guides, trained to regard each visitor as a potential customer, gave spiels to titillate the sense of wonder. But the irony was: a final assembly plant was scarcely automated at all; in principle it was still an old-fashioned conveyor belt on which pieces of an automobile were hung in sequence like decorations on a Christmas tree. In engineering terms it was the least impressive part of modern automobile production. In terms of quality it could swing this way or that like a wild barometer. And it was wholly susceptible to human error.

  By contrast, plants making auto engines, though less impressive visually, were truly automated, with long series of intricate
operations performed solely by machines. In most engine plants, row after row of sophisticated machine tools operated on their own, masterminded by computers, with the only humans in sight a few skilled tool men making occasional adjustments. If a machine did something wrong, it switched itself off instantly and summoned help through warning systems. Otherwise it did its job unvaryingly, to hairsbreadth standards, and stopped neither for meal breaks, toilet visits, nor to speak to another machine alongside. The system was a reason why engines, in comparison with more generally constructed parts of automobiles, seldom failed until neglected or abused.

  If old Henry could come back from his grave, Matt thought, and view a car assembly line of the ’70s, he might be amused at how few basic changes had been made.

  At the moment, there were no production snags—at least, in view—and Matt Zaleski returned to his glass-paneled office on the mezzanine.

  Though he could leave the plant now, if he chose, Matt was reluctant to return to the empty Royal Oak house. Several weeks had gone by since the bitter night of Barbara’s departure, but there had been no rapprochement between them. Recently Matt had tried not to think about his daughter, concentrating on other thoughts, as he had on Henry Ford a few minutes earlier; despite this, she was seldom far from mind. He wished they could patch up their quarrel somehow, and had hoped Barbara would telephone, but she had not. Matt’s own pride, plus a conviction that a parent should not have to make the first move, kept him from calling her. He supposed that Barbara was still living with that designer, DeLosanto, which was something else Matt tried not to think about, but often did.

  At his desk, he leafed through the next day’s production schedule. Tomorrow was a midweek day, so several “specials” would go on the line—cars for company executives, their friends, or others with influence enough to ensure that an automobile they ordered got better-than-ordinary treatment. Foremen had been alerted to the job numbers, so had Quality Control; as a result, all work on those particular cars would be watched with extra care. Body men would be cautioned to install header panels, seats, and interior trim more fussily than usual. Engine and power train sequences would receive close scrutiny. Later, Quality Control would give the cars a thorough going over and order additional work or adjustments before dispatch. “Specials” were also among the fifteen to thirty cars which plant executives drove home each night, turning in road test reports next morning.