“In Hollywood,” Bell said, maintaining a serious expression, “they teach the actors the fighting that goes with the kind of movies they’re in.”
He passed his flask. The gunman pulled hard on it.
“Who are you working for?”
“You a cop?”
Isaac Bell took back his flask. “Do I look like a cop?”
“Then who are you?”
“I’m Gus,” said Bell, using the other standard name for the speakeasy doorman. “What should I call you?”
“I’m Gus, too,” said the gangster. “But it happens to be my real name. Who are you really?”
“I’m a guy who won’t pay for a shakedown but will pay for information.”
“Where’d you come from?”
“Chicago,” said Bell, a city he knew intimately, having apprenticed there under Joseph Van Dorn.
“Where in Chicago?”
“Grew up on the West Side.”
“You know the Spillane brothers?”
“I put them out of business.”
This was true, although sending them to Joliet Penitentiary was not the way Gus interpreted it, judging by a look of respect and a knowing assessment of Bell’s high-priced duds.
“What are you doing in Detroit?”
Bell skipped his black boat rumors gambit and went straight to the heart of his scheme. “I’m looking for introductions.”
“To who?”
“Potential partners.”
The gangster perked up. “I thought Texas Walt owned the joint.”
“I have an interest in it. We’re looking for guys who know their business. So far, you are not a shining example of knowing your business, but maybe you’re just having a slow night.”
“Partners? That’s what I offered that son-of-a-bitch movie star.”
“You offered him protection insurance.”
“Any fool knows that means partners. You can’t run a business in Detroit without protection.”
“He doesn’t seem to need protection.”
“What kind of partners?”
“Supply partners. Partners we can count on for steady liquor. Do your bosses happen to be in the hauling business?”
“What makes you think I have a boss?”
“Bosses don’t barge into a joint waving a gun.”