Page 51 of A Week Away
“Because he’s violent?”
“Because he’s professionally violent. The Amatos and the Di Stefanos are connected to Big John Giacomo. Luca is their muscle.”
The name Giacomo didn’t mean much to me, but I assumed he was up to no good. It could be drugs, gambling, prostitution, extortion, loan sharking. All sorts of charming things.
“Luca has a trucking company, you know what it’s called?”
She knew, I could see it in her face, but she shrugged anyway. After a moment, she said, “Hold on.” She disappeared, then was back with a thick Yellow Pages.
I took it from her and set it on top of the glass case. As I flipped through, I realized I wasn’t even sure what it meant to have a trucking company. Was that shipping or moving? Or was it both? And once I figured that out, how would I know which one belonged to…
Oh, wow. That turned out not to be hard. I went to TRUCKING first and halfway down the list, I found LUCA’S LIFTERS. I guess that meant he provided in-town moving services. I wrote down the address: 12 Mile Road. It didn’t sound too hard to find since I’d already been on 10 Mile Road. It must be a few blocks north of that.
I said thank you to the woman who’s name I hadn’t learned—probably because she’d rather I didn’t know it—and left the bakery with my biscotti. I took one out and crunched on it as I drove north. Dropping crumbs on the front seat, I passed 7 Mile Road, 8, 9… eventually I got to 12 Mile Road. I made a wrong turn, then doubled back until I found the street address I was looking for.
It looked wrong. I was expecting something like a parking lot full of trucks with a small building where an office was housed. What I found was two office buildings, each two-stories tall and brick—looking a lot like Cass’s high school. There was a parking lot running around the buildings on all sides.
I double-checked the address. It was the right one. I drove around the buildings checking the parking lot for moving vans. I didn’t see any. The closest I came was a gray Chevy Suburban with tinted windows and a white van sitting next to each other, not too far from the entrance to the building on the west side.
I parked, shut the car off and went inside. I took a biscotti with me and ate it while staring at a directory made with moveable plastic letters. Luca’s Lifting was on the second floor in room 207. I thought about taking the stairs. It was only one floor. But instead I went to the elevator and pressed the UP button.
It didn’t take long for the elevator to arrive. I tried to sort out what I’d be saying to whoever was in Luca’s office. I need to hire a mover—that part was simple. But why didn’t I just call? I was in the neighborhood and decided to stop by? I was a building inspector? I’m looking for a different Luca?
I hadn’t decided, and I was already walking down the hallway to the office. Some of the doors I passed had plaques that gave the business’ name but none of the offices seemed very active. The floor was particularly quiet.
When I reached 207, I hesitated before knocking. I leaned close and pressed my ear up against the door. There was nothing to hear. I stepped back and knocked on the door. Waited. Nothing happened. I knocked again. Waited again. Nothing. No one worked there.
CHAPTERFIFTEEN
September 16, 1996
Monday noon-ish
By the time I found The Clock Diner a second time it was close to noon. I was hungry and I had an idea I wanted to pursue. I came back to The Clock Diner since it hadn’t been half bad and I kind of remembered where it was. I was able to snag the very last booth next to the bathroom and the pay phone. I ordered coffee, since I hadn’t had enough, and the lumberjack breakfast with eggs over easy and bacon. I loved places that served breakfast all day. When the rather sullen waitress walked away, I got up to use the pay phone.
Using the phone book that was attached to the pay phone, I found the number for Luca’s Lifters and dialed it. I wasn’t expecting an answer, so I wasn’t surprised when an answering machine picked up. I was a little surprised when Joanne told me no one was available to take my call and I should call back during regular business hours. Iwascalling during regular business hours, but you can’t exactly argue with a machine.
The phone call did tell me one thing: The whole operation was fake. Luca hadn’t even bothered to hire a fake receptionist to answer the phone and tell people they were too busy to do their move. They probably just never called anyone back.
I stood there a moment, thinking about how he worked it. There had to be trucks somewhere, possibly not even operational, and he had to spend some time filling out invoices and then “paying” them in cash. That would be how he was laundering the money he got from whatever small piece of Big John’s business belonged to him.
Using my calling card, I placed another call. It was about nine-fifteen in California.
“Freedom Agenda,” Karen said when she answered.
“It’s Dom.”
“I’ll get Lydia.”
“Actually—”
“Actually, you have a favor to ask.”
“I do.”
With a well-practiced sigh, she said, “Go ahead.”
“I need to find a small-time thug connected to the Detroit Partnership who died sometime after 1982.”
