Part 21

In the first hours of the night they drove aimlessly along Woodward Avenue, parking occasionally to get a cup of coffee at an all-night restaurant, or just to sit and watch the traffic. From time to time, Hampshire questioned Fleishman about his background. Fleishman told him of his years in the Navy and his experiences in strange ports of the world. He even confided to Hampshire that he had been a bookkeeper for the New York State gambling syndicate--but this job had blown up when the police smashed the operation.

“Maybe you heard about it,” Fleishman said. “It was in all the papers.”

Hampshire obviously was impressed. “Yeah,” he said, “I read about that.”

This conversation apparently resolved any doubts that Hampshire had about his companion. After a time he said, “Let’s go see what we can find.” He wheeled the car from the curb and drove to a residential area which Fleishman later learned was the Lake St. Clair section, a respectable neighborhood of attractive homes.

Hampshire drove into the driveway of a large house with a tree-shaded lawn, and Fleishman assumed they were going to visit one of Hampshire’s friends. He followed Hampshire to the door, and when he knocked a man’s voice said, “Come in.”

They stepped through the door into a scene that Fleishman would always remember as one of the strangest he had ever witnessed. Stacked to the ceiling in what should have been the living room were cases of whiskey and sacks of ale. On an overturned beer keg sat a man cleaning a pistol. Six other men, using an overturned crate for a table, were playing blackjack. A young woman stood watching the gamblers while sipping from a bottle of ale.

No one showed any surprise at the appearance of the two uniformed officers. They only glanced at Fleishman and nodded when Hampshire introduced him as a new man on the job.

“Have a drink?” their host said.

“I’ll take a bottle of ale,” Hampshire said.

Fleishman nodded. “I’ll take the same.”

The hoodlum took a knife from his pocket and flipped open a blade. He ripped one of the sacks and took out two bottles. When he opened them, the warm ale spewed out on the floor. They sat and chatted for several minutes and then Hampshire signalled it was time to go. They bid everyone goodnight and returned to their car. As they drove from the house, Hampshire said, “It isn’t everybody that would give a new guy a break like this.”

“What do you mean, a break?” Fleishman asked.

“I mean introducing you to the guys back there,” Hampshire said. “You never can tell when you might be working with a special agent. But I figure you’re all right.”

“Thanks,” Fleishman said dryly. “I appreciate it more than you know.”

This was the break Fleishman had been waiting for. He knew that he had passed the first test and he figured that Hampshire now would pass the word to others that he was “okay.” When he returned home that morning he wrote a long report of the night’s events and mailed it to Elmer Lewis at the Barlum Hotel.

And then his reports became more and more interesting....

October 1, 1928. (Fleishman reported that he had made friends with a patrolman named Bill Tompkins, who lived only a few streets beyond his apartment. He became friendly by giving Tompkins a ride home after work.) Tompkins opened up wide this morning. He said: “Don’t let any of these guys give you the runaround. If you see them talking to bootleggers and they don’t let you in on it, or if they leave their boats or cars or act suspicious in any manner, you can be sure they are getting theirs and you are not. Just don’t let them put anything over on you. Every time they make a run it is good for a hundred each.”...

October 10, 1928. I reported for duty at base at 1 A.M. Detailed to land patrol with Inspector G. Slater.... Our first stop was at the foot of Orange Street in Wyandotte where the picket boat was tied up ... Slater talked to O’Rourke while I drove to a restaurant at Slater’s request. When I returned ... Slater said, “Well, it’s all fixed. We ought to be good for $125 apiece tonight.”... We drove down to the foot of 23rd Street and parked the car and went to sleep.... We woke up at 6:15 and a bootlegger named Hamilton came along. He said, “Is it all right to work?” Slater said, “Yes.”... He then told us he would see us around 8:30. We then left from the foot of 23rd Street and went to a restaurant on West Fort Street and had coffee. Left and drove over to the foot of Orange Street and Wyandotte. We were there about 7 o’clock. Bill O’Rourke ... handed Slater a roll of bills. Slater walked over to the picket boat and another boat was tied up there having a propeller fixed.... All I saw of this transaction was O’Rourke giving Slater a roll of bills. We then drove down to the River Rouge. In the car Slater gave me a roll of bills and said, “Count it.” I did and found $50. At the River Rouge we went to Peajack’s. We met his lieutenant who got out of a car, came over, and dropped a roll of bills in Slater’s lap.... After driving away Slater gave me another roll of bills containing $50. Slater said, “I bet you feel funny going into the base carrying $100.” I admitted that I did feel uncomfortable. Slater gave me quite a bit of interesting data. The night’s pay-off when they work the River Rouge is $970. They all work at once and the boat crews and the land crews must all be fixed. In addition Border Patrol must occasionally be fixed, nightwatchmen and policemen must be fixed, and recently the prohibition agents have to be paid off to discontinue their activities on the river. Slater also told me a number of fellows were very suspicious of me.... I said, “Why are they so suspicious of a new man every time?” Slater said, “Because every new man might be a special agent or a DJ (Department of Justice) man. But even if you are a special agent you are as guilty as I am because you have taken money too.”... Near 23rd Street Slater turned up a side street.... Then I saw Hamilton rounding the corner. He came over to the car and dropped a roll of bills in my lap. I handed it to Slater when we drove off.... This made $115 for my share of the evening’s profit. (Each bill Fleishman received he listed in his report giving the denomination and serial number of each.)... Returned to base at 10 A.M. and made out report: “No activities noted.” Slater made out a similar report....

By mid-November, Fleishman had been admitted to membership in the Patrol’s crooked inner circle. He was automatically included in the pay-offs made by the mobsters. He had found many of the patrolmen were honest men--but they were helpless with so many avenues for rumrunning left open around them.

Occasionally, Fleishman slipped at night into the Barlum Hotel to discuss the progress of the investigation with Elmer Lewis. The evidence of graft and corruption was piling up daily, yet Fleishman was troubled because he hadn’t been able to link the pay-offs to any of the higher-ups in the rumrunning syndicates.

“You’re doing all right,” Lewis assured him. “Just be sure you don’t get into any trouble.”

Fleishman said, “There’s one guy in this racket I would like to nail--Pete Licavoli. He’s responsible for a big part of this mess.”

Lewis nodded. “You’re not likely to get close to Licavoli. He plays it smart.”

Then one night Fleishman was detailed to the land patrol with Patrolmen James Mack and Shell Miller. They climbed into a Buick coach with Miller at the wheel and Miller headed the car out Fort Street to Military Road.

“Where are we going?” Mack asked.

Miller said, “I’ve found something worthwhile that I want to show you.”

He turned onto Jefferson Avenue and after a time he drove slowly by a lumber yard beside a railroad track. “That’s it,” he said. “I got a tip they’re handling booze in there by the carload. But they don’t ship it until it’s watered down. We’ll come back later and pay them a visit.”

The three men rode aimlessly around Ecorse until mid-morning and then Mack drove back to the lumber yard. They walked into a building where several men were making boxes. Suddenly Mack said, “Here comes a friend of mine.”