Walking the Edge: A Novel of 1920s Detroit

By Thomas E Hall

In the summer of 1922, young Joe Wilson is a gardener at a wealthy family's estate. When the chauffeur falsely accuses Joe of a misdeed and attacks him, Joe injures the chauffeur in self-defense. Knowing the law will be after him, Joe skips town and heads to Detroit, Michigan where his cousin lives.

It's the Roaring Twenties a

• Language: English
• Publisher: Thomas E. Hall
• Release date: Nov 23, 2020
• ISBN: 9780578802053

Book preview

Walking the Edge:

A Novel of 1920s Detroit

by

Thomas E. Hall

Also by Thomas E. Hall

Business Cycles:

The Nature and Causes of Economic Fluctuations

The Great Depression:

An International Disaster of Perverse Economic Policies

(with J.D. Ferguson)

The Rotten Fruits of Economic Controls

and the Rise from the Ashes: 1965-1989

The Quadrangle

Aftermath:

The Unintended Consequences of Public Policies

Tapper Jones

Walking the Edge: A Novel of 1920s Detroit

by Thomas E. Hall

Copyright 2020 Thomas E. Hall

This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and events, with the exception of some well-known historical figures, are products of the author’s imagination or are used factiously. Where real-life figures appear, the situations, incidents, and dialogues concerning those persons are not intended to depict actual events. In all other respects, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Acknowledgements

My wife, Chris Hall, and her sister, Jody Brock, provided excellent comments and suggestions on the manuscript. Their assistance is gratefully acknowledged. This book is dedicated to the memory of my parents and grandparents. Thanks for the love, and all the great stories.

Chapter 1

Some years ago, I had an adventure that changed my life. It’s a story some of you may find hard to believe, but I swear I’m telling it the way it happened. I didn’t want it, I didn’t plan it, and there were times when I wondered if it would ever end. There are parts I’m proud of and parts I’m ashamed of. Good and bad, it’s history and I have to live with it.

A small thing started it: a girl wouldn’t leave me alone. I was in a gardening shed at the time and afterwards events spun out of control. By the time it was over, me and some people I care about had nearly gotten killed. Other people were killed, and for two of them I have regrets I’ll carry to my grave.

Before telling my story, let me explain why I was in the gardening shed that day. My name is Joe Wilson, and I grew up on a farm near Eaton, Ohio. Eaton’s in the southwest part of the state, about ten miles from Indiana. The Wilson family was Dad, Mom, my brother Jim, my sister Mary, and me. Jim’s the oldest child; he finished school in 1916 and was drafted into the army in 1917. He spent a year in France during the Great War and, thankfully, came home in one piece just before Christmas in 1918. Mary finished school in 1918 and married her school sweetheart Bill Bowser a few weeks after Jim returned from the war. Bill took over his family’s farm, and he and Mary now live there with their two children. I finished school in 1919, so I was too young for the war. Instead, I worked extra hard on the farm to make up for Jim not being there. It was tough, but I had to do it. Many of my friends did the same thing because they also had older brothers in the army. A few of those brothers never came back.

My parents’ farm is large enough to support one family, but not two. Mary was expected to get married and move away, so she was never going to inherit the farm unless both Jim and I died. The plan was for Jim to take it over from our parents, and I’d find my own path in life. I understood that and intended to leave in 1919 after I graduated, but in the spring Dad’s leg was broken when he was kicked by a horse. So I stayed to help and planned to move away the following year instead.

Then, in 1920, the post-war crash hit. Business declined throughout America and farm prices collapsed. It was tough times for the Wilson family farm, and pretty much every other farm in America. Dad’s leg was healed by then so I could’ve left, but there was nowhere to go. No opportunities awaited me elsewhere because there were few jobs in the cities. I stayed in Eaton, worked on the farm, and hoped things would improve.

In the fall of 1921, I heard jobs were available in Cincinnati and Cleveland, so I decided it was time to go. I chose Cleveland because one of my friends had a brother there, so I’d at least know someone. I packed my suitcase and my family saw me off at the train station with lots of hugs and tears.

In Cleveland, everything seemed big: the factories, the busy stores, and the hustle and bustle. I found a factory job and moved into a boardinghouse, but a month later the factory was sold and my job ended. I found another factory job, but it only lasted two months because the company lost a contract and no longer needed me. When it happened a third time, I decided to try something different. That’s why I answered a help-wanted ad in the Plain Dealer for a job as a gardener. The ad said they were hiring year-round help which sounded good to me.

The address turned out to be the downtown office of the Hilliard Shipping Company. It seemed like an odd place to go for a gardening job, but when I went inside and told them why I was there, they sent me to an office upstairs. A man questioned me for about twenty minutes, and then told me I could have the job. He explained the work wouldn’t be for the shipping company, instead it would be at the Hilliard’s summer mansion southeast of Cleveland. I’d be a gardener from spring to fall, and during the winter help the caretaker inside the house. I took the job and started in March of 1922.

That’s how I ended up in the gardening shed at the Hilliard estate on that fateful morning.

Chapter 2

July 1922, Cuyahoga County, Ohio

I was reaching for the hoe when the gardening shed darkened. I turned toward the door where a woman’s slender figure blocked the morning sunlight.

A soft, sultry voice rang out. Wha-cha doing, Joe?

Emily Hilliard looked peachy in a long white skirt and ruffled pink blouse. But she was poisonous; I knew it, everyone who worked at the estate knew it.

How do you know my name? I asked.

Emily stepped inside and the room lightened again. She smiled, her teeth straight and white. I asked around. I’ve been watching you out the window.

In her late teens, Emily looked innocent with her big brown eyes and thick curly black hair. But I knew better.

Shouldn’t you be in the house with your tutor?

She’s sick, so she didn’t come today, said Emily. I’m supposed to be reading, but I was bored. I decided to see what you’re doing.

I glanced past her. Earlier in the morning I’d seen the yellow Packard touring car in the garage which meant her father was home. And if Mr. Hilliard was home, then Dudley, the vicious chauffer and bodyguard, was around. The last time Dudley found an employee alone with Emily, he’d beaten the man to a pulp.

I lifted the hoe from the tool rack. Well, nothing going on here except work, I said. I got lots to do.

I tried to get past Emily, but she moved to block my path.

I stiffened. Miss Hilliard, I’ve gotta weed the flowerbeds.

She took the hoe from my hands and threw it aside, the metal clanging when it hit the concrete floor. She grasped my hand. You can do that later, she said sweetly.

Nasty, bored, and oversexed, Emily Hilliard was the rich daughter who liked to stir up trouble. On my first day of work the head gardener told me to steer clear of her, and to never, ever, end up alone with her.

My voice rose a notch. Miss Hilliard, you shouldn’t be doing this. I could get in trouble.

She maintained her sweet smile. Nothing’s going to happen unless we want it to happen. Don’t you like me?

If I’d pushed her aside, she would’ve taken revenge by making up a story for Dudley. It’d happened to a garage boy who rejected her advances. He left the estate with two broken arms.

I took a step back. Miss Hilliard, you’re pretty, but this is wrong. I’m just a gardener. Leave me alone. Why don’t you go read your book?

The shed went dark again, this time as if the door was closed. A tall, thick body blocked the doorway. When I realized who it was, I gulped.

Miss Emily, aren’t you supposed to be doing your lessons? Dudley’s voice was slow and deep.

Emily turned and rushed toward the door. Dudley stepped aside to let her pass, then blocked the door again. It was the only way out.

The air was suddenly hot; I feared for my life. Nothing happened! I shrieked. She started it! I had nothing to do with it, I swear!

A likely story, drawled Dudley. The boss don’t like it when the hired help tries to screw his daughter.

Dudley was six-feet of solid muscle with a shiny bald head, a pox-marked face, scarred lips, cauliflower ears, and a twisted nose. A former boxer, he was ten years older than me and fifty pounds heavier. My only advantage was speed.

Dudley started toward me. Terrified, I lunged for the tool rack and grabbed a shovel. I yanked it away and threw it at Dudley’s legs. He kicked it aside and kept coming.

I reached for something, anything I could get my hands on. This time it was an axe. I pulled it from the rack and turned the blade toward Dudley. He stopped.

Try it and I’ll kill you, said Dudley.

Back off! I hissed.

I’d been scared before, but never like this. My eyes were on Dudley, his eyes were on the axe. I shuffled sideways, trying to move around him and out the door. Then I could run. One mistake and I was finished.

Dudley turned and stayed facing me while I worked my way around him. I was lightheaded and crazy, sweat was pouring from my face. The shuffling of our shoes on the concrete floor and my panting were the only sounds in the room.

You’re lucky I left my pistol in the house, said Dudley, or you’d be dead by now. This just puts it off a bit.

The door was a few feet away. Dudley’s eyes suddenly shifted from the axe to the door. He lunged at me.

It was him or me, so I flung the axe at Dudley. He twisted to avoid it, but the blade hit his upper arm and tore a hole in his shirt. He grunted and grabbed his shoulder, giving me the second I needed to get out the door. He reached for me, but missed, then I was outside running as fast as I could toward the woods beyond the estate. I heard Dudley behind me for a moment, but then it was just the sound of my feet thudding on the ground. I didn’t stop and look until I was in the trees. Dudley had broken off the chase and was trotting toward the house, the hand of his good arm pressed against the shoulder of his blood-soaked arm.

He was going for his pistol and the Packard.

* * *

I’d run the wrong way. I realized it when I caught hold of my senses and found myself in the woods between the house and the road. The escape route was through the trees to the road, and then to Cleveland. But the road was the first place Dudley would look. He’d get in the Packard and drive down the estate’s driveway to the road and look for me. The end of the streetcar line to Cleveland was about a mile north along the same road, but he’d find me before I got there. Then he’d kill me.

The other way out was at the back of the estate. The property bordered the Chagrin River that flowed north to Lake Erie. There was no road there, just trees and the river, but to reach it I had to get across the property without being seen. I glanced around and saw my best chance was to climb the stone wall separating the Hilliard property from their neighbor, and then make my way to the river. I didn’t know what was on the other side of the wall, but it had to be better than what awaited me on the Hilliard side. These were the weekend and summer estates of Cleveland’s rich; with any luck the neighbors were gone.

I started through the trees toward the wall, then heard voices and stopped. I had to know where they were.

No sign of ‘em!

I recognized the voice of John, the garage boy. He was behind me in the woods.

Don’t see him!

That was Ben, the maintenance man. He was to my left, between me and the mansion. Dudley must have sent them into the woods to push me out to the road where he’d be waiting in the Packard. I dove under a thick bush and lay still.

Someone passed near me, close enough I heard sticks cracking beneath their shoes. A short while later I heard John and Ben shouting again; this time further away. In the distance an engine prowled, most likely the Packard moving along the road. This was my chance. I stood and ran.

When I reached the wall, I jumped. My hands grabbed the top and using all my strength I pulled myself up and over. Landing on my feet, I rubbed together my scraped-up hands and looked around.

I was lucky. The neighbor’s house was a few hundred feet away across open lawn, but a row of juniper trees ran alongside the wall. The way to the river was between the wall and the trees, so I’d be hidden from the house the whole way. I started running.

I knew the river was close when I felt myself going downhill. The wall ended and the forest began and through the trees I saw water. I looked for a deer trail that followed the river but saw something better: a wooden canoe and two paddles beside the water. I’m not a thief, but this was life or death. I grabbed a paddle, shoved the canoe into the water, and waded in after it. Then I climbed in and started paddling.

* * *

Mr. Hilliard was a shipping baron who owned a fleet of Great Lakes ore freighters, so a lowly gardener who attacked his chauffer was a wanted man. If the law caught me, I’d spend years in jail, and if Dudley caught me, I’d be dead. I had to get as far away as I could, as fast as I could, and do it through Cleveland so I could grab my things at the rooming house.

The problem was getting to Cleveland. The Chagrin River emptied into Lake Erie east of Cleveland, but that was miles ahead and would take all day in a canoe. I thought about ditching the canoe and hitchhiking, but it was too risky.

Not sure what to do, I kept paddling. After about two hours the muscles in my arms and neck were burning, and I was thinking I couldn’t do it much longer when a bridge appeared up ahead. Cars were crossing over it, so it had to be a road. I imagined Dudley waiting there with his pistol, ready to shoot me as I floated by.

But he wasn’t there. I passed underneath the bridge, tempted to leave the canoe behind and try my luck on the road, but then I saw a second bridge up ahead. No cars on this bridge; instead, it had electric wires above it. I drew closer and realized it was a railroad bridge, and the wires were power lines for intercity trains. That was the fastest way to Cleveland.

I grounded the canoe and climbed up to the tracks. The closest building was about a quarter mile east. I started walking toward it.

It was the Willoughby Station. I bought a ticket for Cleveland and spent twenty nervous minutes waiting for the train, all the while expecting Dudley or the sheriff to show up and grab me. But then the train came. I boarded, and a few minutes later was rolling toward Cleveland at sixty miles an hour.

* * *

As far as my escape was concerned, the blessing and curse of Cleveland was that all trains in and out of the city passed near the downtown city square. Streetcars and interurban trains arrived and departed from the square, and the station for the mainline trains was just two blocks away. If the police were looking for someone skipping town, they’d watch the square and station.

My train rolled into the square just before noon. A few policemen were around, but they were strolling and chatting with people, and didn’t seem to be looking for anyone. I hurried the half mile to my boarding house, grabbed my belongings, and threw them into my cardboard suitcase. Then I headed back to the square.

I had to leave Cleveland, but to where? I couldn’t go back to my parents’ farm in Eaton because the people at the Hilliard estate knew I was from there. The Cuyahoga County Sheriff would call the Preble County Sheriff, and he’d go out to the farm to look for me. I had to leave the state, and the only person I knew who didn’t live in Ohio was my cousin Will. He’d moved to Detroit the year before. We exchanged letters so I had his address in my suitcase. I decided to go there.

When I reached the square, it was crowded and the afternoon air had turned hot. I remember smelling gasoline fumes from passing cars, and body odor and hair tonics and perfumes from the men and women on the sidewalks. The policemen were there, but still strolling and chatting. A tall cop with a ruddy face and blonde hair stood a few feet from me and paid no mind while I bought a one-way ticket to Toledo. Ticket in hand, I walked to the interurban train stop thinking I was going to make it.

A two-car train arrived about ten minutes later. I climbed on board and took a seat beside an older man reading a newspaper. The train was supposed to leave at 1:00; the clock at the front of the car said 12:52. The driver and conductor stood outside the door, smoking cigarettes and talking.

Taking slow, even breaths to calm my nerves, I willed the clock forward. 1:54, six minutes to go.

In the corner of my eye a yellow Packard rolled past the train and stopped at the corner of the square. Could it be? My eyes fixed on the car while sweat oozed from my skin. The Packard’s doors opened and two men emerged: Dudley from the passenger side, wearing a different shirt and with one arm in a sling, and Morgan, the Hilliard’s butler, from the driver’s side. They stood beside the car, glancing around, as if deciding what to do next.

I was panting now, not sure what to do. Should I leave the train and try to disappear in the crowd? Or stay where I was and pray the train left before they saw me? The driver and conductor were still outside, their cigarettes now down to butts. The man beside me turned the page of his newspaper. The clock said 12:57; three minutes to go.

Dudley and Morgan found a policeman. Words were spoken, then the policeman put a whistle to his lips. A second policeman arrived. More talking, arms were waved. They split into pairs. Dudley and Morgan, each with a policeman, started toward the trains. Morgan headed across the square, while Dudley came toward me. My goose was about to be cooked.

I left my seat and started toward the rear door. Then I heard feet on steps; I whirled around and saw the driver and conductor stepping onto the train. The driver took his seat, the doors closed, and the train started to move.

I rushed back to my seat and lowered my head while the train rolled through the square.

Chapter 3

July 1922, Detroit, Michigan

Hey, look out!

Someone grabbed my arm, hard enough to keep me from taking another step forward. A second later a streetcar whizzed past, two feet from my face. One more step and I’d have been killed.

With my heart pounding, I looked at my savior. In his forties with a short and powerful build, his craggy face was weathered from the sun. Dressed in blue-jean overalls and a soiled white cotton shirt, he looked out of place. A farmer in the big city.

Much obliged, mister, I said. You saved my life.

Keep your head up, young feller. Everything’s a-movin’ fast ‘round here.

Dazed by my close call, I stood still while a crowd of pedestrians walked past me on their way across the street. I took a deep breath and followed, stopping when I reached the other side. Beginning with my run-in with Dudley that morning, it had been a long day. I was used up and it was only afternoon.

The interurban took me to Toledo where I changed to a mainline train for Detroit. I left the train at Michigan Central Station and asked a paperboy for directions to my cousin Will’s address. The towheaded kid told me to follow Michigan Avenue toward downtown, and when I reached the ballpark turn left on National Avenue. The street I was looking for was a few blocks north.

Michigan Avenue was a surfaced street with streetcar rails and lots of cars. The sidewalks ran beside one- and two-story buildings, a mix of business and housing. The names on the diners, food stores, clothing stores, tobacco shops, and apothecaries were Irish, German, Italian, and Slavic. In the distance, the tall buildings of Detroit’s downtown loomed, their outlines visible through the bluish-black haze of car exhaust that fouled the hot, still air. The putter of automobile engines, the shouts of the drivers, the honking horns, the rumble of passing streetcars, and the street vendors calling out in different languages was a different world from Eaton, Ohio.

A few blocks along Michigan, a large white structure loomed ahead. I’d heard of Navin Field where Ty Cobb and the Detroit Tigers played. Rising above Michigan Avenue, the wood building had a ramp that rose on an angle to about halfway up the outer wall of the grandstands. The building ran along Michigan Avenue, formed a curved V at the intersection with National Avenue, and continued along that street. I guessed the V was where home plate was located. The outer wall’s doors were closed; apparently there was no game that day.

Turning north on National, I followed the ballpark’s outer wall to Cherry Street. After that was houses, with businesses on many of the street corners. Some of the houses had room-for-rent signs in the windows.

Will’s address led me to a two-story barn-red wood-sided house. I knocked on the front door and the man who answered told me Will lived upstairs and directed me to an outside stairway at the side of the house. I climbed the stairs and knocked on the door. It was opened by a short, skinny man about thirty years old. His matted sandy-blonde hair, tired blue eyes, and rumpled clothes told me he’d been sleeping.

Ja? he said.

I’m looking for Will Anson, I said. I’m his cousin.

Vill not ere, said the man. At verk.

I wondered: German? Polish? Lithuanian?

I pointed at my wrist, to a watch I didn’t own. What time will he be back?

The man shrugged, then held up seven fingers.

I thought for a moment. It was about 5:30, and I didn’t want to wait that long. I made a motion that I wanted to write a note.

Can I leave a note?

I wasn’t sure if the man understood, but he stood aside to let me in. The room had a wood-plank floor, and grimy plaster walls with a few holes the size of a man’s fist. Metal-frame beds were pushed against the walls, and a small table was squeezed between them under the room’s only window. The air was hot and stuffy and smelled of sweaty bodies and tobacco. I went to