H.J. Gaudreau - Jim Crenshaw 02 - The Collingwood Legacy Read Free Page B

there was always the chance of a tee shirt and shorts day, opening day of baseball season proved the Union would last at least another year, and best of all those fields around the house just looked anxious to get to work. Jim had planted corn the last three years and was beginning to think this might be a year for soybeans. Crop rotation was something he should pay attention to he knew, but he hadn’t owned the farm long enough for it to matter. Now, for some reason he couldn’t explain, it mattered. Jim had retired from the Air Force just six years ago. He’d worked for a defense contractor for a little while, found that to be an experience similar to a root canal without Novocain and quit. Four years ago he and his wife Eve had purchased their little sixty-acre farm. They’d taken a year to build a cottage style home, a barn and equipment shed and then planted their first crop. Jim grimaced as he recalled that first year. He termed that year’s crop a “learning experience.” Eve called it a disaster. Since then Jim had learned about seed depth, acid balance, seed spacing, nitrogen requirements, soil types, nematodes, a multitude of bugs, various fungi, and a host of other things that he’d never thought of before. He loved it.
    Returning to the farm Jim parked the pickup in front of the garage, opened the truck door and moved aside as Molly rushed to be the first to the house. Jim walked to the rear of the truck, grabbed an armful of bags and headed for the house. Placing the bags on the kitchen table he filled Molly’s water bowl, stood, then noticed the light on the telephone answering machine. Pushing “Play” he heard the welcome voice of his sister, Sherrie.
     

 
    Chapter 5
     
    The light turned red and Sol Levine braked the car to a stop. He checked the rear-view mirror for what must have been the fiftieth time. He had just witnessed three men murdered. He was on the edge of panic. What had he been thinking? In the confusion of the murders he’d grabbed the briefcase and run. He’d taken money from the Purple Gang; it was a death sentence.
    His forehead was covered with sweat. He took off his brown fedora and wiped the hatband with his handkerchief. His hands were shaking. Sol had to get out of Detroit, he knew that, he just didn’t know how. He checked the rear-view mirror again.
    Sol had circled Detroit twice trying to decide what to do. Evening had turned to night; night was becoming morning. No one was behind him…for now. There would be. He thought he spotted a familiar Packard. Frantically he pressed the accelerator. Sol came to Jefferson Avenue and smashed the brake, attempted to downshift and missed the gear. The transmission gave a loud clatter and rattled the shift lever in his hand. He found third gear and accelerated as he turned left on Jefferson to parallel the Detroit River. He had to calm down.
    Sol took a deep breath. He passed Owens Park, then Memorial Park. Suddenly Sol was inspired. He’d worked for Izzy Sutker before. A couple of times he’d helped Izzy unload booze at a boathouse just down the street. Once, Izzy had taken him on a run to Canada. They’d crossed at night, loaded the booze on the boat and come back all in one night. He’d made fifty bucks for one night’s work. The more he thought about it the better Sol liked his idea. What better place to hide out than in the Purples own boathouse
    He slowed when he came to the Detroit Water Works building. A little further and he’d found a small dirt path, more a driveway than a side street. The big Chrysler crept silently down the small two-lane path, coasting to a stop at the water’s edge. Sol turned the lights of the car off and carefully studied his rear-view mirrors. Nothing moved. No one had followed him. Sol had never owned a gun, he wished he did now. This was not a totally safe place, but it was the only place he was sure they wouldn’t be looking.
    He stepped down from the car and allowed his eyes to adjust