BULLET PROOF (Eliot Ness) Read online

  "Walk away now," the mustached farmer said, "or you'll have trouble."

  "You got trouble," O'Day said, speaking for the first time, and he took a swing at the mustached farmer.

  The farmer ducked out of the way, nimbly.

  O'Day swung again, and his fist, his arm, cut the air like a saber, connecting with nothing, as the farmer slipped that punch as well.

  Harry Gibson tapped Callahan on the shoulder and nodded at Carney, and the two men moved from the crowd to back up Rose and O'Day, who was swinging again. This time the farmer grabbed the arm as the punch swooshed by and swung O'Day like a square dance partner into the open tailgate of the truck and rocked the truck and its contents and O'Day and his contents. Struck hard at mid-thigh by the tailgate, O'Day shrieked like a woman, shaming Harry, and the mustached farmer moved forward, grabbed O'Day by the shoulder and hand of his left arm and threw him onto the pavement with a motion not unlike a grave digger heaving a shovelful of dirt. O'Day landed in the spilled produce and did not get up, the greens making a wreath around his head.

  Rose, stunned by this display, finally swung into action and managed to land a blow against the side of the mustached farmer's face, only something strange happened: the mustache flew off.

  And so did the floppy straw hat, and the face of the farmer minus mustache and hat was all too familiar to Harry Gibson, who sucked air into his chest like a drowning man coming up for the third time.

  Meanwhile, the tow-haired younger farmer was kicking Rose in the stomach, doubling the big man over, and when Carney moved in to help, the other farmer flipped him, with one of those goddamn Jap moves, landing Carney flat and hard on his back on the cement. The sight of that froze Callahan in his tracks and the younger farmer swung a hard sharp right hand that about took Callahan's jaw off at the hinges. When Callahan failed to go down, however, and came back for more, the younger farmer stepped inside Callahan's follow-up swing, grabbed his arm, turned his back on Callahan, and threw him over his shoulder.

  And Harry Gibson's men were spread out on their backs, unconscious or otherwise out of commission, like kids making angels in the snow. Only the pavement wasn't snow, and Harry Gibson's men weren't angels.

  Harry rushed into the terminal and went to a wall phone. He dropped in a nickel and called Caldwell at home.

  "Holy Mary mother!" Caldwell said. "Do you have any idea what time it is, man?"

  "I ain't calling to tell you what time it is," Harry said. "Other than it's later than you think. I'm calling to tell you that Eliot Ness and some kid just beat the ever-living shit out of four of my men."

  "What? Are you drunk, you simple bastard?"

  "They came in dressed like farmers and started unloading a truck. They baited my boys into a fight."

  "And nobody recognized Eliot fucking Ness? I know your boys can't read, but they at least see the goddamn papers, don't they?"

  Harry shrugged elaborately, made a face, as if Caldwell could see him. "He didn't look like himself. He had on this fake mustache and a floppy old hat. And I never seen this kid before who was with him, who is probably also a cop."

  "Did you get in and mix it up yourself?"

  "No."

  A long sigh. "Well, that's one thing, anyway. Praise God for small favors."

  "What should I do?"

  "Don't trade any punches, for Christ's sake. But stand up for your union. Speak your mind."

  "Which is what?"

  A long silence. "Use your head, why don't you, Harry? For something other than raising a crop of hair."

  "Are you coming down?"

  "Are you crazy, or just stupid? It's not my union. It's your union. You're the business agent."

  "But boss—you're the brains!"

  "Well, the brains are going back to bed. Good luck to you, my boy."

  The click in Harry's ear told him he was on his own.

  A paddy wagon had arrived by the time Harry rejoined the crowd. His four leather-jacketed men were being handcuffed and escorted into the back of it by bluecoats. Several press photographers were shooting pictures of the event. How the hell, Harry wondered, did everybody get here so soon?

  Ness, who had not put his hat or mustache back on, was speaking to the crowd that had, by this point, swelled to at least a hundred people. Among them were truck drivers, farmers, vendors, buyers—men, and a few women, representing every branch of life and business at the food terminal.

  "This little impromptu performance this morning," Ness was saying in a mild, mellow voice, "is only one small part of an ongoing criminal investigation here at the terminal. My office has been aware, for some time, of the activities of a gang engaged in a shakedown racket here at the market, extorting money by threats and force. This gang of racketeers, operating under the guise of a labor union, has preyed upon you people long enough. And they have preyed upon the city of Cleveland long enough— driving up food prices, pushing buyers and sellers into other markets in other cities."

  Harry's jaw tightened as heads around him were nodding as Ness's words hit home.

  "Right now," Ness continued, "my investigators are working undercover in this terminal. They are gathering evidence but will, if necessary, abandon their 'cover' and intervene, if this so-called union's goon squad interferes with the daily operations of this market. Undercover officers will continue to work the terminal until these acts of violence and extortion end."

  Many heads were nodding now, and even some scatterings of applause broke out. Harry Gibson's face was reddening; his teeth were clenched—his fists were, too.

  "But to really clean up this market," Ness said, hands on the hips of his coveralls, "I need the cooperation of those of you who have been victimized. If enough witnesses come forward, we can shut down this phony union."

  Gibson shouldered his way through the crowd. Standing up on the loading dock, he gazed coldly down at Ness.

  "My name is Harry Gibson. I'm the business agent of what you're calling a phony union. We are, in fact"—he searched for the words, tried to remember things he'd heard Caldwell say—"a legitimate labor union organized and operated to protect the, uh . . . interests of our members."

  From the crowd came the sound of a raspberry. Gibson glared back at blank faces.

  "I know who you are, Mr. Gibson," Ness said evenly.

  Gibson turned back to Ness and pointed down at him. "And I know who you are. You're a cop in the pocket of the moneyed class. You're a union-busting copper."

  From behind the press photographers stepped a satanic scarecrow in a seersucker suit and straw fedora with a red band. He had a pad and pencil in his hands and a smartass look on his face.

  "Sam Wild," the man said, looking up at Gibson, introducing himself. "Plain Dealer. What makes you think Mr. Ness is a union buster?"

  "He was just down busting heads at the steel mill, wasn't he? Then he climbs up on that truck and plays God for the press. Look at him here, in his farmer getup." Gibson turned to the crowd. "This is just some lousy publicity stunt!"

  "Not that lousy," Wild said, smiling, scribbling. He turned to Ness, who stood with arms folded near the younger cop/farmer (whose name, Harry later found out, was Albert Curry). "How about it, Mr. Safety Director? Are you against labor?"

  "I'm against racketeers in labor," Ness said. His eyes traced the crowd. "I'm against racketeers in the police department." He shrugged. "I'm against racketeers."

  And now applause rang out—not just scattered: widespread.

  Harry Gibson, feeling naked as a head of lettuce, scowled, and pushed his way through the crowd, disappearing inside the market, feeling depressingly sober.

  Outside, the sun was coming up.

  CHAPTER 5

  Eliot Ness handed the report to County Prosecutor Cullitan, saying, "A little light reading for you, Frank."

  Cullitan, standing behind his big oak desk in his first-floor office in the Criminal Courts Building, took the hefty black-foldered document and pretended to gauge its weight in one
hand like a market melon he was considering.

  "One hundred pages?" Cullitan asked, sitting, placing the report before him. The prosecutor was a large man, fifty-six years of age, his gray hair streaked by stubborn dark strands, his quiet manner belying the power that could erupt from him in a courtroom.

  "Eighty-five pages," Ness said, shrugging, sitting across from the prosecutor. "But when you start taking the witness depositions, you'll need a bigger office to hold the transcripts."

  "You got witnesses to come forward?"

  "Over one hundred." Ness pointed at the black-jacketed report. "We've substantiated forty-five acts of vandalism, bribery, and extortion. The Marketer's Co-op has already been disbanded, and we've made twenty-one arrests."

  Cullitan's smile was gently mocking. "That stunt of yours, at the food terminal last month, would seem to have paid off."

  Ness smiled back, somewhat sheepishly. "Well, Frank—I don't like to think of it as a stunt exactly. . ."

  Cullitan's smile settled in one cheek. "Even if your reporter friend Sam Wild did happen to be on the scene, along with half the photographers in town."

  Ness could only shrug.

  Cullitan shrugged, too, his smile fading. "You took a chance, even so. This criticism you've been getting from both the AFL and CIO—you fueled it by following up your Republic Steel stint so quickly with this performance at the terminal."

  Rather stiffly, Ness said, "I've taken chances before. If I only did my job when it was politically advantageous, then—"

  Cullitan cut in: "I know you've taken chances. And I know your attitude toward politics. If I haven't made it clear, let me say that, uh, I'm grateful for what . . . well, I am grateful."

  Both men lapsed into an embarrassed silence. What the prosecutor was referring to was this: the safety director, an appointee of a Republican mayor, had supported and campaigned for the reelection of a certain Democratic county prosecutor.

  Ness shifted in the wooden chair. "This food terminal shakedown is only the iceberg's tip, Frank. Labor racketeering is just as widespread and entrenched in this town as police corruption was a year ago."

  Cullitan smiled gently. "That just goes to show what can be accomplished in a year." He patted the report again, almost affectionately. "These witnesses wouldn't be coming forward unless they felt they could talk to the police without it getting back to the bad guys."

  "I think we've built some trust," Ness said. "Particularly when my own staff is doing the questioning."

  "You've assembled some good people. So... what's our next target? Caldwell and McFate?"

  Ness nodded. "Caldwell and McFate."

  "I take it you weren't able to tie them to the market shakedowns."

  "No. Gibson is their man, but Gibson is not among those we've arrested."

  "Why in hell not?"

  "He—and his attorney—are taking the position that he is the bargaining agent for the union and was not aware that some of his members were 'overstepping their bounds.'"

  "And his goons are backing him up, I suppose?"

  "Yes. They're all taking his fall."

  "That's an AFL union, isn't it?"

  "Yes. And they're backing him . . . nominally. He has resigned from his post, and I understand a CIO union is attempting to organize the market."

  "The Teamsters?"

  "Yes."

  "That's a rough bunch."

  Ness shrugged. "Not for me to judge, unless they break the law. They're truckers, not interior decorators."

  Cullitan's fleshy face was creased in a frown. "But that Teamster Whitehall, he's been a problem. . . ."

  "He's a roughneck. We'll keep an eye on him. But in the meantime, Harry Gibson is out of work, anyway, if not in jail."

  "Wasn't there anyone to testify against him?"

  "No. Apparently his men did all the dirty work."

  Cullitan's eyes narrowed. "Knowing Gibson's record, I find that difficult to believe."

  "It's more likely the witnesses are simply afraid to finger him directly."

  Cullitan rapped a fist on the report cover. "And he's the link to Caldwell and McFate."

  "Yes. But I never held out hope this market investigation would lead us to them. We need to focus on the area where they are directly involved: building construction."

  Cullitan raised his eyebrows. "Construction is hardly the word for it."

  "Destruction is more like it," Ness agreed. He shook his head, smiled mirthlessly. "When I was studying criminology back at the University of Chicago, it never occurred to me I'd be chasing window smashers."

  Cullitan laughed shortly. "Doesn't sound like a major crime, exactly, does it?"

  "Not unless," Ness said, sighing, standing, “you're talking ten thousand windows. I'll look forward to your reaction to my report."

  And he shook hands with Cullitan and headed back to City Hall.

  As Ness was nearing the private entry to his office, Sam Wild stepped out of the press room, just across the way. Wild wore his usual white seersucker suit and today's bow tie was blue.

  "You turned your report in to Cullitan, I take it," Wild said, cigarette dangling from the corner of a sardonic smirk.

  "Yes, Sam."

  "Get any pictures taken?"

  "No, Sam."

  "You're losing your touch. You ain't had your picture on the front page in, what? Two weeks?"

  "What's your point, Sam?"

  "No point. Just giving you the needle."

  "What's on your mind, Sam?"

  Wild lifted his shoulders with studied casualness, set them down the same way. "I don't want to see you back off on this labor stuff, just 'cause some people are giving you a little heat."

  "Why, is this an issue you care about?"

  "The only issue I care about is any Plain Dealer with my by-line under a big juicy headline. Why do you think I got myself permanently assigned to the Ness beat? You're the best story in town."

  "Why, thank you, Sam."

  "What other safety director would go undercover just to make a bust himself? Corny, but effective."

  "Corny?"

  "Hey, I'm not being critical—if you hadn't made that bust yourself, the terminal shakedown wouldn't have got near the play in the press. Gotta hand it to you."

  "I appreciate the kudos, Sam. Now, if you don't mind, I have a meeting—"

  "You're going after Caldwell and McFate, aren't you?"

  Ness said nothing.

  "Off the record, of course," Wild said impatiently.

  Ness said nothing.

  Then he nodded.

  Wild's eyes lit up like a hollowed-out pumpkin's on Halloween. "I want in."

  "You'll be in."

  "I mean, let me sit in on the meeting."

  "I don't want any press coverage."

  "I won't write it up. I just want in, on the ground floor of this thing."

  "I don't think so."

  "Come on! I've been a help in the past, haven't I? I can go places, do things, that your boys can't."

  "Like break and enter, you mean."

  "You said that, I didn't. Didn't you tell that one magazine interviewer I was your 'top unofficial investigator'?"

  "That was in a weak moment. Over drinks."

  "Don't be a dope! You want in-depth coverage on this one, don't you? Let me sit in."

  Ness studied Wild's somewhat satanic yet earnest countenance, then said, "Okay. But keep your mouth shut, and don't write anything up till I give the okay."

  "It's a deal."

  Ness opened the door and went in and Wild followed.

  Chamberlin, Curry, and Captain Savage were seated at one of the conference tables in Ness's spacious office. Savage, a short, rugged man in his mid-forties, headed up the Vandal Squad, which investigated bombings, window smashings, and other vandalism.

  Standing near the window, smoking a cigar, was Will Garner, a beefy six-foot-four detective who had recently signed on with the safety director's office as an investigator. Garn
er was dark, his hair starkly black, though he was in his mid-fifties; he was a full-blooded Sioux, and had been one of Ness's "untouchables" back in Chicago.

  "I've invited Sam Wild to sit in," Ness said.

  Garner's frown was barely perceptible; Savage's you couldn't miss.

  "Mr. Ness," Savage said, shifting in his chair, "I know you and Wild are friends and all, and he's sympathetic to our cause . . . but do you really think it's appropriate to have a reporter privy to our private planning sessions?"

  Ness stood near the conference table. Wild stood off to one side, uncharacteristically mum, while Ness said, "We're facing a delicate situation. I don't have to tell you, Captain, of the perils of going up against a labor union, even if it is crooked. You've been painted a villain by every union in town, including the honest ones."

  "Just because I try to do my goddamn job," Savage said resentfully.

  "Right," Ness said. "Well, when the story of what we're trying to accomplish gets told, it will help that a sympathetic ear was listening right from day one."

  Savage grimaced, but then nodded. Chamberlin and Curry, who were used to having Wild around, didn't react one way or the other.

  "All in all," Ness said, "despite Gibson slipping through our fingers, the food-terminal operation has to be considered a solid success."

  Curry was smiling. "I'll say. I got my picture in the paper."

  "Dressed as a farmer," Chamberlin put in wryly.

  The men smiled at that exchange, including Ness, who said, "And you all know what the next step is, or I should say who the next step is: Big Jim and Little Jim. Caldwell and McFate."

  There were nods all around.

  "For the record—I don't consider these men 'unionists.' To me, they're terrorists. They carry on immensely profitable rackets from inside the protective walls of organized labor. They have a hold that the rank-and-file union members can't break. But I think we can."

  Ness sat at the conference table.

  "Albert, you and Will have been doing some preliminary investigating. Fill us in, would you?"

  Curry stood and said, "We've interviewed twenty-five potential witnesses—mostly building contractors. We've learned that the contractors are routinely forced to shell out fifty to three hundred bucks per job in construction blackmail."