MURDER BY THE NUMBERS (Eliot Ness) Page 8

  "What . . . what about . . . this?" Rosato's wide eyes made reference to the trio of bleeding corpses nearby.

  Angelo shrugged. "A couple of Pittsburgh racketeers, who was far from home and in over their heads, got in a knife fight with a nigger policy runner. No big deal."

  Rosato was shaking like a showgirl's behind; it was funny to Angelo. Funnier than fucking hell.

  "We play this any different," Angelo said, "and the papers are gonna be full of gang-war bullshit, and Ness will be on all our asses. I got enough shit from that son-of-a-bitch already, so just go. Okay? Go."

  Rosato, tentatively, rose. Angelo pulled the man's torn suitcoat back up around his shoulders, brushed him off as if he were Rosato's valet.

  "Next time you're in town," Angelo said, walking him out of the alley, an arm around the stunned Rosato's shoulders, "stop by Murray Hill and pay us your respects."

  Rosato nodded numbly. He said, "I... better go in and get our coats."

  "Yeah. You do that. The trains run all night, you know. I wouldn't waste no time. Shine killing or not, the cops might want to talk to you. Better to be missing."

  Angelo walked him back into the smoky bar. The jukebox was playing some honey-suckle blues number and couples were dancing close. Close hell, Angelo thought; they're fucking, standing up. What was the world coming to?

  He watched Rosato, tail tucked between his legs, collect the topcoats at the coatcheck window. Angelo's own topcoat was ruined; it was out in the alley, stuffed in one of the garbage cans, with Leroy Simmons's blood all over it.

  When Rosato had ducked back out into the night, Angelo strutted over to the bar where Freddy Douglass was nervously drinking one Tom Collins after another.

  Angelo put a hand on Freddy's shoulder and said, "Step out into the alley with me, son."

  "Why, Mr. Scalise?"

  "There's something I want you to see."

  Angelo didn't intend to kill Freddy. This was for purposes of education.

  And to get the word spread about who owned the east side. Cousin Sal was right: It was important to be respected.

  CHAPTER 8

  "Eliot," Mayor Burton said somberly, "this is a matter of politics."

  Ness hated to hear the mayor say that.

  What had endeared the mayor to him—from their first meeting over two years ago, in this same lavish, high-ceilinged office hung with huge tapestries of the Western Reserve's Indian days—was Burton's pledge that Ness would be given "a free hand, without political interference."

  Even so, there had been an element of politics in Ness's job from day one. Burton had run only nominally as a Republican, stressing his status as an independent, and his city council was badly factionalized. Ness had been brought in, amidst much press fanfare about the "G-man who got Capone," to clean up the corrupt police department—and he had to do it quickly enough to embarrass budgetary support out of that surly city council. And he had, and it had worked.

  But Ness had made his lack of interest in politics, even his contempt for it, clear to Burton. And Burton had promised that no investigation would be tainted by political considerations.

  And the Mayor, who as the years and elections went by had become less and less independent and more and more aligned with the Republican party, had at times become impatient with his apolitical safety director. When Ness threw his Burton-cultivated publicity value behind Frank Cullitan, a Democrat, running for re-election as county prosecutor, Burton said not a negative word. The mayor knew what a valuable ally Cullitan was to Ness; but Ness knew that this had nonetheless been an embarrassment to Burton.

  Still, neither the mayor nor his safety director could ignore certain political realities. Hard times and tight budgets had made it necessary to create a slush fund to help support Ness's investigative work—a slush fund created by prominent merchants and industrialists and other city fathers.

  On a few instances, these financial "angels" had presented Burton and Ness with a bill they dared not leave unpaid— notably last summer, hushing up the identity of the Mad Butcher of Kingsbury Run to keep from embarrassing a prominent Cleveland family. Ness had gone along with this, but had felt compromised ever since.

  Nonetheless, Ness had great respect for Burton. A sturdy, wedge-shaped man in his early fifties, Burton had a broad brow and regular features and prematurely white hair; he cared little about his personal appearance and even now wore a fairly rumpled, off-the-rack charcoal suit and wrinkled blue tie. His dark-circled eyes gave him a vaguely unhealthy, even sinister look, but his smile was winning.

  Lawyer, war hero, family man, Burton was a hell of a good mayor, and a hell of a good man. But he was becoming a hell of a politician, too, and that disappointed Ness.

  "I understand this fellow Hollis came to see you," Burton said.

  "Yes he did."

  "And he offered to help you in your numbers racket investigation?"

  "That's right."

  "And you turned him down."

  Ness shifted in the hard wood chair. "I didn't make a deal with him, if you call that 'turning him down.' He wanted an assurance from me that I'd allow the numbers racket to flourish on the east side, once it was back in Negro hands."

  Burton thought that over; his black eyebrows under the white hair made for a sterner look than he possibly intended. But that look made Ness uncomfortable.

  Nervously, Burton plucked a big black Havana from a wooden humidor on his massive oak desk; he fired up the cigar and waved it like a wand. "Well, what's your goal? To stamp out the numbers racket, or to dismantle the Mayfield Road gang?"

  "The latter," Ness shrugged. "I'm not naive enough to think that the numbers racket is ever going to disappear from the Negro district."

  "There are those," Burton said calmly, "who feel the numbers are a harmless diversion for a people who can use some hope in their lives. Betting a penny or two seems innocuous enough."

  This line of reasoning bored Ness, who said, "I'm not interested in the morality or immorality of gambling."

  Burton pointed with the cigar. "You're only interested in controlling the criminal element that illegal gambling necessarily attracts."

  "Right."

  "Just as you were never a supporter of Prohibition, when you were the country's most celebrated Prohibition agent. You were merely upholding the law, and attempting to curb the criminal gangs."

  "Right. I'm not exactly a teetotaler myself, as you well know. Is there a point you're making that's eluding me, Your Honor?"

  Burton sighed. "It's simply this: You know and I know that if we get rid of the Mayfield Road gang's influence over the numbers racket, we're not going to make a top priority out of cracking down on the Negro racketeers that take over."

  "Well . . ."

  "Eliot. In all honesty. In all frankness. In a practical manner of speaking ..."

  "You're right," Ness admitted. "We're not set up for it. Even if we wanted to, we don't have enough Negro cops to work the east side. In a practical manner of speaking, Negro numbers racketeers, in the wake of Lombardi and Scalise's downfall, will flourish—modestly."

  "Then why didn't you accept Hollis's offer?"

  "Because I can't go around cutting deals like that. And besides, I may want to crack down on the Negro numbers racket, at some time. If I could get some Negro cops on the force . . ."

  Burton smiled ironically; flicked cigar ash into a brass tray. "Whose fault is that?"

  Ness shifted in the hard wood chair again. "Well—mine, I suppose."

  "You've read the editorials in the Call and Post. The editors think your high requirements for police department candidates are designed to keep Negroes off the force."

  Ness shook his head, saying, "That may be an unhappy by-product, but it wasn't even vaguely my intention. Just because I want high school graduates ..."

  "You toughened up the Civil Service exam to where a college graduate could flunk the damn thing."

  "Some do," Ness shrugged. "Only one hundred ou
t of a thousand applicants pass. After all, I expect candidates who can handle the curriculum at our police academy—psychology, arrest procedure, criminal law, first aid . . ."

  "Eliot, I admire your high standards—and considering how you've turned the sloppiest, most venal police department in the country into one of the best in the world, well . . . what can I do but commend you?"

  Ness was bristling despite Burton's flattery. "Are you suggesting I come up with an easier test for Negro applicants? That sounds like race prejudice to me."

  "No, no, no. All I ask is that you give Hollis and others like him some consideration. With the police brutality incidents we've had ..."

  Ness raised a finger. "So-called ..."

  Burton waved his cigar in deference. "So-called police brutality incidents we've had, we have a need—a political need, and a moral one—to accommodate these people."

  Racial concerns were nothing new for Burton, of this Ness was well aware. Burton's 1935 mayoral campaign had been a success due to his putting together a coalition of minorities—Negroes included. And Burton had been publicly vocal in opposing segregation in local hotels and restaurants.

  "I understand the moral need," Ness said. "But I don't see where politics enters into this." He spit out the word "politics" like a seed.

  Painfully, Burton explained. "We have a state election coming up, Eliot. I know all about your disinterest in politics, but this has been in all the papers. Next month? Governor? State senators, state representatives? Elective offices? Sound familiar?"

  "Do I really deserve this sarcasm?"

  "God, yes! The three black city councilmen who are behind Hollis and, yes, are tied to the would-be Negro numbers racketeers are Republicans. Not only do they control the crucial swing vote that gets you your police department and fire department funds, they are key figures for rounding up the Negro vote in the state election."

  "The colored vote has always gone Republican," Ness said. Archly he added, "I may not know politics, but I know that much. It's been that way since the civil war."

  Burton was shaking his head. "Times are hard, and times are changing. The New Deal is turning a lot of Negro voters Democratic. And I need to help deliver the Republican vote in this state election, Eliot. It's important to me."

  "To you?"

  Burton's cigar had gone out. He seemed about to relight it, then settled it in the ashtray, folded his hands, and smiled at Ness. There was embarrassment in the smile.

  "I'm giving serious consideration to running for senator, Eliot, in the next national election."

  Ness hadn't seen this coming; it struck him like a blow.

  "This would be your last term, then . . ."

  "No. There'd be one more term as mayor—and this all assumes we'd win the mayoral race next year."

  Ness smiled dryly. "I think we can we make that assumption—you're the most popular mayor in the city's history. That's why the powers-that-be axe singling you out for greater things. And I don't blame them."

  "That's kind of you, Eliot. But those 'greater things' are unlikely to happen for me, if I'm not able to deliver the vote. And without the support of key race leaders, frankly, I can't."

  "I see."

  "I'd consider it a personal favor if you did your best to accommodate Hollis and Councilman Raney and other race leaders—if you can do so without compromising your own principles."

  Ness said nothing.

  Nor did Burton, and Ness realized their meeting was over. He stood and the two men, the two friends, smiled warmly if wearily at each other across the massive oak desk, and nodded their goodbyes.

  Ness walked down the hall to his office, where Bob Chamberlin and Albert Curry were waiting, seated at one of the conference tables.

  "How did it go?" Chamberlin asked; he was in the process of lighting his pipe, his long legs crossed casually as he leaned back against the table. He was in suspenders and shirtsleeves.

  "I'm not sure," Ness said. He sat on the edge of the conference table.

  Curry said, "What do you mean?"

  "His Honor would like us to cooperate with Hollis and any other race leaders who are willing to help. Just what the ramifications of that are, well ..."

  Chamberlin's little mustache twitched as he smiled. "You mean, Burton wants you to give the Negro racketeers a free ride."

  Ness said nothing.

  Curry said, "Why don't we worry about that later . . . like if and when we put the Mayfield Road boys out of commission."

  Ness smiled faintly. "Good point, Albert."

  Chamberlin blew out some pipe smoke and shrugged. "So we cooperate with Hollis. Let's set up a meeting between you and him."

  "Good idea," Ness said. "Albert, could you arrange that?"

  Curry nodded and went over to the phone on the desk.

  Chamberlin said, "When are you going to start utilizing the handful of Negro cops we have at our disposal?"

  "Very soon," Ness said. "I'm going to put Albert right on that. . . ."

  "Mr. Ness," Curry said, his hand over the mouthpiece of the phone. He looked pained. "I've located Mr. Hollis."

  "Good."

  "Not really," Curry said. "He's in the lock-up at Central Jail."

  "What?"

  Curry shrugged facially. "He and his Future Outlook League buddies got busted. They were picketing the Wool-worth's store on Central Avenue, for not hiring blacks. It got a little out of hand."

  Ness sighed. He turned to Chamberlin. "Get him out. And the rest of his people."

  "What if he's already been booked . . . ?"

  "I don't give a damn. Tell Matowitz to spring him, and set up a meeting between me and Hollis, tonight, here at the office."

  Chamberlin nodded, put out his pipe and tucked it away, got up, put on his suitcoat and topcoat, and went out.

  Ness turned to Curry. "I want to talk to Toussaint Johnson."

  "When?"

  "Now."

  Curry nodded. "I'll call over to his precinct house and see if I can get a line on where he is."

  Soon they were riding in the EN-1 sedan, Curry at the wheel, Ness sitting broodingly as they abandoned the imposing granite structures of downtown Cleveland to head down East Ninth Street toward the vile east-side area nicknamed the Bucket of Blood. They turned onto Scovill Avenue, a nightmarish slum street that ran from 55th Street to 14th Street on the edge of the Negro district. Late afternoon was blurring into early evening and those neons and street lamps that weren't broken or burned-out smoldered in the twilight and helped make a world that was all too real seem unreal.

  The Bucket of Blood was an urban swamp of squalid cold-water tenements, ramshackle warehouses, filthy junk yards, and rat-infested garbage dumps. Mangy dogs and cats scurried; white eyes in dark faces looked with suspicion at the sedan as it glided by like an apparition. It was a street where addicts, bums, and winos mingled with honest out-of-work laborers and kids who scampered down streets littered with garbage, broken glass, and dog shit. This sordid world, Ness realized, was Toussaint Johnson's beat.

  The Boll Weevil Bar was on the comer of Scovill and 35th, next door to a nameless flophouse. The long narrow boxcar of a bar had an endless counter at left with a scattering of tables along the right; the floor was covered with soggy sawdust. A few neon beer signs glowed on the walls and provided most of what little light there was; the air was stale and smoky and rippled with the strains of a Fats Waller tune, "I Want a Little Girl to Call My Own,' from a colorful jukebox squeezed in the far corner. Two burly bartenders were working the customers, and looked capable of serving up ball bats as well as brews. The bar stools were filled with weary working men and petty hustlers and a few hard-eyed whores. Most of the tables were taken, too, primarily by drunks sleeping on their folded arms.

  At one of the tables, with his back to the wall, was a big, angular-featured Negro in a dark brown suit that looked slept-in and a black fedora that looked run-over by a car, or maybe a truck. He was drinking a beer without any appa
rent enthusiasm. His angular eyes had a sleepy look, but that was deceptive: They didn't miss a thing.

  Ness and Curry, the only white men in the place, were given the once-over by perhaps a third of the clientele. A good proportion were drunk or didn't give a damn. The two detectives approached the big angular Negro, who sat alone.

  "Toussaint Johnson?" Ness asked. "Detective Johnson?"

  Johnson nodded. He rose and offered his hand. "Director Ness. Pleasure."

  Ness shook the man's hand—it was a firm, dry grip that didn't try to prove anything, was just naturally strong. "This is Detective Curry. He's on my personal staff."

  Johnson and Curry nodded at each other; they did not shake hands.

  "Take a load off," Johnson said. "Buy you a beer?"

  "Sure," Ness said.

  Johnson got up and went over and got three beers at the bar. His suitcoat was open and the strap of his shoulder holster showed; the bulges of big guns were obvious under either arm. He was called by some "Two-Gun" Toussaint, Ness understood.

  Johnson sat the three beers sloshingly down and the men each took one.

  "Here's to crime," Johnson said, raising his glass.

  "We'd be out of work without it," Ness admitted, and took a drink of the tepid beer.

  "How'd did you find me?" Johnson asked.

  Curry said, "Your desk sergeant said you usually stopped in here when you got off duty."

  Johnson nodded. "It's a friendly little place."

  "Unlike the Elite Cabaret," Ness said. "I understand you're working that case."

  "Oh yeah."

  "How do you read it?"

  Johnson's smile was barely there. "Knife fights on this side of town ain't no big deal. Usually."

  "Usually. Something unusual about this one?"

  "Well, this has all three players windin' up real dead. Two got their throats cut, one got stuck in the belly. How's that happen, exactly? Does a fella who's got his throat cut up and stick another fella in the belly? Or does a guy gut-stuck waltz over and cut another fella's throat? How does that happen, exactly?"

  "I don't think it could."