The dark city en-1

by Max Allan Collins

  Then he felt something in his neck.

  Something cold, something metallic, something very much like the nose of a revolver.

  Ness let loose of Horvitz and shoved him, easily, back to the other side of the car. The revolver withdrew from Ness' neck.

  Ness withdrew from the car.

  Horvitz leaned out the rear door. He'd regained his composure but he was a little ragged around the edges.

  "I never took you for stupid before, Ness."

  "You're not going to take me for anything," Ness said as he walked away, talking back over his shoulder toward the Lincoln. "I'll let your blonde know she can come down and join you now. It must be past her bedtime, anyway."

  CHAPTER 17

  Ness, in a gray sweatshirt and black gym trunks, dove for the birdie, slicing with his racket, knocking the projectile back over the net so that it dropped gently at the feet of the similarly dressed Mayor Burton. Burton winced in good-natured defeat and said, "That's all, folks," and the four men, Burton paired with John Flynt, and Ness with automobile manufacturer Alexander Wynston, one of his slush-fund angels, left the court, breathing heavily, and picked up their towels and wiped off the sweat, except for Ness, who was the youngest and didn't sweat much anyway,

  Burton and Ness met before lunch several times a week here at Dewey Mitchell's Health Club in the Standard Building, for workouts that included badminton, hand-ball, or jujitsu. Ness was giving His Honor lessons in the latter. By mutual consent they left all discussions of budgets and ticking clocks outside the building, except that today, Burton had broken the rule. In the locker room, as they'd gotten dressed for their game, Burton asked Ness if he was any closer to finding the "outside chief." Ness had admitted he wasn't.

  And Burton had said, "We need him, Eliot. Or we need something just as big. It's a matter of weeks now. And the way the factions in the council are squabbling, the rocky way the budget hearings are going, it doesn't look good."

  Other than that, today, Wednesday, had been no different than any other workout at the club-except for the presence of the stocky figure who stood waiting in the doorway between the badminton court and the weight-lifting room, virtually barring the way. He was an absurd, potbellied figure in an unseasonal straw hat and a brown topcoat open over a brown suit, with a black bow tie and a red rose in his lapel. He was smoking a cigar and looked as out of place in this health club as a nun in a beer hall, and had a similar holier-than-thou demeanor.

  "Oh, Christ," Burton muttered under his breath, behind his towel as he rubbed his face. "Vehovic."

  The man, whom Ness recognized as Anton Vehovic, Thirty-second Ward councilman, stepped aside and let Flynt and Wynston by. But he blocked the way for Ness and the mayor.

  "Councilman," Burton said, his patience strained, "I have a luncheon date."

  Vehovic, a round-faced man in his mid-forties, with a wisp of gray in his coal-color hair, blue eyes alert behind wire-framed glasses, folded his arms and smiled.

  "I heard you guys hung around here together some-times," he said.

  "That's right," Burton said. "Could you excuse us?"

  "You could stand some excusin'. You guys talk real big about cleanin' things up. And that's what it is: just talk. Or was I dreaming you vetoed my slot-machine ordinance?"

  Burton sighed. "I've told you more than once, Councilman, that my veto was reluctant, that I agree with you on principle. But my law director advised me that your ordinance wouldn't hold up in the courts. Get some legal advice and try again."

  Vehovic snorted. "You got an excuse for everything. What's your excuse for all them vice resorts running high, wide, and handsome all over town?"

  "That sounds like a subject you should discuss with my safety director," Burton said, smiling politely. "Why don't you handle this, Eliot?"

  And having passed the buck, towel slung around his neck, His Honor moved on into the weight-lifting room and headed for the showers.

  Ness knew Burton considered Vehovic a crank. And the councilman was a bit of a roughneck. He was a union man, a machinist at the New York Central Railroad shops in Collinwood, where even now he was an organizer, and had a reputation as an outspoken, square-shooting but eccentric champion of his people. He was also a man of direct action, a regular blue-collar hell-on-wheels. Not long ago, weary of waiting for the city road crew to fill some ruts in his district, the councilman-whose hobby was bicycling-rented a truck, bought a load of cinders, and filled the potholes himself, billing the city for the damage. The city paid up.

  Ness rather admired the rough-as-a-cob hunky's zeal, but he understood why a polished pol like Burton would not. Vehovic was constantly on his feet in city council meetings making resolutions and proclamations and introducing ordinances in less-than-King's-English. On at least one occasion he showed up, straight from work, in his scruffy machinist's overalls. Sometimes, when not in an oratorical mood, he would sleep and snore. And now and then, not having had time to eat supper between work and the evening session, he sat in his councilman's chair eating from a can of sardines, the fishy fragrance wafting across the staid council chambers.

  "You been pulling some raids, I see," Vehovic said, smelling something fishy himself, arms still folded over a husky chest, incongruous straw boater tilted atop the large round head. "But the big one wasn't inside the city limits. Wouldn't be afraid of steppin' on Fink's toes, would ya?"

  Vehovic regularly feuded with the powerful Fink, councilman for the downtown district. Nominally a Democrat, Vehovic was, in practice, an Independent. And an independent Independent at that.

  Ness didn't know what Vehovic was getting at, and said so.

  "You gonna pretend you don't know that Fink's brother Tommy, his racetracks ain't enough for him, runs gambling joints all over the city, wide open? My ward included?"

  "I've heard that rumor. We've raided a few of Tommy Fink's reputed joints and come up empty."

  "Well, sure you have. Everybody at City Hall is either on the take or dead from the neck up. Why you think I cornered you and His Honor here at this sweatbox 'stead of there?"

  Ness put the towel around his neck and smiled pleasantly. "I'm not on the take. Why don't you lead me to one of those 'wide-open' places?"

  "Sure, only by the time we get there, they'll be puttin' on a church social in the joint."

  "Why don't you give me a try."

  Vehovic thought about that. He said, "You got that guy Savage working for ya, don't ya?"

  "Yes I do."

  Vehovic frowned. "He's down on the unions."

  "I'm keeping an eye on him."

  "You better not be down on the unions, or you'll have an enemy in me."

  "I don't think we're going to be enemies, Councilman."

  "He tossed me in the jug, once't."

  "Pardon?"

  "Your pal Savage. Tossed me in the jug, once't."

  "Did you deserve it?"

  "Hell, no! I was just tearing down this fence that was keeping the residents of my ward from usin' White City Beach."

  "Wasn't that fence the property of Bratenahl Village?"

  He lifted the thumb and fingers of one hand to his nose as if something stank, and it wasn't sardines. "Everybody agreed that fence oughta come down. He's a wise-guy, that Savage."

  "Oh?"

  "Yeah, he stood there watching me tear down the fence, and when I asked him why he hadn't arrested me yet, said, 'I figure you need to work off some of that extra weight, Tony.' "

  Ness stifled a laugh and said, "Look. Why don't you meet me at my office in an hour?"

  Vehovic checked his pocket watch. "Yeah, why in hell don't I? I took a half a day off anyways. Bein' the president of the local union has its advantages."

  "I bet it does."

  He pointed a stubby finger at Ness. "Just you and me. Nobody else. Including that fella Flynt of yours."

  "Fine."

  Vehovic nodded and trundled off like a small tank.

  Ness shook his head and went to th
e showers. Later he joined the natty John Flynt for lunch at the Bronze Room in the Cleveland Hotel.

  "Vehovic's a nut," Flynt said, matter-of-factly, dipping a spoon into French onion soup. The remark seemed strange, coming from this proper lawyer, with his tiny waxed mustache and formal bearing. He looked like a British colonel out of a Kipling story about India.

  "He's his own man," Ness said. "I don't think he's crazy. He didn't go to Harvard, but he's not stupid, either."

  Flynt pursed his lips in a frown. The mustache twitched. "He's a pest. Why's he such a social reformer? You know as well as anyone that he was in the speakeasy business."

  "He wasn't. His father was, as I understand. That was before I came to Cleveland, long before."

  "Well, he was vocally against Prohibition."

  "You seem to be having a martini with lunch yourself."

  Flynt bristled. "I just don't think he's sincere. I figure he's against vice in his ward because he wants to move one bunch of crooks out and another group in. His bootlegger cronies from the old days."

  "Do you have anything to back that up? Or is that opinion, or instinct, or what?"

  "It's an informed opinion. Let's let it go at that. But I'll tell you this: lining up with him in his feud with Councilman Fink would cause us nothing but grief."

  "Why's that?"

  "I know you don't like to talk politics…"

  "Particularly not when I'm eating. But go ahead."

  "Must I remind you that Fink carries more weight than any other single councilman? That he's a Republican, and our Independent mayor needs to have the regular party types on his side? Fink was a Davis man in the primaries, you know, but he got out the vote in his ward for Burton in the final election."

  "You're thinking of the budget hearings."

  "And the upcoming vote. Fink is helping decide your fate right now. And he'll carry a lot of weight with the voters in his ward if a bond issue has to get itself floated, to get your budget met. Do you really want to cause him trouble and embarrassment right now by going after his brother's interests?"

  Ness smiled. "And when should I go after his brother?"

  "If I were in your shoes, never. There are enough crooks to go around in Cleveland. Why not pursue some who don't have brothers on the city council?"

  "Has Vehovic ever talked to you about this?"

  Flynt shrugged. "Several times. He came around to see you, and I deflected him."

  "Deflected him?"

  "That's part of my job, isn't it? To keep you from getting your time wasted by the lunatic fringe?"

  Flynt was a more than competent assistant, but there were times when Ness would have liked to be well and truly rid of him; this was one of those times. But the mayor had made it clear that Flynt was necessary political baggage.

  Nonetheless, Ness' voice was tight with barely concealed anger as he said, "I don't think any member of the city council, particularly one requesting that I crack down on vice, qualifies as a part of the lunatic fringe."

  "Perhaps I misjudged. But I called it as I saw it."

  After lunch Ness sent Flynt on an errand to Cullitan's office in the Criminal Courts Building, and when he met with Vehovic at City Hall, the safety director and the Thirty-second Ward councilman were alone.

  They sat at the conference table in Ness' office.

  "I hear some good things about you," Vehovic admitted, with apparent reluctance. "This cemetery racket that the grand jury's looking into, they say you broke that wide open."

  "I didn't have much to do with that. A reporter friend of mine did most of the work."

  Ness did have some people on the case, looking into the possible death-by-arson of the two old men in the Joanna Home. Two McGrath Agency investigators Heller had chosen were showing the drawing of the phony G-man around, but so far had had no luck. Ness was beginning to think the son of a bitch had bolted town by now, but he still had hopes of collaring him. He'd convinced Wild not to air the arson suspicions or publish the drawing, but as the grand jury investigation drew to a close in the weeks ahead, all that would come out.

  In the meantime, the bulldog face in the cartoonist's sketch haunted Ness. Some distant memory was stirring, but only stirring.

  "That was my people," Vehovic said, with some passion. "Not just in my ward-those bums hit my ward, too, you know-but I mean Slavs, like me. Poor ignorant immigrants that believe in this country and got fleeced for it. If you helped break that racket open, my hat's off to you."

  His hat was off actually; the straw boater sat on the table between them, next to an ashtray where the councilman's latest foul-smelling cigar smoldered.

  "The city should set an example," Vehovic continued, shaking a fist, letting Ness know that all compliments had ended. "If you aren't ready to do it, I'll do it myself. I'll take a baseball bat and show you how to really raid a bookie joint."

  "You have any particular bookie joint in mind?"

  "Sure. The biggest one in town."

  Publicity. Ness could smell it. This wasn't as good as nabbing the "outside chief," but it would carry some weight. Yes it would…

  Vehovic was saying, "The joint's on the top floor of the Paradise Hotel on West Twenty-fifth. There's a greasy-spoon saloon downstairs called the Club Cafe."

  "That isn't even in your ward."

  "I'm interested in cleaning up the whole goddamn town! Aren't you? Besides, that's Tommy Fink's place. Not his only one, but the biggest."

  "Give me the exact address."

  "Two-oh-seven-seven West Twenty-fifth."

  Ness wrote that down. "That's in the Eighth Precinct."

  "Yeah, but them cops is no good over there."

  "Have you tried them?"

  "Lineham told me not to stick my nose in his business."

  "Captain Lineham? The precinct commander?"

  "That's him. His kids work summers for Tommy Fink at one of his racetracks."

  "Are you sure of that?"

  "You're supposed to be a detective. Look into it."

  "I will. Give me a couple of days on this. A week at most."

  "You really gonna do something?"

  "Yes."

  "Then maybe we can hit some places in my ward?"

  "Sure."

  "And I can come along?"

  Ness nodded. "But leave your baseball bat at home, okay?"

  "It's a deal."

  Vehovic stood and offered his hand, which Ness shook.

  "You know," the stocky councilman said, "ninety percent of the police force is honest and would clean themself up if they wasn't under the thumbs of some old-timers who had to pay for their appointments and want to get their money back. The honest fellas get shoved in some shit job if they don't do what the crooked ones say."

  "You're probably right."

  "No probably. I am right. Ever ask yourself why the only councilman makin' waves is crazy ol' Tony? Why aren't these other councilmen getting out and saying there's vice in their wards?"

  "What are you saying?"

  He shrugged elaborately. "They're grafters. Not all of 'em. But sitting right there on the council with me is grafters. I turned down four grand from a Chicago slot-machine salesman to lay off the slots. He said the other councilmen are getting theirs and I should get some, too. I told him to go fuck himself and I put my ordinance through. It passed, too, till your friend the mayor nixed it."

  Could the mayor have vetoed Vehovic's bill simply to placate some crooked councilmen whose votes were needed to pass the budget? Ness dismissed the thought as quickly as it came, saying to himself as much as to Vehovic, "Burton's no crook."

  "I know, I know. He's just another fancy-pants, that's all. He's like all mayors-he attends his banquets, never misses a chicken. He says hello to me at least. That's more than that weasel Davis ever did."

  Ness, feeling a bit like he'd been run over by a friendly truck, showed the councilman to the door. He said, "Thank you for coming to me with this."

  About to go out, Veh
ovic paused and looked at Ness curiously, as if he were a species of animal he'd never seen before. "Are you for real? I'll be damned if I don't think you're maybe for real."

  "Give me a week and see. You need a lift anywhere? I can call up a car for you."

  "No. I pedaled over from Collinwood, and I'll pedal back."

  "Pedaled?"

  "Yeah, I go everywheres on my bicycle. I don't get my goddamn exercise at no health club."

  "But it's winter."

  "Ain't you the Sherlock Holmes to figure that out," Vehovic said, and he put his boater on, tipped it to Ness and went out.

  Ness buzzed for Gwen, who came in, steno pad in hand. She was wearing another knit pullover, a light blue one with a dark blue skirt, and looked very pretty, even with her hair up and her glasses on.

  "Put the pad down," Ness said, "and pick up the phone."

  "Why?"

  "I want you to call the Eighth Precinct and report a bookie joint."

  She shrugged and lifted the phone receiver. "Okay," she said.

  Ness gave her the phone number and the address.

  As she dialed, he said, "You're the wife of a W.P.A. worker who lost all his money in the place."

  "Got ya," she said, and waited as the phone rang.

  The safety director's standing orders to all precincts, well-publicized in the papers, were that such tips should immediately be acted upon.

  Then she was talking to a desk sergeant, and she told him what Ness had said to say, putting the proper outrage in her voice.

  She listened for a moment, then went on, "If you say so. But if you don't raid that joint immediately, I'm going straight to the safety director's office!"

  She listened again, momentarily, and said, "Fine. Do that. I pay taxes!"

  And she hung up.

  "How'd I do?" she asked.

  He put a hand on her shoulder; the sweater felt warm, the wool tickling his palm. "Swell. You ever think about going into acting?"

  "Not since my high school's production of Hamlet. You think they'll raid the place?"

  "They'll raid it. Whether it'll still be operating when they get there, that is the question."

  "I got a hunch it won't be operating."

  "I got a hunch you're right. But why do you say that, Ophelia?"