THE DARK CITY (Eliot Ness)

by Max Allan Collins

  The reporter shrugged. "Fair enough. When can I get a list of names and transfers?"

  "That goes out to all of the press at once. All I'm giving you is the basic story. Your 'scoop.' And the Cooper appointment is a little bonus for you."

  "Fair enough." Wild put his pencil and pad down. "You know, Ness, no offense, but you're really inviting a shit storm with all this."

  "I have a hat."

  "It better have a hell of a brim. Never mind your wholesale transfers of a hundred and twenty-some cops. Just those two cops you charged on intoxication will be enough to get your ass in a sling."

  Ness smiled mildly. "I was hired to clean up this town. I'm starting with the department. Let's just call it my Christmas present to the city."

  "Let's just hope somebody else's idea of a Christmas present isn't you in a ditch with a bow around ya."

  "It's been tried."

  "Yeah, and successfully."

  "Not with me it hasn't."

  "Oh, yeah. Right. I forgot. You're untouchable. Unkillable."

  "Don't be stupid."

  "Some advice, considering the source."

  "You're suggesting I'm reckless."

  Wild gestured with an open hand, and rolled his eyes. "I'm suggesting you're bucking civil service and public opinion, not to mention the politicians. One of those cops you dismissed is related by marriage to Councilman Fink, you know."

  "Do tell."

  "There'll be hearings. You'll have to defend yourself, like it was you who's on trial, Johnny-come-lately Ness, and not those longtime public-servant cops. It could be a real circus."

  "Maybe I should bring a whip."

  "Hell of a lot of good it'll do you on a high wire. Did you ever think about taking things a step at a time? You ever consider that firing and transferring and putting cops on probation right before Christmas is going to make you look more like Scrooge than J. Edgar Hoover?"

  "Hoover's no friend of mine."

  "And Scrooge is? Rome wasn't built in a day. It took longer than a day to fall, too. But, hey, do what you want—keep going a hundred miles an hour. It'll make great copy. But if you last longer than a couple of months, you'll be beatin' the odds."

  Ness smiled again, briefly, and said, "Did you ever stop to consider that a couple months is about all the time I have, anyway?"

  The skin around Wild's eyes tightened. "What do you mean?"

  "Think about it."

  Wild thought; said, "You want to go off the record for a minute?"

  "Okay."

  Wild slid his pad and pencil away from him on the table top. "This is all about money, isn't it? You have to come up with some phenomenal results before the council votes on the budget."

  Ness nodded.

  "So you're depending on the press to make you such a big deal that your budget requests can't be denied."

  Ness nodded again.

  "Then you got a funny idea of how to maintain good press relations," Wild said, with a wise-guy grin, touching the corner of his mouth where a little blood was caked.

  "I'm not going to apologize for that," Ness said. "If you can't keep your word with me, I'll do my business with Fritchey and Lawrence and the rest."

  "I'm not going to apologize either," Wild said. "But I won't make a sap out of you again. That much I promise. Look at it this way. You'll seem all the more a hero when you do start going out on real raids."

  "Which I will," Ness said. "But first I have some transfers to sign."

  Wild stood. "That's dangerous enough in itself. But if you really have to pull this off in a couple of months, you better find yourself some doors to kick down, in a hurry."

  "I can usually find those, Sam."

  "Maybe you'll get a couple for Christmas."

  And Wild went out, and Ness went back to work, neither man knowing that the Christmas present they were both hoping for wouldn't arrive until January tenth.

  TWO

  JANUARY 10-30, 1936

  CHAPTER 10

  Blizzards in late December had turned the dark city white. And on Friday, January 10, the sun was rumored to have been seen shining in Cleveland, briefly, in the morning. Some attributed that notion to light from blast furnaces in the steel mills. Others figured the radiance must just have been another winter fire, albeit a particularly ambitious one. Very young children, confronted with a glowing ball of light in the sky, may simply have failed to recognize it.

  For those who did, clouds soon rolled in from the west to make the point moot. Gray-and-white Cleveland settled in for another bleak day. As the afternoon faded into the subtle difference of evening, Assistant Prosecutor Charles Me Andrew, slight, barely thirty, stood in the cinders of the parking lot of the massive Harvard Club, backed up by two assistants and ten plainclothes "constables." The constables were really deputized private detectives from the McGrath Agency.

  The Harvard Club, a gambling casino run by Mayfield Road mob members, was just south of the city limits in the suburb of Newburgh Heights. That put it within the jurisdiction of County Prosecutor Cullitan, for whom McAndrew and the others were working, but outside the bailiwick of the Cleveland police.

  Truth be told, McAndrew well knew that steering clear of the Cleveland police was just fine with Prosecutor Cullitan. And it had been on the suggestion of the top cop in town, Safety Director Eliot Ness, that Cullitan had turned to private detectives.

  "It's the only way to avoid a tip-off," Ness had told Cullitan.

  The local Newburgh cops were out of the question for the same reason. And as for enlisting the aid of the county sheriff, well, that too was out of the question. Sheriff John L. "Honest John" Sultzman—that white-maned, folksy, self-styled friend of the people—had a strict hands-off position toward the law enforcement affairs of the communities within his county: "My home rule policy is a sacred instrument in the hands of the people, who love liberty and freedom and who love to govern themselves!" What this meant was the sheriff left up to others as much of the law enforcement in the county as he possibly could.

  Then there was the little matter of the sheriff’s son having been held overnight in the lockup at the Central Police Station in Cleveland proper just the day before yesterday. The kid was drunk and his car climbed the curb and tried to climb a tree as well. A passenger was injured and the driver was booked, sheriffs son or not.

  The previous administration would've helped the sheriff out on something like this. But Safety Director Ness was cracking down on traffic offenses, and didn't play politics (or anyway, that kind of politics) and so the kid went to jail.

  McAndrew was wishing Ness and Cullitan weren't such damn hard-noses. It'd be nice to have the sheriffs deputies behind him right now. He couldn't help but wonder, if any court cases came out of this, how it would look, using a bunch of private eyes as backup.

  I'm a lawyer, McAndrew thought, wincing at the cold, and at the thought of what was ahead of him, not a cop.

  He gave his men a tight smile and motioned for them to stay behind him in the drive of the parking lot, and he advanced up the porch steps of the barnlike building with the fancy, New Orleans-style facade that could not hide the structure's warehouse roots.

  He swallowed. He sighed. He stared at the massive wooden doorway before him, with its speakeasy slot. He knocked.

  The slot slid open and dark eyes with dark bushy brows and dark circles beneath filled the opening. At first blank, then bored, the eyes narrowed as they took McAndrew in, particularly the badge on his lapel.

  "Yeah?" The voice wasn't as menacing as the eyes, but it came in a close second.

  McAndrew held up his left gloved hand with the folded warrant.

  "Better open up," he said. "This is a raid."

  "Fuck you," the voice said, turning the first word into two-syllables, and the window slot slid shut with metallic force, like a soldier quickly cocking a carbine.

  McAndrew stood staring at the door a while. The door stared back.

  He turned to the do
zen men below and shrugged. Beyond them was a vast parking lot filled with cars. A lot of people were inside the club. Citizens breaking the law, certainly, but did they deserve getting caught in the midst of something ugly which McAndrew's instincts told him was how things would go, here.

  He was about to have his suspicions confirmed.

  As McAndrew stood on the edge of the porch, the door behind him swung open and revealed the burly human being who went with the eyes, his several hundred pounds squeezed into a tux. Now McAndrew knew why they called them "monkey suits" (assuming the monkey was an ape). The thug gave McAndrew a shove and sent him tumbling down the half dozen steps to land in a heap on his ass in the cinders.

  The deputized private cops and McAndrew's two assistants were momentarily stunned, but a few began moving forward, their hands digging deep in overcoat pockets for their pistols.

  But the plug-ugly at the top of the porch stairs produced an automatic from somewhere and pointed it at them. They froze like a bunch of kids in a bad Christmas pageant.

  "You got your job to do," the gorilla with the gun said, "and I got mine."

  McAndrew picked himself up. "I have a search and seizure warrant for this place."

  "You'll get your fuckin' heads shot off, you try comin' in here." He lifted the gun and waggled it, like a professor waving a pointer at his underachieving class. "Word to the wise."

  He lowered the gun but did not put it away as he walked casually back inside, slamming the door.

  One of the assistants, a guy even younger and more scared than McAndrew, approached. "What now?"

  "Hell, I don't know. Bust into the place? It's full of citizens. If there's more like that monkey inside, we'll have a shooting war on our hands."

  "Maybe we could wait for Cullitan to show."

  McAndrew shook his head, feeling helpless. "He isn't going to like that."

  "Why don't you ask to talk to the big boss? Instead of trying to reason with muscle?"

  McAndrew nodded. "Good idea." He glanced at the phalanx of men behind him, and said, "No guns out, gentlemen. But be able to fill your hands quickly."

  He went up the steps again.

  He raised his fist to knock, but the door swung open before he could.

  It shut just as quickly, and three men were standing there before him. McAndrew backed up rapidly.

  In the rear were two thugs in ill-fitting tuxes, each of whom had a Thompson submachine gun in his two hands. At the fore was a short, stocky man with a moon face and slicked black hair, who stood, arms folded, eyes hooded, cigarette dangling. He, too, wore a tuxedo, but he seemed at home in it. He was James "Shimmy" Patton, described in the warrant McAndrew held as "operator" of the Harvard Club.

  McAndrew never really got a good look at either of the men backing Patton up. All he could seem to see was the blue steel of the choppers. His stomach was churning.

  "What the hell is this?" Patton said. His voice was a surprisingly pleasant tenor, but this didn't take the edge off his words.

  "Exactly what it looks like, Mr. Patton. It's a raid."

  "You're not Cullitan."

  "I'm his assistant. I have a warrant. Each of my deputies has a copy."

  "Who gave it to you?"

  "That's none of your business."

  Patton was shaking with anger. "Well, why in hell wasn't I tipped off?"

  "We aren't here to squeeze you for protection money, Mr. Patton. We're here to shut you down."

  "The hell you will. If any of you try to stick your goddamn necks in that door, we'll mow you down with machine guns. As you can see, we've got 'em. And we'll use 'em."

  McAndrew patted the air with his hands. "We don't want any bloodshed. Look, this is developing into a state of siege. We can't get in, and you can't get out."

  "We don't want out."

  "I would imagine your patrons do. They must be starting to be aware of what's going on out here. They'll be getting nervous."

  "My patrons are my concern."

  "I don't want any bloodshed. I suggest a truce. I'll allow you half an hour to clear your patrons out before I start the raid."

  "The hell with that," Patton yelled, liquor on his breath. He poked a stubby finger in McAndrew's chest. "You aren't coming in here. If you do, you'll get killed!"

  Patton turned and one of his chopper-wielding body-guards opened the door for him and the three men slipped inside.

  McAndrew's assistant approached again. "Now what?"

  McAndrew sighed. "Wait for Cullitan. And hope to God his raid is going smoother than mine."

  *****

  It was. In the nearby suburb of Maple Heights, at Thomas Street and McCracken Road, Sam "Gameboy" Miller's Thomas Club was being well and truly raided by County Prosecutor Frank T. Cullitan himself.

  Cullitan was fifty-five years old, a big man with salt-and-pepper hair (mostly salt) and wire-framed glasses. Tonight he wore a dark topcoat with a dark tie showing, and a gray hat, the brim of which was not tucked down in front. His small chin jutted over a softer second one and his slightly bulbous nose softened his otherwise strong features. A quiet man who could turn into a powerhouse—just ask the seven murderers who'd gone to the chair, thanks in no small part to Cullitan's courtroom oratory—he was relishing this night of cops-and-robbers. He was glad Ness had prodded him into it.

  The prosecutor, two assistants, and the other ten private-eye "constables" had arrived at five P.M., the time set for the simultaneous raids on the Thomas and Harvard Clubs. Like the other raiding party across town, they had arrived in a moving van and several cars.

  Cullitan had inarched up to the front door of the Thomas Club, a big brick affair that lacked the pretentious facade of the Harvard Club, and hammered at the door with the heel of his fist.

  The speakeasy slot in the door slid back. Dark, alert eyes filled the space. "What do you want?" the voice that went with them said.

  "I'm Cullitan. The county prosecutor."

  "You can't come in without a membership card."

  Cullitan waved his warrant in front of the eyes in the slot. "Here's my membership card. It's called a warrant for search and seizure."

  "What is this, a raid?"

  "Exactly right. Open the door and I'll give you your cigar."

  The window slid shut.

  The door did not open.

  Cullitan stepped back, glanced at his men huddled nearby, shrugged, and turned to face the door, folding his arms, waiting for something to happen.

  Nothing did. Behind him, Cullitan heard muttering. The boys were chomping at the bit. He was heartened by the enthusiasm these hired hands were showing, but frustrated that he couldn't give them any more leadership than to just stand here and wait to see if his warrant would be honored.

  Five minutes crawled by and Cullitan's Irish complexion began turning red.

  "Are we the law or not?" somebody behind him said.

  "The hell with it," Cullitan muttered, and pointed to a wooden bench near the door. "Would any of you men like to sit down and rest? Or would you prefer to use this little item as a battering ram?"

  Several grinning volunteers stepped forward, hoisted the bench and began to slam it into the closed door, splinters and chips of wood flying. The door was solid and didn't give easily, but the men kept at it, with a steady jungle-drum rhythm that, Cullitan thought with a smile, must be playing hell on the nerves of the folks within.

  Finally a voice from inside made itself heard above the drumming of the battering ram: "Okay, okay, okay!"

  The eager private cops backed off and the door cracked open, revealing the pasty wedge-shaped face that went with the eyes seen in the speakeasy slot.

  The guy said, "I'm tryin' to find somebody to talk to you. You'll just have to wait a little."

  "Like hell," one of the boys said, and they dropped the bench with a thud. One of them yanked the door open, another pushed the lookout out of the way, and the party of deputized private cops went in, followed quietly by a smiling Cull
itan and two assistants.

  The front part of the club was a dimly lit bar, but in back was a big, mostly undecorated room where a crowd of five hundred or more well-dressed, upper-class patrons, mostly couples, stood at numerous tables playing blackjack, roulette, chuck-a-luck, and craps. Slot machines lined one wall and were doing good business.

  Cullitan and his crew went unnoticed at first, as they spread themselves out around the large room, where the action was so hot and heavy that gamblers were banked three and four deep around the tables.

  The gambling din was considerable, but Cullitan was a trial lawyer and he could be heard when he wanted to be. He wanted to be. "Ladies and gentlemen, this is a raid!"

  A woman screamed, but Cullitan cut off a general panic, saying "We'll be holding no one but employees and operators. Those of you who are patrons are free to go. Move out slowly and quietly."

  A raider was posted at each exit to make sure no employee slipped by.

  At the gambling tables, Cullitan and his men found stacks of silver dollars, used for chips, which were swept by the raiders into two large sacks. A dozen payoff windows lined one wall. On one side of them a door led to the office, a massive room behind the payoff windows, its back wall an immense chart posting racing results. Above the windows was a sign listing seven locations in Cleveland where customers could catch a free limo to the club, every fifteen minutes from noon to six P.M., seven days a week, encouraging daylight-hour patronage of the club.

  Just inside the office, Cullitan found a telegraph switch panel with a key and a resonator, which he ripped out. A loudspeaker system which announced race results was removed as well. So were various casino supplies—sealed decks of playing cards being the staple—and an arsenal including sawed-off shotguns, revolvers, blackjacks, sheathed knives, and a tear gas gun. And six trays of silver dollars, approximately a thousand dollars' worth, and over fifty thousand in paper money.

  "Gameboy Miller isn't here," one of Cullitan's assistants announced, coining in from the gaming room where the casino's staff was being rounded up. "None of the big wheels are here. All we drew is working stiffs."