THE DARK CITY (Eliot Ness)

by Max Allan Collins

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, Vehovic 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?"

  She sighed. "Well, when I told the desk cop that my husband lost all his money at this place on West Twenty-fifth, he said, 'Oh—you must mean that bookie joint just down the street.' "

  She smiled and shrugged and went back into the outer office.

  Then Ness used the phone and left word at the Hollenden for Nate Heller to check in with him. He had a special job for his private-detective friend. When, soon after, Flynt got back with some papers from Cullitan's office, Ness didn't mention Vehovic, or the raid that should now be under way in the Eighth Precinct.

  CHAPTER 18

  On the following Tuesday, mid-afternoon, Ness, looking like a successful young banker in his gray vested suit with black and white tie, sat at the counter of Clark's Restaurant on East Ninth, drinking black coffee and waiting for Nate Heller, who was ten minutes late.

  Ness was reflecting on Friday's raid by the men of the Eighth Precinct on the bookie joint at West Twenty-fifth Street, a raid which had proved just as fruitless as the one the previous Wednesday.

  He had again instructed Gwen to call the desk at the Eighth Precinct, posing as the W.P.A. worker's wife whose husband was gambling away his meager paycheck, threatening to go straight to the safety director's office if the joint wasn't shuttered "this very minute."

  As had been the case with Wednesday's raid, however, it had taken a little over an hour for the boys from the Eighth Precinct to hit the bookie joint "just down the street," by which time all gambling operations had—gee, what do you know?—ceased.

  The difference tonight was that a handful of Ness' undercover men were on the scene as the raid was about to get under way. One of them was a McGrath Agency man, recommended by Heller. The others were actually Cleveland cops.

  Ness had picked five of twenty-one rookie patrolmen he'd recently sworn in, and sent them to the West Twenty-fifth Street joint to play the ponies at the city's expense. They had witnessed the raid, or, more importantly, what had gone before: warning lights had flashed and the patrons were given an opportunity to exit, while the gambling equipment was quickly stored away.

  The manager had told the patrons that they could wait downstairs in the cafe, if they liked; it shouldn't take more than an hour to get the place up and running again, once the cops had stopped by, seen the empty room, and headed back to the precinct house. And, according to the undercover men, it hadn't. The place was soon in full swing again.

  This had been reported to Ness by one of his rookies, whose frustration and disgust made Ness feel very good.

  Heller arrived at the restaurant sixteen minutes late. He hung his topcoat next to Ness' on the metal tree just inside the door, then sat on a stool to Ness' right, took off his hat, and put it on the counter. His thick reddish-brown hair needed cutting. He said, "Sorry I'm late. I just can't get the hang of these goddamn Cleveland streets."

  Ness grunted. "I know what you mean."

  The counter waitress, a slim, rather plain girl whose make-up made her nearly pretty, smoothed her apron and tried out her smile on Heller; he gave her one back, briefly, absently, not noting her look of disappointment as she filled him a cup of coffee.

  Heller was still bitching about the Cleveland streets. "It's like navigating the spokes of a big, busted wheel. Every time I turn around, I'm facing one of those flatiron type buildings."

  "I'm not used to it either. Probably never will be. What didn't you want to tell me over the phone?"

  "Hey, when you spend your time listening in on other people's phone conversations, you're careful about what you say on the line yourself."

  Heller had been tapping the Eighth Precinct's phones since last Wednesday.

  "Understood," said Ness. "We already know the warning call to the bookie joint came direct from the desk sergeant. That's incriminating enough, isn't it?"

  Heller shook his head, smiling. "Nope. I got better. Today I heard Tommy Fink himself chewing out somebody's ass."

  The councilman's brother didn't like getting raided, apparently.

  "Whose ass would that be?"

  "None other than Captain Timothy Lineham. The precinct commander."

  "Do tell," Ness said, angry but pleased, pounding a fist on the counter. His coffee cup jumped and spilled a bit.

  Heller seemed faintly amused. "Fink was extremely pissed off about these raids, two comin' so close together. 'What am I payin' good money for?' he says. He said if Lineham couldn't do his job, maybe somebody else would be commanding the Eighth before long; he was 'takin' his beef to Lineham's boss. Who would that be? This 'outside chief you been talking about?"

  "Probably. No name mentioned there, I suppose?"

  "No, that was pretty vague. Still, it was some conversation. Too bad you can't use this
stuff in court."

  "We'll hang Lineham by his balls with this, admissible evidence or not."

  Heller put a hand on Ness' shoulder. "Don't let it get you down. A little honest graft never hurt anybody."

  "Then why did you quit the force back in Chicago?"

  "A weak moment. By the way, I poked around that West Side neighborhood over the weekend, like you asked. From what I hear, that West Twenty-fifth Street joint— which everybody seems to refer to as Tommy Fink's' —has been running almost continuously for at least ten years."

  Ness laughed humorlessly. "Why not? Lineham's been commanding the Eighth that whole time. He's been a cop for twenty-six years."

  "He must be a wealthy man by now."

  Ness looked at his watch. "Do you have to check back with your operatives?"

  "No, not for a while. They're big boys."

  "Then go take a load off your feet at the Hollenden. I'll call you sometime in the next hour or two."

  "What's up?"

  "I'm going to raid that joint myself, and I want to take a few trusted men with me. You're one of them."

  "Trusted? Me? Gee, I haven't been so excited since I ran across a Melvin Purvis badge in my Post Toasties."

  "Why don't you bring that badge along? It's worth at least as much as the Cleveland variety. And your gun."

  "Bullets too?"

  "Why not? Live a little."

  Ness reached for the check, but Heller stopped him.

  "Let me," he said. "I'm on an expense account."

  Ness laughed shortly, shook his head, and headed for the pay phone on the back wall. He rang Chief Matowitz at the Central Police Station and filled him in about Lineham.

  "What do you suggest we do about the bastard?" Matowitz said.

  "Call him up right now. Tell him to get over to your office straight away. Don't tell him why."

  "Then what?"

  "Have a resignation written and ready for him to sign."

  "We'll need a lawyer to do that."

  "You're a lawyer."

  There was a pause, as if that fact had slipped Matowitz's mind.

  Then he said, "I'll get right on it. Are you coming over for this?"

  "I wouldn't miss it."

  Ness phoned the Plain Dealer and happened to catch Sam Wild in. He filled him in and Wild promised to stay at his desk till Ness phoned back.

  Then Ness walked quickly through the white-tiled restaurant, (Heller was having another cup of coffee and chatting with the waitress, apparently trying to decide whether she was pretty or plain,) and stopped to pluck his topcoat and fedora off the metal tree. He went out the door onto the cold Cleveland street and turned left toward City Hall, where his city sedan waited in the parking lot.

  When he arrived at Matowitz's first-floor office at the Central Police Station, he found the chief once again at the birdcage in the corner, feeding his parakeet bread crumbs.

  "You're going to fatten that bird up," Ness said, shutting the door, "till it's just a round yellow ball with legs."

  "I know," Matowitz admitted, with an embarrassed little smile. The blue eyes behind the wire frames showed worry. "When I get nervous, either I eat, or the bird eats. Better him than me."

  "Any sign of Lineham?"

  "No. But I told him to come right over. It should be any minute." Matowitz smoothed his blue uniform and straightened his lighter-blue hat. Then he moved to his desk, which was filled with paperwork, neatly arranged, and in the midst of it all was the resignation. Matowitz handed it to Ness, who read it.

  "Simple, to the point, and very legal," Ness said admiringly, handing it back.

  Matowitz laughed nervously, pressing the sheet of paper flat on his desk before him, like a placemat. "Sometimes I wonder why I bothered taking the bar. What does the law have to do with a job like mine?"

  "Too bad you aren't a judge," Ness said, pacing. Wishing Lineham would show.

  "We could use somebody on the bench," Matowitz said, nodding, "who'd give out something besides suspended sentences and slap-on-the-wrist fines."

  Ness agreed, then stopped pacing and found himself a chair. He figured he better sit down or he'd start feeding the parakeet himself.

  Matowitz, a Slovak after all, was inquiring about the status of the cemetery investigation when the pebbled glass of the office door shook. It wasn't an earthquake; somebody was on the other side, knocking.

  "I don't think that's my secretary," Matowitz said to Ness, lifting his eyebrows. Then in a booming voice he said, "Come in, Captain."

  The door flew open in a show of confidence and defiance that was undercut entirely when Lineham stumbled in. He was a big man, and his blue topcoat was open to reveal his rumpled uniform, his loose tie, and several buttons open over a protruding belly, revealing the red of longjohns. His cap was in his hand, and he held it as if he were about to throw it. He was nearly bald, with white hair at his temples and thick black eyebrows over sleepy, beady black eyes. His nose was vein-shot, his lips petulant, and only the firm jaw reminded you that this fleshy face had once been roughly handsome.

  Ness stood.

  Lineham stumbled forward. He reeked of alcohol. It shimmered off him, like heat over asphalt.

  Ness said, "Lineham, you smell like a goddamn brewery."

  "Are you sayin' I'm drunk?" Lineham said. His voice was a pleasing baritone, his enunciation exaggeratedly precise.

  "I'm saying you're drunk. I'm also saying you're suspended from duty."

  He waved his arms. "Let's get a doctor in here. Let's go to some hospital and see if I'm drunk or not. I can't be drunk. It ain't even dark."

  "It's been dark all winter, Captain. Have you been drunk that long?"

  Lineham shambled past Ness and stood before Matowitz's desk, where he tossed his hat. "What do you say, Chief? I've known you for a long time . . . twenty-six years. Twenty-six years on the force together."

  Matowitz, his expression grave, pushed the resignation on the desk toward Lineham.

  Lineham leaned his hands on the desk and read the sheet without picking it up.

  Then he moved away from the desk, and almost lost his balance in the process. "Make up your minds, gennle-men," he said, his enunciation finally slipping away from him. "Am I suspended, or fired?"

  "No one's firing you," Ness said. "You're suspended for intoxication on duty. Meanwhile, charges against you will be drawn up."

  "Charges? What on?"

  "Ask Tommy Fink," Ness said.

  Lineham's face turned pale and even more slack. "You ain't gonna put no charges together."

  "I hear your sons work summers at Bainbridge—Tommy Fink's dog track."

  Lineham stumbled around; he nearly knocked the birdcage over. He was ranting, raving. "It's unfair, it ain't just, to question my conduct as a police officer 'cause three of my kids happen to work at a dog track."

  "You can have your day in court, if you want."

  "They got the jobs themselves, they're helping pay their way through school!"

  "Commendable."

  "I ain't resigning."

  "That's up to you. Your pension's a hundred and forty dollars a month. Think it over."

  "You little pipsqueak."

  Ness put his hand out. "Your badge and your gun."

  Lineham managed to form his rubber lips into a sneer, and, with some difficulty, he managed to unpin his badge from his shirt and hand it to Ness.

  "Cap, too," Ness said.

  Lineham swallowed and took his cap from Matowitz's desk and unpinned the badge and handed it to Ness.

  "Gun," Ness said.

  Lineham unholstered his revolver, looking at Ness as though considering using it on him. But he handed it, butt first, to the safety director.

  "Thank you," Ness said. "Now go home—in a cab."

  Lineham glared at Matowitz. "I expected better of you," he said.

  "Look who's talking," Matowitz said.

  Ness pointed at Lineham. "Don't go back to your precinct. Stay away from
there, or you'll get hauled down here and tossed in the lock-up upstairs."

  Lineham tried to give Ness a look to kill, but it was really kind of pitiful. He shuffled out, moving side to side as much as forward. He didn't slam the door. He didn't even shut it. Ness did.

  Matowitz sighed heavily, rising from his desk. He looked at the flowers lining his frosty windowsill. He touched them, gently, as if he were petting animals.

  "We were on mounted patrol together," he said.

  Ness said, "He's a bent cop."

  "I know." Matowitz turned to Ness. "You know, bad eggs like Lineham weren't always bad. They didn't make the system. They just woke up and found themselves in it. Sink or swim. They swam."

  "They're about to sink," Ness said, and turned to go.

  "Where are you off to?" Matowitz said.

  "To show the West Side what a raid is all about," Ness said. He smiled and nodded at Matowitz, who smiled sadly back, shaking his head, patting a nearby flower.

  Then Ness went up to the Detective Bureau to round up some men he could trust. There had to be a few of those in this goddamn building.

  CHAPTER 19

  Tommy Fink's joint, as the neighborhood called it, was in the Paradise Hotel, a three-story brick building on the corner of West Twenty-fifth and Lorain Avenue. Rows of tall, arched windows dated the building to the late 1800s. The second-floor windows were for the most part dim, but those on the upper floor glowed yellow, their shades drawn. The lower floor, its windows made of glass blocks, was the Club Cafe, a name written in red neon over the front entry. Painted in white on the side of the building, and conveniently illuminated by a street lamp, were the words RESTAURANT and MEALS. The name of the hotel was written higher up, toward the top of the third floor, the word PARADISE in very large letters—a promise this building wasn't likely to keep. The Paradise was a small hotel—albeit not of the Rodgers and Hart variety—rather a men-only semi-residential hotel just a notch or two up from a flophouse. Its extra rooms went to farmers and truckers who stayed overnight whenever they did business at the nearby West Side Produce Market. The hotel was in the midst of a successful if vaguely run-down commercial strip. Autos lined West Twenty-fifth, a major thoroughfare, and the side streets too. Factories were nearby. That, and the produce market, made this a swell place for a bookie joint.