THE DARK CITY (Eliot Ness)

by Max Allan Collins

"Sure. I'll show you."

  "Hmmm?"

  "Upstairs," she said, and took him by the hand.

  CHAPTER 20

  It struck Ness as especially ironic that Cuyahoga, the river from which the county took its name, took as its name an Indian word for "crooked." The Indians surely had nothing metaphorical in mind for the river, which snaked crazily through the industrial valley Cleveland residents called the Flats. Steel mills and factories and warehouses sprawled throughout this bottomland area; loading machinery lurked like prehistoric beasts turned to framework iron, lording it over a flat prospering wasteland of decaying docks, iron-ore hills, industrial debris, and railroad tracks. Flames licked the gray sky and clouds of smoke mingled with it, a study in progress and its price. The skeletal steel structures of the various bridges spanning the valley cast shadows upon the land, like those of the Depression itself, which had cut into but hardly halted the activity of the industrial Flats. During the day, the Flats had a solemn, scarred beauty, the makings of a prize-winning black-and-white photograph. But to Ness, day or night, the Flats remained a mystery. To a Chicago boy, raised in a city where the lakefront was sacred, where lakefront parks and 'recreation and clean beaches thronged with people at play, not at work, this oily, yellow river that flowed out of Lake Erie, winding through a landscape dominated by machines, was a puzzle. Something in the back of his mind nibbled at him, reminded him, that the men helping him, the angels lining his slush fund, were the same ones who helped turn this valley into a pockmarked, profitable hellhole.

  At night, to Ness, the Flats was an otherworldly place, a world of darkness cut only by an occasional streetlamp or the muted glow of a run-down waterfront bar and the blush on the cheeks of the low-hanging clouds, projected there by the open-hearth furnaces of steel mills. Looking toward the Cleveland skyline, all that could be made out was the lighthouse that was Terminal Tower. You could, Ness reflected, wander into the Flats at night and never come out. It was the perfect place to be set up for a rubout.

  Which was much on his mind this Thursday night, because Ness, angling on foot down a steep cinder road into the Flats, was here to meet somebody. A Cleveland cop who'd insisted on his coming alone.

  He left the city sedan half a block away and now stood by the mesh fence which separated him from a vast graveyard of taxi cabs. These cabs were here for storage and repair, the Depression having cut down the demand on the streets. Several streetlamps made this location slightly less dark—slightly—than most others in the Flats. Looming nearby, a vast, black abstract shape against the strangely rosy sky, was the massive Detroit-Superior High Level Bridge, the major east-west span across the valley, a double-decked structure of steel and reinforced concrete with a lower deck for streetcars, their occasional screech cutting the night like fingernails on God's blackboard.

  He checked his watch. He was right on time—ten o'clock. He kept his right hand in his topcoat pocket, on his revolver. He kept his back to the wire fence, hoping if anyone were waiting for him here, with something other than a meeting in mind, that they weren't parked inside the lot with the taxi cabs. A streetcar screeched again, sparks of electricity flicking through the darkness, reminding him of the El back in Chicago. Only this was one hell of an El.

  Several more minutes passed. Ness seldom felt nervous; tonight he did. He chewed his left thumbnail. He tugged at the brim of his hat. It was cold down here, by the river, colder than anywhere else in the city. And darker.

  Another screech of a streetcar split the night, but when it faded, Ness could hear the sound of footsteps on the cinder pathway.

  The man was young, almost a boy, baby-faced, pale, in a brown topcoat and brown hat. Both his hands were in his pockets. Ness kept his right hand in his.

  The stranger withdrew one hand from his overcoat pocket; the hand was empty. He used it to remove his hat. His hair was dark brown and slicked back. He seemed nervous. His breath was smoking, as if his insides were on fire.

  "Thanks for meeting me here, Mr. Ness."

  "You're Curry?"

  "Yes, sir, I am."

  "When I found the note under my windshield wiper," Ness said, keeping his hand and gun in his pocket, "I didn't know whether to believe it."

  Curry shook his head side to side, lifted his shoulders, put them down. "I didn't know what else to do. I knew I shouldn't call you. You never know who's listening."

  "You're right on that score."

  "I didn't think I should come to your office. I didn't know what to do. So I left that note on your car."

  "We've never met. How do I know you're Curry?"

  "You have a gun in your hand, don't you, sir? In that coat pocket, I mean."

  "If you're not Curry, you'll find out soon enough."

  Curry—if he was Curry—swallowed, and smiled nervously. "Let me just open my coat."

  He held it open, like a pervert in the park showing a woman his prize possession. But Curry's prize possession was a police officer's uniform.

  "You can close your coat," Ness said. "That uniform doesn't necessarily make you a cop, and, even if it did, a lot of cops in Cleveland would like to see me dead."

  "Can I get out my wallet and show you my i.d.?"

  "Slowly."

  He reached into his topcoat pocket and withdrew a wallet, flipping it open and handing it to Ness. His police i.d. card and photo were there. This was Curry, all right.

  "You're the man Captain Cooper selected to go undercover," Ness said.

  Curry sighed, and smiled, in relief. "I was afraid maybe the captain hadn't given you my name."

  "He did. I insisted that he do so. You were a detective?"

  He nodded. "Youngest one on the force. I was working traffic—I pulled some people out of a burning car and got promoted."

  "You didn't buy your promotion."

  "No, sir. My family doesn't have that kind of money."

  "And you allowed yourself to be put back down to uniform for this undercover assignment."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Which was?"

  "Well, you know that, sir."

  "The question is, do you?"

  Curry nodded in understanding. His teeth were chattering, possibly from the cold, possibly not. "Captain Cooper sent me to the Fourteenth Precinct. He said that it, and the Fifteenth, were thought to be trouble spots."

  Ness nodded. "Gambling and prostitution running wide open. Right."

  "Right. I was supposed to keep an eye out for things like that. Also, I was supposed to keep an eye out for any other officers taking, well, graft."

  "Anything else?"

  He shrugged. "The captain said you suspected a network of crooked cops working together. If I had the chance to get in on that, I should do it."

  "Infiltrate, you mean."

  "Exactly."

  "And?"

  He sighed heavily and scuffed the cinders with his right shoe. "That's the problem. It's the cleanest precinct I ever saw. I haven't seen anybody so much as accept an apple from a fruit peddler."

  "You've seen nothing at all suspicious?"

  "I didn't say that, I said I haven't seen any graft. But there's this bookie joint called the Black Swan Club."

  Ness grunted.

  "You've heard of it?" Curry said.

  "Yes. From Councilman Vehovic. You've heard of him?"

  Curry smiled. "The nut with the bicycle and the boater?"

  "That's him. Tell me about the Black Swan Club."

  The kid seemed more at ease now; he glanced toward the sea of cabs through the Crosshatch of fence in the shadow of the bridge. "Well, we've had a couple calls to raid it. And we have raided it. It's on Ivanhoe Road, behind this little beer parlor. Anyway, there's never been any evidence of gambling. Just some guys sitting around drinking beer. But I stopped in off duty once, and it was hoppin'. I got out of there quick, though."

  "Why?"

  "I saw somebody I knew."

  "Who?"

  "You're not going to believe me."
r />   "Try me."

  Curry sighed. "I saw the captain."

  "Of the Fourteenth Precinct, you mean?"

  "No."

  Streetcar screech; sparks in the night.

  "Cooper," the young cop said. "Captain Cooper."

  It should have felt like a body blow, but as the boy had been talking, the inevitable had slowly dawned on Ness.

  "No surprise, really," Ness said, trying to keep the disappointment out of his voice.

  "Sir?"

  "No one but Cooper and myself knew what your assignment was. Only Cooper or I could have spread the word at the Fourteenth to keep the lid on, where you were concerned."

  "They only let me see what they wanted me to see."

  "Oh, yes."

  "That's why I came to you. I obviously couldn't go to Captain Cooper. And I think the precinct captain's in on it, too."

  "Why?"

  "He's been too nice to me. Real fatherly. Really going out of his way to make sure I was 'fitting in.' "

  "So?"

  "When did you ever hear of a precinct captain behaving like that?"

  "Never," Ness admitted.

  "I had to come to you."

  "I'm glad you did."

  "I'm afraid, Mr. Ness. If Captain Cooper knew I was talking to you—if he's followed me or anything—I could be in big trouble."

  "You could be dead. A lot's at stake, here."

  "What should I do?"

  "Stay on the job. Let me give you a number no one has."

  Ness took a notebook out of his inside coat pocket and scribbled the boathouse number.

  "Use a pay phone," Ness said. "Call late at night."

  "Will anyone else be there?"

  That was a point.

  "If a woman answers," Ness said, "don't give your name. If I'm not there, just say you'll call back later."

  Curry nodded.

  "You need a lift to your car?" Ness asked.

  "No. It's not far. I'll walk. Thanks, Mr. Ness."

  Curry extended his hand and Ness shook it.

  "Thank you, Detective Curry."

  "I'm still a detective, then?"

  "Unless one of us gets killed in the very near future," Ness said, "yes, you are."

  Curry rolled his eyes, grinned quickly, and walked off into the darkness, footsteps stirring up cinders.

  Ness stood there and soon felt a hand on his shoulder.

  He whipped his revolver out of his pocket and whirled.

  "Easy!" Wild said. "Did you forget I was here?"

  Ness sighed heavily, put his gun back in his topcoat pocket and said, "I didn't think you'd come up on me so soon after he left."

  "I wasn't ten feet away."

  "Did you hear it?"

  "Every word. It was worth riding on the floor in the back seat of that goddamn Ford of yours."

  "Of the city's. You want to give me that gun back?"

  Wild patted his own topcoat pocket. "I don't think so. I'll keep this little baby till we're out of the Flats, at least."

  "You can't use any of what you heard. Not yet."

  "I know that. Anyway, to me, it's good news."

  "Why?"

  "You remember asking what was eating me, earlier tonight?"

  "I have a vague recollection."

  Wild gave a wag of his head and said, "I'll tell you in the car. Let's get out of this place. Gives me the goddamn creeps, down here."

  They walked to the car. Wild, about to open the door, one foot on the running board, said, "Okay if I ride in the front seat this time?"

  "Do I really have a choice?" Ness said, getting behind the wheel as Wild climbed in.

  Then the reporter reached out and touched Ness' arm, stopped him from turning the key. "Maybe we better talk now. Here."

  Ness smiled on one side of his face. "Think your revelations will be so startling as to make me run into a lamp post?"

  "No. But just sit here a minute. Let me tell you."

  "Okay."

  "I was looking for a way to get into this with you, especially since it's kind of ... well, it's kind of thin, I got to admit it's kind of thin. But after what that undercover guy said, it's put some weight on. And I guess you've already had the safe dropped on you. It ain't gonna hurt if I let the piano down, now."

  "What the hell are you talking about?"

  "It's the cemetery racket."

  "What about it?"

  "I been working hand-in-hand with Cullitan and his eager-beaver young lawyers, you know. I got access to just about everything they're looking at."

  "Right."

  "They been going over the books of the various cemetery companies, so they can track down who the cemeteries laid off their lots to cheap for obvious resale. That way Cullitan hopes to track down who's behind the sales organizations that've been bilking these old immigrants."

  "You want to tell me something I don't know now?"

  Wild ignored that. "The sales organizations themselves have folded up. Cullitan figures some of the salesmen and officials have taken a run-out powder, figures some others are just lyin' low until the grand jury either shits or gets off the pot."

  Ness nodded. "Right. It hasn't even been shown that what the salesmen did was illegal yet. All of the buyers signed contracts for what they were buying, after all. So?"

  "So I was going through the books and found one of the major real estate holders is one S.J. Corepo."

  "What kind of name is that?"

  "A phony-as-hell name, I'd say."

  "Any Corepos in the phone book?"

  "Nope. Not a one. You want to hear what I think?"

  "That's what I'm waiting for."

  "Don't laugh. I think it's an anagram."

  Ness didn't laugh; instead, he thought for a second, and said, flatly, "Cooper."

  Wild shrugged. "Cooper."

  Ness sighed, and said, "Pretty common name to bother disguising," knowing he was reaching for straws.

  "Cooper's initials are J.S.," Wild said, holding his palm out like he was showing his winning hand. "S. J. Corepo. It's all there, brother."

  "How much has 'Corepo' invested in cemetery lots?"

  "Over one hundred grand."

  "Christ, that's more than Cooper's made in his career."

  "The guy must really know how to watch the nickels and dimes, know what I mean?"

  Ness pounded the side of the steering wheel with a fist. "Shit."

  Not far away, a streetcar on the bridge screeched. It was like a cry of pain.

  Wild gestured with both hands, apologetic. "I been wanting to run this past you, but I couldn't quite get it out. Then I heard what Curry said, and ..."

  "It would explain some things." Ness pushed his hat back on his head, eyes narrowing.

  "Such as?"

  "Such as why Mo Horvitz was willing to give me the name of the 'outside chief,' if I'd play along."

  Wild bent his head, as if not believing what he'd heard. "You're saying Cooper's the 'outside chief?"

  "It makes sense. I was figuring the top man was one of two precinct captains ..."

  "From the Fourteenth or Fifteenth, right."

  "But a Detective Bureau guy like Cooper floats from precinct to precinct. He can make the rounds easier. And my promoting him to bureau chief put him in an even better spot to do that." Ness laughed without humor. "As you once pointed out, he's 'popular with the men.' "

  "What does that have to do with Horvitz offering to give up the name of the 'outside chief?"

  "Plenty. What's been the most surprising thing about this cemetery scam?"

  "That the marks would bite in the first place."

  "No, in times like these, that's no surprise. What's surprising is that the Mayfield Road mob hasn't turned up in it. They're nowhere to be seen."

  Wild nodded slowly. "And they always have a piece of the action in this burg. Look at their policy-racket takeover."

  "Exactly. And in every neighborhood where the cemetery scam's been run, cops have vouched
for the 'G-men' or the "bank presidents' or 'real estate men' who've come around."

  "What are you saying? That this whole scam is cops?"

  "Damn near. I'd guess that Cooper's the major investor— 'Corepo' is probably only one of the phony names he owns land under. And you can bet Corepo and the rest of Cooper's names have well-stuffed bank accounts in town and out. And other cops have money in the racket, that seems a safe bet. Safer than investing in cemetery lots, anyway. The salesmen and the sales organization officials who ran the scam were most likely con artists from the outside. Whether the cops invited them in, or they came in and linked up with the cops, who can say. What's the difference, really?"

  "Then where does the Mayfield mob come in?"

  "That's just the point: no place. And you can bet they tried. But 'Chief Cooper told them to take a hike. He's that powerful now."

  Wild nodded, not slowly. "Powerful enough for Mo Horvitz to want to depose."

  "I think the 'department within the department' has gotten so powerful, under Cooper, that it's become virtually a rival mob. The cops are running their own rackets now. This cemetery scam may be only one of many."

  "Christ." Wild swallowed thickly. "I think you may be right."

  Ness shrugged. "It's mostly supposition."

  "I bet we can find the facts to turn supposition into a jail sentence for Captain Cooper." Wild clapped his hands. "I can smell the headlines! Am I glad I teamed up with you!"

  Ness started the car. He made a U-turn and headed up out of the Flats.

  "We'll start with Cullitan," Ness said. "We'll have his boys dig into Captain Cooper's finances. We'll find out how a guy making thirty-five hundred a year can afford to sink a hundred grand into cemetery lots."

  "Think of what that hundred grand got turned into, when the lots got signed over to those marks at inflated value."

  Ness guided the Ford onto Huron.

  "It's within your grasp, Eliot."

  "What is?"

  "The big bust, the big collar that'll give you your safety department budget. You may be able to pull this thing off yet."

  Ness said nothing.

  Neither did Wild for a while.

  Then the reporter said, "I'm sorry."

  "Sorry?"

  "About it turning out to be Cooper. About Gwen, really."

  Ness said nothing. Behind them the Flats slipped into darkness, as the underbelly of the clouds glowed a peculiar faded red. Like blood, but diluted.