The dark city en-1

by Max Allan Collins

  Most of the action was at the Hollenden, on Superior Avenue near Public Square, and not just this evening. The fourteen-story, red brick Victorian structure, all towers and bay windows, had been built in 1885 by the owner of the Plain Dealer. It was the hub of Cleveland's downtown social life, only a stone's throw from City Hall and diagonally across from the Plain Dealer building. The Hollenden drew newspapermen, politicians, lawyers, and, it was said, the higher-ups of the so-called Cleveland Syndicate. Whether any of the latter were among the three thousand or so people now crammed into the hotel's ballroom was anybody's guess.

  Eliot Ness, who of late had been frequenting the hotel's taproom, the Vogue Room, had never seen a gangster-or reputed gangster-in the Hollenden, but the rumors persisted.

  But tonight, gangsters weren't much on his mind. Nor had he put on this tux because he felt like dancing. He had thought about calling Eva, to take her up on her offer to attend social functions with him, but couldn't quite bring himself to pick up the phone.

  At first he had hoped time would heal their marital wound. As the days passed into weeks, he began to enjoy the solitude. It only occasionally felt like loneliness to him. He missed her; he did miss her. And he entertained thoughts, particularly at night alone in the double bed, of making it up to her somehow. Putting the marriage back together.

  But he didn't know how to change the way he lived, or more specifically, the way he worked. Or perhaps it wasn't that he didn't know how to; he didn't want to. He wasn't a homebody, that wasn't his style. Perhaps Evie would miss him, too, and come back, willing to accept him on his own terms.

  Perhaps when these crucial months of his new job were past, when the Mayor's ticking clock had run out, he could find a way to fit her back into his life.

  Had he invited her along tonight, he'd have been distracted from the important work there was to be done. He was fund-raising, and it wasn't for crippled children.

  He needed that Secret Six type of slush fund desperately. Without the support of a trustworthy investigative staff, his task was hopeless. Maybe it was hopeless even with such a staff, but at least he could give it the old college try.

  It was now almost midnight and Ness' arm hurt from shaking hands and his face hurt from smiling. The crowd was mostly "the people," which is to say middle-class working folks dressed up in their Sunday best, enjoying a rare one-dollar night in the Hollenden's elegant Crystal Room, basking momentarily in the elegance of mirrored walls and shimmering crystal chandeliers and dim lighting that made ordinary people look like movie stars. Never mind that in the middle of all this formal elegance, wall-to-wall jitterbuggers were trucking to Ben Bernie's Boys playing "The Music Went Round and Round."

  But amidst such common folks were bigwigs of every stripe. Ness had smiled and shaken hands with his potential adversaries among the local labor leaders, a small army of whom were in attendance. Lieutenant Governor Mosier was there. So were Board of Education members, and a slew of Ohio legislators, headed by Senator Metzenbaum. Smiles to all, handshakes all 'round, and possibly a warm, even witty remark or two.

  It was hard work. Cold as it was outside, Ness was sweating in here, and not just because the place was packed.

  Mayor Burton, who was threading through the crowd with his wife on his arm, found Ness and said, perhaps for the twelfth time, "There's someone you must meet."

  So Ness went over to smile and shake the hand of James McGinty, vice president of the Cleveland Railway Company. He'd already done the same with several chairmen of the board and executives from National City Bank, Cleveland Trust, Cleveland United National, White Motor Company, Cleveland Builder's Supply, Industrial Rayon Company, Stouffer's Restaurants, Corrigan-McKinney Steel, and the Hollenden Hotel itself.

  "You're doing a great job," McGinty said. Ness thanked him, but couldn't find anything warm-let alone witty-to say. Nonetheless he stood making small talk with McGinty and his wife, nearly yelling to get his voice heard over the orchestra.

  Burton had slipped away, leaving Ness to his own devices. This kind of glad-handing bullshit was hard for Ness. He enjoyed parties and people, and in small groups could get along with just about anybody. But in a crowded, forced situation like this, he felt the world closing in on him.

  At twelve-thirty he managed to find his way to the men's room. He'd had a lot of champagne tonight. He was standing at the stall relieving himself, when he looked over and saw with some anxiety that the man standing next to him was Mayor Burton, which was not a relief.

  "Not in here," Ness said.

  Burton, similarly occupied, glanced over at Ness, not understanding.

  "There's nobody in here," Ness said, "that I have to meet."

  Burton laughed, doing the little dance that follows male urination, and zipped up. "This is important work you're doing tonight. And you've done a good job."

  Ness stayed at it; he'd had a lot of champagne.

  "I'm not so sure. I'm lousy at politics."

  Burton frowned. "Don't think of this as politics. I don't. Not exactly."

  The men stood at sinks washing their hands.

  Burton said, "The men you've met tonight are impressed with you. And you know what that means."

  Ness smiled. "I'll have my undercover investigators."

  "Right. That is, the slush fund to pay them."

  Ness stopped smiling. "I don't want to be beholden to these people."

  The colored restroom attendant handed them warm towels and they dried their hands.

  "You're thinking about those labor leaders you met tonight," Burton said.

  "That's right. They have a right to expect me to be unbiased. They have a right to look uneasily upon a safety director who's in the pocket of business."

  Ness and Burton handed their towels back to the attendant, and the mayor took care of the twenty-five-cent tip. The two men stood by an unoccupied shoeshine stand within the restroom and talked. Burton smoked one of his trademark Havanas.

  "Your fears are understandable," Burton said, "but I wouldn't worry about being in anybody's pocket. We're not talking about businesses looking for special treatment. We're talking about businesses that want their city cleaned up. They want to be protected from shakedowns by crooked unions, sure. You don't, object to that, surely?"

  Ness shook his head. "No. No, I don't object to any of it. Just as long as I have a free hand."

  "They want their city cleaned up. What's wrong with that?"

  "Nothing."

  "The Expo is ready for launching. They don't want Cleveland to be some nightmare city nobody wants to come spend money in."

  The mayor was referring to the Great Lakes Exposition set for the coming summer and fall. Local business had underwritten the million-dollar cost of the World's Fair-type expo.

  "Watch your step, Your Honor," Ness said. "They tried the same sort of 'clean-up' in Chicago a couple of years ago, and Mayor Cermak got killed for it."

  Burton seemed puzzled by the remark. "I thought Cermak was killed by some deranged assassin. And if the madman had been a better shot, we wouldn't be here tonight celebrating the President's birthday."

  "According to inside sources," Ness said, "including a friend of mine, Roosevelt wasn't the target of the hit. Cermak was."

  "What do you mean, 'hit'?"

  "He was assassinated. By the mob."

  The mayor smiled uneasily and flicked ashes from his Havana. "Are you trying to scare me, Eliot?"

  "No. I want you to know what we're up against. If we take on the Mayfield mob, assuming I can clean up the police force to the point where that's possible, things may get bloody. These gangsters are capable of manipulating events. They can kill you, and nobody but you and them will ever know who did it. And you won't know for long, because you'll be dying at the time."

  "Are you drunk?"

  "I never get drunk," Ness said, smiling, patting His Honor on the shoulder. "I'm a Prohibition agent."

  The mayor rolled his eyes and said, "I'm glad you're
having a good time. You aren't driving yourself home, are you?"

  "I have a police chauffeur lined up. And I'm not drunk."

  "Good."

  "And if you have anybody else you'd like me to meet, that'd be just dandy."

  "I don't think that'll be necessary, Eliot." The mayor grinned and put out his cigar. He made an "after you" gesture, and the two men left the men's room, parting company.

  Ness moved out toward the dance floor. His intention was to make his way around the edge and find his way out of this crystal sardine can. Along the way he bumped into a very pretty blonde.

  "Excuse me," Ness said.

  The blonde smiled, a one-sided, crinkly smile, and a stunning one at that. Her eyes were a startling dark blue. Barely under thirty, she had a healthy, apple-cheeked look and her lips were painted stop-sign red, only the effect was "go." She wore a simple pink off-the-shoulder gown, revealing a creamy complexion and breasts that might have been a little large for her otherwise slender frame. He didn't mind.

  "You're Eliot Ness," she said.

  "That's right. Do I know you?" he asked, wishing he did.

  She stuck her hand out, like a longshoreman. "I'm Gwen Howell. Gwen Cooper Howell."

  Ness still made no connection, but did shake the small, warm hand, which was definitely softer than a longshoreman's.

  "My father is John Cooper. Captain Cooper."

  "Of course," he said, smiling. "I heard the Captain had a pretty daughter. Don't you work in City Hall some-where?"

  She made a face at his mention of a job she obviously didn't like. "In the Clerk of Public Service office."

  "That's just down the hall from me. Why haven't I run into you before?"

  "I've seen you around. You've never noticed me. You're always preoccupied."

  "Maybe you don't go to work in that gown."

  "Hardly ever," she said, smiling again. "I wear my hair up and I have these glasses…"

  "You're the classic case of the secretary the boss overlooks."

  "I wish you were my boss. I'm so bored where I am. Just clerking."

  "Maybe I can do something about that. Do you have a table? Are you with someone? Your husband, perhaps?"

  "I have a table. I am with someone. I don't have a husband. Anymore."

  "I see. I'm sorry."

  "No need to be sorry. He isn't dead, unfortunately. I caught him in bed with another woman."

  Her frankness startled him more than the color of her eyes. Maybe she'd had too much champagne, too.

  "What asylum is he in?" Ness asked.

  She liked that. "My husband-former husband-was a lawyer. He specialized in divorces. He specialized in divorcees, too."

  Ness arched an eyebrow. "Interesting way of looking at the lawyer/client relationship."

  "He told me he was just comforting them in their time of need."

  "A pity he went into law. Medicine could have used his humanitarian instincts."

  She shrugged. "He defended himself in the divorce. Fool for a client. I get a handsome alimony check. Not as handsome as you, but what the hell."

  Definitely too much champagne.

  "Where are you sitting?" Ness said, taking her arm.

  She gestured, and he escorted her. Her father, a widower as Ness recalled, was sitting alone at a postage-stamp table that held several empty champagne bottles and glasses. Cooper beamed when he saw Ness, and stood to shake his hand.

  The big, balding, moon-faced cop seemed about as at home in his tux as the bodyguards back at the Harvard Club had in theirs. His sky-blue eyes, a much lighter blue than his daughter's, were a little bloodshot. He, too, seemed to have had too much champagne.

  "You're the best goddamn safety director this town ever had," Cooper said. "The very best. Sit down."

  Everybody sat down, Gwen across the table from Ness and her father between them.

  Cooper said, "I can't tell you what it means to me, this vote of confidence."

  Earlier that day, Ness had appointed Cooper head of the Detective Bureau, after several weeks as acting head.

  "Don't mention it," Ness said. "I knew you were the man for the job."

  Cooper leaned over. "Since we spoke today, our boy reported in."

  Cooper, apparently a touch tipsy, was referring to the detective who'd been busted down to uniform to go undercover. This topic had no place in a very crowded hotel ballroom.

  "He's found nothing yet," Cooper said, "but…"

  Ness said, "Let's not talk business here, Captain."

  Cooper was immediately embarrassed. "I didn't mean to speak out of turn."

  "You didn't. Pour us all some champagne, Captain. It's the President's birthday, after all."

  "That it is," Cooper said, and poured a round of bubbly.

  Out on the dance floor, with soft, sweet-smelling Gwen in his arms, Ness felt light on his feet, but maybe that was just his head. They were dancing to "The Nearness of You."

  "I think Daddy's a little smashed," she said, fondly if a little embarrassed.

  "Your dad's a good cop," Ness said flatly. "And besides, we seem to be just this side of smashed ourselves."

  "Where's your wife?"

  "Uh, this isn't widely known, Mrs. Howell, but my wife and I are separated."

  "For how long?"

  "Just a couple of weeks."

  "How do you like bachelor life?"

  "I don't know yet. You're the first girl I've had in my arms since I became one."

  "A girl?"

  "A bachelor."

  "I've been out with men since my divorce. A lot of men."

  "How long ago was your divorce?"

  "Over a year."

  "Lot of boyfriends, huh?"

  "Not really. I haven't been with one since my husband."

  "Been with one?"

  She smiled wryly. "You know. They call it 'sex.' "

  "Oh. Is that what they call it."

  "How about you?"

  "I've never been with a man."

  "I see. And you haven't been with your wife for two weeks. That must seem like a year to a man like you. Or is that your finger?"

  "How many hands do you think I have?"

  "How many do you need?"

  "I guess that's up to you, Mrs. Howell."

  She whispered in his ear. "Did I see you talking to the manager of this place?"

  "Of the Hollenden? Yes."

  "Do you know him well enough to ask for a room?"

  "I think so."

  "Why don't you, then?"

  "For us, you mean?"

  "Maybe it's a bad idea. Maybe in the morning, when this champagne wears off, we'll feel ashamed."

  "Maybe."

  "Want to risk it?"

  "What about your dad?"

  "Think we can find him a ride home?" "I have a cop who can drive him home. Do you live at home with him?"

  "Yes. But I've stayed out all night before." "You said you hadn't been with a man in a year." She put her cheek next to his as they danced. "I lied," she said.

  THREE

  FEBRUARY 3 — MARCH 7, 1936

  CHAPTER 15

  The sun was shining in Cuyahoga County at one o'clock on this Monday afternoon, but it didn't warm William Wiggens. William-Willie to his friends, at least one of whom hadn't been particularly friendly-was just a body in ditch, and a snowy ditch at that. He lay face down at an odd, askew angle, like a child making a shape in the snow. His topcoat was black and so was his hair; he was hatless. He looked vaguely crumpled, like a discarded piece of paper. The splotches of blood on the snowy ground were turning black.

  "We've got to quit meeting like this," Nathan Heller said, Nate to his friends, one of whom was Eliot Ness.

  Heller, a sturdy six-footer in a brown topcoat and a darker brown hat, had just stepped from the squad car that had delivered him, at Ness' request, to this desolate rural spot outside Pepper Pike Village, Cleveland's easternmost suburb, just beyond Shaker Heights. A Pepper Pike patrolman, bundled in a lig
ht blue coat, stood nearby with several Cleveland cops in darker blue coats, their breath smoking.

  Ness was down in the ditch where Wiggens had fallen. He was bending over the body, having a look at the bullet wounds on the man. Or boy, really-Wiggens was barely past twenty.

  Ness stood with a sigh. "Young," he said. "So goddamn young."

  "Not so young," Heller said. "You don't get any older than dead."

  Ness nodded, and glanced at Heller, who took off his hat and riffled his head of reddish brown hair. His father had been Jewish, but it was his Irish mother he took after. He had dark blue eyes and was, Ness supposed, handsome, in a rugged sort of way. One corner of Heller's mouth often pulled into a half grin, which gave him a wise-guy appearance. Ness had known Heller a long time, and knew the man's flip cynicism was largely a self-defense mechanism.

  "Don't you get a little tired." Heller asked, putting the hat back on, that half smile tugging at his cheek, "of poking at corpses in roadside ditches?"

  Ness laughed, but it had a hollow sound. "This isn't the same. A gangster like Prank Nitti bumping off another gangster like Ted Newberry makes a certain kind of sense."

  "That sounds funny, coming from you."

  Ness shrugged. "Those boys were playing for high stakes, and they weren't really 'boys,' either. This poor kid was just an independent policy writer."

  Heller, hands shoved in his topcoat pockets, looked down unbelievingly at the corpse sprawled nearby. "Since when do you get killed over the numbers, for Christ's sake?"

  Ness held up two fingers. "There's two ways, in Cleveland. The May field Road mob has a foolproof, profit-every-day system for the numbers racket: they avoid any 'losing' days in their lottery by franchising individual operators who take the financial risk while the mob takes the cream of the profits. Any operators who come up short on a losing day wind up like Mr. Wiggens here."