Lethal Streets (A Flood and Flood Mystery Book 2)

by Will Rayner

  Sam inspected it and passed it to T.J. “Edwin N. Atherton,” T.J. read aloud. “Atherton and Dunn. Private Investigators.” He paused. “The phone number is an LA exchange.”

  “The Board of Commissioners,” his father said. “We’ve heard they’ve appointed a Los Angeles agency to investigate corruption in the police department. It could be accepted as common knowledge, actually.”

  “That’s why everyone’s running around in circles over at the cop shop,” T.J. added.

  “You are correct, gentlemen,” Atherton said. “This is all officially confidential, of course. I came here fully intending to discuss the investigation with Flood and Flood, but now I’m not so sure. A notorious underworld character, linked to prostitution and bookmaking, is of extreme interest to anyone seeking to uncover evidence of police corruption. I’m speaking of a certain Terence Shannon.”

  “Terence Shannon?” Sam asked.

  “Packy Shannon,” T.J. said. “Terence is his square handle. I’m sure I put that into one of my reports.”

  “What about Mr. Shannon?” Sam asked.

  “We know he controls a lot of the vice in San Francisco, including a string of high-end brothels as well as a major race book.”

  “Golly, I didn’t know that,” T.J. said with a straight face. “You must be quite a detective.”

  Atherton regarded T.J. for a moment. “That is why I was following him, and Mr. Flood here crossed my bows, so to speak. I was hoping I’d get lucky and catch Shannon meeting with a senior official from the department. Instead, I got young Flood.”

  Young Flood indeed, T.J. thought. “How do you know I wasn’t dropping into Luigi’s for a nice plate of cannoli?” he asked.

  “Because you were escorted inside by Shannon’s driver, who was guarding the door.”

  “Packy Shannon was one of our clients a while back,” T.J. said. “We saved his ass in a murder case.”

  “A client?” Atherton repeated with a note of surprise.

  “A few years ago, a real bad guy called The Greek got bumped off,” T.J. said. “He ran the horse wire in town but the reason he was rubbed out was a big opium-smuggling deal that went sour. The cops thought Shannon did it so he could take over The Greek’s business. Packy hired us to clear his name and we eventually nailed two crooked vice cops.”

  “We have had a … um … positive relationship with Mr. Shannon ever since,” the elder Flood added.

  “C’mon, pop, we’re being grilled by some out-of-town jasper here. Let’s tell Mr. A to take a hike. Or ask a few pertinent questions of our own.”

  The senior Flood held up his hand to shush his partner. “So?” he asked Atherton.

  “So, this Shannon appears to have added illegal bookmaking to his string of whorehouses and other illegal activities,” Atherton said, “making him San Francisco’s Number One racketeer.”

  “Surprise, surprise,” T.J. said. “Packy ended up with The Greek’s wire room after all. Stepped right in and filled the vacuum. The horse books are pretty big in this town.”

  “As they are across the country,” Atherton pointed out. “A horse parlor with access to the wire is a big money-maker. The suckers can get a bet down at any racetrack they fancy. And everywhere, just like here, cops are getting paid to look the other way. I assume the McDonough brothers are familiar to you.”

  “Bail bondsmen,” Sam Flood said. “Crooked bail bondsmen.”

  “They handle the sticky stuff for Shannon’s Turk Street Social Club,” his son added. “Turn over a McDonough caper and you’ll find Shannon‘s mark. That’s the way we figure it, anyway.”

  “A lot of people think the McDonoughs – Pete and Tom – run the rackets in this city, but you fellows seem to think it is Packy Shannon and his … ah … social club. I tend to agree; the McDonoughs work for Shannon but I don’t think anyone will ever prove it before a grand jury. I’d love to nab Shannon, but it’s not him the Police Commission is after. They want the crooked cops on the pad at the other end.”

  “You can check our relationship with Packy Shannon by contacting Lieutenant James Bracken of homicide,” Sam said. “We were trying to find a missing girl and we thought Mr. Shannon, who is well experienced in the … ah … flesh trade, could provide some insight.”

  “We have already made the acquaintance of Lieutenant Bracken,” Atherton said. “We have determined, by the way, that Jimbo, as he is called, is not connected to any of the malfeasance in the department. In fact, it was he who suggested we come and talk to you about lending a hand.”

  “Clearly, you have done quite a bit of spadework,” Sam said. “If it is not considered confidential, when did your agency begin this … ah … crusade?”

  My partner, Joseph Dunn, and I were appointed by the police board on November 21, 1935,”Atherton said.

  Sam counted off the months in his head. Atherton and Dunn had been on the job for more than six months already. “You wish to engage Flood and Flood to assist Atherton and Dunn in its investigation of the San Francisco Police Department,” he said formally.

  “We are being … overwhelmed is the word, I suppose … by some aspects of our inquiries. One or more pair of extra eyes is strongly indicated. If you are interested.”

  There was a pause of several seconds. “We are,” Sam said.

  “We’re very good at watching,” T.J. added. “And at asking questions of our own. What is your investigative background? Like, how many keyholes have you peeked through?”

  “I was with the Bureau of Investigation in the 20s,” Atherton said. “I left to start my own agency in Los Angeles a few years before the government changed the name to the FBI.”

  “Why did you leave the bureau?” T.J. asked.

  “I don’t think that information is pertinent,” Atherton growled.

  “Mebbe not. I’m just being nosy,” T.J. grinned. “That’s part of our job.”

  “If we find the reason is germane, we will find out,” his father said.

  Edwin Atherton drew himself up and took a deep breath. These Floods are very pushy, very sharp, he told himself, which is probably a plus. “To return to the matter at hand, our mandate is to substantiate allegations of misconduct, purge the department of corrupt officers and prosecute them,” he said. “We are not on a moral crusade. We are not here to clean up the city.”

  “So your focus is on the baddies at the cop shop and on the beats,” T.J. said. “You don’t want to nail the guys running the fancy cathouses, the illegal taxi-dance joints or poker games in the Tenderloin, or the bookie operating out of a cigar store on Geary Street. You want the cops on the gravy train.”

  “That is correct,” Atherton said.

  “Good. That bird in the cigar store is my favorite bookie.”

  “You are not contemplating engaging our services on a full-time basis,” Sam said. “That would not be cost-effective.” C’mon, popsy, don’t remind him, T.J. groaned to himself. There’s a big-time fee on the table here.

  “No, you’ll sort of be on call,” Atherton said. “We’ll work you in when you’re not engaged in other duties. I trust your plate is not too full at the present.”

  The senior Flood looked at his son. “We’d better tell him about the Baggett threats,” he said.

  “There’s a dingbat dame on the loose who wants to rub me out,” T.J. said. “I could end up in the gutter any day now with an axe between my shoulder blades, which would sort of slow down our investigation. She tried to get me once and she already has one dead body to her credit.”

  Atherton blinked. He knew San Francisco had become a really rough town in recent years, but this seemed a little much. “You mean she’s out on the street somewhere and the police can’t find her? What did you do to her?”

  “She thinks she has been screwed out of an inheritance and she thinks I, me, the lovable Thomas Jefferson Flood, thwarted her attempt to gain revenge,” T.J. said. “Which I did, actually.”

  “So this case would take precedence over anyt
hing we would be doing for you,” Sam said.

  “Indeed,” Atherton answered. “However, I am sure we can schedule our joint efforts accordingly. Do you wish to hear more details?”

  “Shoot,” T.J. said.

  ****

  The missing Packard was a primary concern of Jimbo Bracken. The word went out to the traffic division: Find that Packard and find it now. The Packard’s license plate number was passed on to all patrol cars and cops on the beat. Sheriffs in surrounding counties and highway patrols were alerted.

  The vehicle in question was a standard black Packard sedan, not the big, heavy saloon favored by the upper echelons of the criminal element. White sidewalls. Registered to Randolph Baggett in 1932. Bracken did not expect the suspect to walk up and climb aboard, but he wanted the boys to keep eyeballs peeled for a while anyway, just in case. Empty or not, the Packard was valuable as a link in the chain of evidence. The interior would contain Jane Brown’s fingerprints and confirm that she was inside it with Hubert Loomis.

  Flat feet got flatter and the traffic division’s fuel expenses rose noticeably as the searchers concentrated on one black Packard sedan after another. Packards were certainly not the most popular means of transportation in San Francisco that year, but there were enough of them to keep everybody busy. Not only were the streets themselves combed, but also the lanes, the alleys, the abandoned driveways, the vacant lots and any other place which might harbor an automobile. Crews working on the new Golden Gate Bridge were ordered to stand down while the cluttered construction site and the neighboring Presidio were searched carefully.

  The searchers stumbled upon many minor crimes being committed in the city’s nooks and crannies, many strange discarded objects and not a few hovels inhabited by the homeless. However, there was no Packard sedan licensed to Randolph Baggett. The reason for this was that Jane Brown had long ago discovered an abandoned shed on Southern Pacific property near First Street and she had hidden the car there. It will be safe, she told herself, until it becomes another instrument of my vengeance.

  Chapter 15

  “What prompted the commissioners to approach Atherton and Dunn, if I may continue being inquisitive?” Sam asked their visitor.

  “Not at all,” Atherton said. “Actually, they wanted someone at arm’s length, with no baggage and no preconceived notions. As I’ve mentioned, I have investigative experience, and I know the city – although not nearly as well as I thought I did.”

  “Another question, if I may,” Sam said. “If the Police Commission initiated this investigation, why aren’t they cooperating?”

  “Because they were forced into it,” Atherton said. “Public pressure for the authorities to do something about the corruption. The press had a lot to do with it.”

  “Yeah, I get it,” T.J. said. “Middle of last year? Stories in the papers about some police captain having a huge income.”

  “That is correct,” Atherton said. “A collector for the Internal Revenue Service mentioned this police official during a speech in San Rafael. The News here in town broke the story and the other papers blew it up. Graft is a complex field,” he continued, adjusting himself slightly in Sam’s client chair. “In many cases, it is much more than money changing hands. It could involve fingers in the till, fiddling with the books, taking a cut when awarding a juicy contract.”

  T.J. Flood dearly wanted a cigarette, but dare not reach for his Old Golds until the Old Man picked up his pipe. This stuff sounds pretty much like a police academy lecture, he thought. Should I be taking notes? Is there gonna be a test? Let’s get to the details.

  Atherton did. “One fertile area for graft and corruption in San Francisco is vice,” he said.

  “Presenting the Shannon-McDonough Show,” T.J. drawled.

  “Vice is a breeding ground for police corruption,” Atherton continued. “Take prostitution, to begin with. The number of brothels in the city is more than one hundred, and we are still counting. Most of them are downtown – the Central District. In just a few blocks on Kearny Street alone, from California up to Broadway, there are a dozen brothels operating openly.”

  “And one of those blocks is occupied by the Hall of Justice,” Sam said. “You are certainly not suggesting that the department operates these … ah … enterprises.”

  “No, I am not, but the very fact illegal acts are allowed to flourish on the very doorstep, so to speak, of police headquarters and the county jail illustrates the depths of corruption which we must deal with.”

  He’s whining, Sam told himself. He’s beginning to wonder whether he’s bitten off more than he can chew. What did he expect – a walk through Golden Gate Park? Sam had driven and walked through that stretch of Kearny on numerous occasions while visiting the Hall of Justice. In fact, he and T.J. had passed along a short stretch of it when on the trail of Manuel Santiago. If a passerby pays attention to the beat cop on certain days of the month, he will witness that peculiar type of handshake which masks the passage of paper money from one palm to another.

  “And prostitution is not the only evil,” Atherton continued. “There is illegal gambling, widespread violation of liquor regulations, bootlegging, outright police extortion and a sanctioned abortion ring.

  “Abortion ring?” T.J. asked. “You mean they’re organized? I always thought this was done by some shady sawbones in a back room somewhere.”

  “They are certainly shady, as you put it,” Atherton said. “Legitimate, ethical physicians and surgeons won’t perform abortions because they are, after all, an illegal act. But many, many others with just a rudimentary knowledge of the skills involved do so. There exists an organized network all along the West Coast.”

  “These higher-ups you mention,” Sam said. “Exactly how high – and to what extent?”

  “To the very top, in the Board of Police Commissioners, the chief of police’s office and the Bureau of Inspectors.”

  Sam whistled softly. Reflectively, he reached for his pipe. T.J. sighed in relief and shook loose an Old Gold. He offered one to their visitor and he declined. Hmmph, T.J. thought. I wonder if he’s a teetotaler, too. In a very short span, Sam’s office was filled with tobacco smoke. Brain patterns became altered. Thoughts became more sharply focused.

  “Let me elaborate, if I may,” Atherton continued. He did not seem to be bothered by the fumes. “The board itself, the chief, even some people in the district attorney’s office, are actively hindering our investigation, even though – as I’ve already mentioned – it has been officially authorized.”

  “Motive?” Sam Flood barked.

  “To protect a substantial source of income, for one,” Atherton said. “And to also protect a political system which could ultimately be held responsible for the corruption. I am convinced that certain members of the board did not expect Atherton and Dunn’s investigation to dig so deep. They expected a quick, shallow rake-off from the bottom of the pot, followed by a few suspensions and jail terms. Just enough to satisfy the press.”

  “Keep talking, pal,” T.J. ordered. “Who would these ‘certain members’ be?”

  Edwin Atherton fell silent for a moment, gazing out Sam’s window at the pleasant summer day. “Let me give you one example,” he said. “Prostitution is an illegal act, per se. However, the authorities, while acknowledging that prostitutes are law-breakers, try to exercise some sort of control. These fallen ladies are required, for instance, to have regular medical examinations. The object, of course, is to identify any … ah … sexually-transmitted diseases. It has come to our attention that the doctor performing these examinations is also a senior member of the Board of Police Commissioners. We are told by members of the medical community that this lucrative practice is now a monopoly, that other examining physicians have been bypassed, that patrolmen on the beat order the prostitutes, the madams, the landladies to patronize one doctor’s office only. Some patrolmen even pass out cards.”

  “So if prostitution in San Francisco is eliminated or even severely curta
iled—” Sam said, “and the hookers, the pimps and the madams move on—” his son interjected, “that source of revenue dries up,” Sam finished.

  “Precisely,” Atherton said. “That is one reason that this commissioner is making every effort to sabotage our investigation. An ancillary reason is that this commissioner – this doctor – is financially indebted to Mr. Peter McDonough.”

  “You’re making this up,” T.J. said. “One of the top racketeers in town has his hooks into a member of the Board of Police Commissioners!” The Floods exchanged glances. If McDonough holds this commissioner’s marker, that meant Packy Shannon had his hooks into the police board.

  “Our source is impeccable,” Atherton said.

  “Boy, would Pete McNully love to be sitting here right now,” T.J. said. “This stuff is dynamite.”

  “Who’s Pete McNully?” Atherton asked sharply.

  “He and Thomas are friends,” Sam said without elaboration. He knew it would certainly be unwise to mention that McNully was a reporter for the Examiner.

  “Let me remind you gentlemen that everything we’ve discussed in this office is confidential,” Atherton said. “If any of it shows up in a newspaper, Flood and Flood would have to answer to the law.”

  “C’mon, Ed-baby,” T.J. said. “We didn’t just fall off the back of the turnip wagon. That’s what we get paid for – to keep our traps shut.”

  Atherton shot a sharp glance at the younger Flood, then averted his eyes. He is a very irritating individual, Atherton told himself as he studied a non-existent spot on his vest. However, I am told the Floods get results. A sharp tongue can be endured, if need be.

  “We are discreet and circumspect – as private investigators should be,” Sam said mildly. “Our clients expect precisely that, and you can expect the same treatment.”

  “The board is not my only problem,” Atherton said. “The chief himself has been less than cooperative. Oh, he promises complete support for the investigation, but he drags his feet. Records get lost, requests for information or background are usually ignored or the response is delayed for an inordinate time. At the beginning of our investigation, the chief promised that officers would be ordered by his office to report to us for interrogation. He subsequently reneged on this promise, quietly advising members of his department that their appearance before the investigators was strictly voluntary. When this became general knowledge, several of our most promising inquiries came to a full stop. One expects persons under suspicion to be uncooperative, but surely not their superiors. I believe the chief thinks his career is on the line, too. This situation was forced upon him, but he can still be damaged by the results. Neither he nor the board can shut down the investigation, because I report to the district attorney. So they are doing their best to obstruct my every initiative. It is very difficult and frustrating.”