"I don't get it. You mean to sell?"
"What else would you expect?"
"Come on, Jack. A record only costs thirty-five cents."
"Only thirty-five cents. To a kid that's big money, but that's not the point. Look, let me explain it to you. They pick up legitimate records the day they're released, or maybe have connections to get them before they hit the market. From that they make their own masters on the best equipment available and run off as many copies as they want. A real expert—a Tommy Dorsey or a Benny Goodman—might tell the difference in quality, but not one person in ten thousand could. A machine applies the labels they printed, then they box them up and they're ready to ship."
"Ship to where? Record stores have their own wholesalers they buy from, don't they?"
"They don't go after the really big stores, but in the territory they cover there are hundreds of mom-and-pop dealers plus other businesses that sell records as a sideline. One day a couple of tough guys with bulges under their suit coats walk in, tell them they represent a new wholesale company and from now on they'll be getting their merchandise from them. The implication being ‘or else.’”
"So Bullington runs the operation in Akron, but the outfit in Cleveland is behind it, right?"
"You called it, friend. The Murray Hill Mob's name is written all over it, but no one could ever prove it in court. They've got a couple of strong-arm boys in the plant at all times, of course."
"There must be money in it, Jack, but it doesn't seem like enough to interest that bunch."
"Believe me there is. The initial setup costs some dough, sure, but not as much as it would cost you or me to do the same thing. Then the material they use for the records is cheap stuff, not the quality that RCA, Columbia, or any big company uses. After a dozen plays a record may start getting scratchy, but so what? Let's say they clear a nickel on every record they peddle. One by a top band or someone like Crosby might sell fifty thousand copies in their territory. A lot wouldn't sell that many, but multiply that nickel by all the records sold and it adds up to real money. And you can bet they don't take returns on records that don't sell. Mom and Pop take the hit, not them."
"It's a pretty sleazy way to do business."
Jack laughed at that. “You're expecting ethics from those boys? Get real, buddy."
"How big a territory do they cover?"
"I don't know exactly yet, but it's big. Very, very big. And it's a safe bet that the Akron plant isn't the only one they have."
"So now what? What's Wellington's going to do about it?"
"That's still in the planning stage. You can be sure of one thing, we're going to bust up the operation. That may not put them out of business, but it'll sure hit them where it hurts. I'll make certain you get first crack at the story when it breaks, so keep it under your hat for now."
Jack Eddy was a secretive person. I knew next to nothing about his background other than that he had lived in Indianapolis and graduated from Shortridge High School. And that he was transferred to Akron from the Indianapolis branch of Wellington's National Detective Agency, of course. Aside from that his past was a blank as far as I was concerned.
I had been checking on some of my Irish ancestors and discovered there had been Eddys in Ireland. So I said, “Jack, did your ancestors come over from Ireland?"
He shook his head.
"There were people named Eddy there, you know."
"My ancestors stayed where they were in Cork. The city, I mean. My parents came over and so did I."
I was taken aback. “You mean you were born in Ireland? You don't talk like an Irishman."
"Sure and now didn't I leave when I was five?"
"Now you are talking like an Irishman. Are you saying you grew up here and learned to speak American?"
"And isn't that the truth of it, lad? My parents never lost their accents, but I did."
"Do you speak Irish?"
"Gaelic? Yes, a little, although not in everyday conversation. And you, did your ancestors come from Ireland? Geary sounds Irish."
"They did. My paternal grandparents did, that is. In 1849 at the time of the famine. Why did your parents leave?"
"No choice. The Easter uprising in 1916. My father was one of the boys with Michael Collins and the others. He wasn't caught at the time like so many were, but he had to flee. He managed to get back to Cork and, with the help of friends, was able to get on a ship leaving for America. My mother and I followed a month later."
"It's amazing, Jack. My grandmother was from Clare, but my grandfather was from Cork."
He put his head back and laughed. “And that, my friend, is probably the only thing we have in common."
* * * *
I was thinking about going to bed the next night when the hallway phone rang. Ivy Bauer was starting to get up from her chair, until I said, “I'll get it.” A good thing as it turned out because it was the night desk at the Times-Press. “There's been a murder on 18th Street in the Falls, Bram. You'd better get up there."
So much for bed. I cranked up my Hupmobile and headed north. Once across the High Level Bridge and in Cuyahoga Falls I followed 18th Street until I came to a couple of police cars and a crowd gathered in front of a two-story house a little north of Broad Boulevard. By then instinct told me who the victim would be, so I wasn't surprised when a detective told me it was Myron Bullington. He had been shot in the back of the head while on his knees just after parking his car in the driveway. Gangland execution style, with the killer waiting for him to come home after a late night at the plant or, more likely, a couple of hours at a tavern.
I didn't hang around long, knowing that an arrest was a rarity in a professional murder and that small town police were ill-prepared to conduct a real investigation. I was certain that when the Falls detectives learned about Roman Stankowski he would head the list of suspects even though everything about the killing pointed to the mob. When I woke Jack Eddy after returning home, he echoed my thoughts. “And the worst thing about it, buddy, is that Stankowski dropped out of sight a couple of days ago."
* * * *
My morale was at a low ebb the next few days. Even seeing Sue Baney a couple of times couldn't shake my depression. Where was Stankowski and why had he pulled a disappearing act? Worst of all was the world news. Hitler was demanding a big chunk of Czechoslovakia, and now even Poland wanted some Czech territory. All of Europe was in an uproar, and in Germany, life had become intolerable for the Jews. Now those with Aryan first names had to change them to Israel or Sarah. No matter that Heinrich or Franz had been World War heroes, they now were Israel.
A delegation representing German Jews had gone to a conference of nations in Evian, France, to seek a place for them to emigrate, something Hitler approved of, but it seemed that no one wanted them. Even the United States said only the normal quota of immigrants from Germany and Austria, 27,370, would be admitted, and most countries wouldn't go that far. Australia declared, “As we have no real racial problem, we are not desirous of importing one.” Intellectuals were especially unwelcome everywhere. Only Holland and Denmark agreed to take all Jews that wanted to come.
What a wonderful world it was. The only good news was that the Japanese army had tried to take over a piece of Soviet territory and the Russians had kicked the daylights out of them and sent them running for home. It was their first major setback in an attempt to take over the entire Far East. But we were all sitting on a powder keg, and with each passing day I had a clearer vision of myself in uniform with a rifle in my hand. I hated the thought.
I decided a hot bath might cheer me up. The pleasurable aroma of Lifebuoy soap was medicinal. It would be my third in a week, but so far Mrs. Bauer hadn't complained. She was waiting outside the bathroom door, though, when I started back to my room. “You've been using too much hot water, Bram. If you keep it up I'll have to raise your rent."
"It won't happen again,” I told her, but wanted to ask why the same rule didn't apply to Jack Eddy. I had counted, a
nd he had taken four baths the previous week.
I had joined most of the boarders and three members of the Bauer family in the living room listening to the Jack Benny Show on radio one evening when Jack Eddy came in the front door, paused long enough to give me a nod, and then went on upstairs. I followed him to his room when a commercial came on.
"It's set for nine o'clock tomorrow morning, buddy. Join us at the office about half past eight."
"What's set? What's it all about, Jack?"
"We're going to raid the plant on Orleans Avenue, what else?"
"Now wait a minute, Jack. It sounds to me like there might be gunplay."
He shrugged as if to say it didn't matter. To me it did.
"The Akron cops know about it,” he said. “I talked to Plato Largis, and he'll be there with some of his boys in blue."
"Any word yet on Roman Stankowski? Will he be there?"
"Not likely. We haven't a clue as to where he is. Neither do the Cuyahoga Falls cops, and like we thought, he's their chief suspect in Bullington's murder."
"Do you think the mob got wise to him hanging around and picked him up? Maybe they're holding him in the recording plant."
"Not a chance. They don't hold on to people, they dispose of them like they did Bullington. I would bet, though, that it was Stankowski's poking into their business that somehow made them decide Bullington was a dangerously weak link in the operation."
"Who's running the plant now?"
"One of the strong-arm boys from Cleveland."
"I don't much care for the sound of this, Jack. If you think I want to be in on a reenactment of the gunfight at the O.K. Corral, you're badly mistaken."
Again he shrugged his shoulders. “Doesn't matter to me, friend. Sorry we didn't take your personal safety into account when the plans were drawn up. It'll be a big story, though, but if you want to miss out on it, it's up to you."
He knew I couldn't. That was one of the infuriating things about Jack Eddy. He knew how I felt about being around when bullets started flying, but he didn't care. On the other hand, he knew I had a job to do and was good enough to tip me off with inside information. Personally, though, I would have preferred to rush down there after the shooting ended and get the story that way. But knowing about it ahead of time meant I had to be there from start to finish. If I wasn't and Ben Goldsmith heard about it, I'd be out of a job. I shuddered to think what Sue Baney would say when it was all over. Provided that I was still around to tell her about it. One thing for sure, I wouldn't get much sleep that night.
* * * *
It began quietly enough on a sunny morning when it was good to be alive but might be difficult to stay that way. I was in Jack's Auburn along with Cliff Austin and Mac McKelvey. We drove to the end of Orleans Avenue and parked around the corner on Cedar, another short street that ended at Orleans. I figured Jack didn't want his car in the line of fire. Cal Andres was at work inside the plant, and another car of Wellington operatives stopped at the far end of Orleans. That group was to work their way around behind the plant.
Foot traffic on Orleans was next to nonexistent, so I knew we would stand out like the proverbial sore thumb. I brought up the rear as we spread out, rounded the corner, and started toward God only knew what. Then, with me already thinking there were too many people on the street for it to look normal, two cars filled with Akron cops careened around the corner off Exchange Street and pulled to the curb with brakes squealing.
Cops poured out onto the street like clowns leaving one of those funny cars at a circus. Some ran around to the loading dock at the side of the plant. Plato Largis was with a group that pulled a battering ram from the first car. I watched open mouthed as Jack Eddy ran to join them just as the ram hit the front door with the sound of a Mack truck plowing into a concrete wall at sixty miles an hour. Then the fun began.
Shots rang out as Akron cops and Wellington ops scurried through the doorway. I followed, hesitated outside the door, then went ahead and stepped inside just in time to take a bullet through my hat. Fortunately, the old brown fedora sat high on my head. Even more fortunate was the fact that I stood six three and not six five.
The shooting continued for a minute or so, then an eerie silence fell over the place. Two burly characters in civilian clothes were led past me on the way to a short ride to police headquarters. One clutched his left arm where blood seeped from a bullet wound. Jack Eddy and Plato Largis followed behind but stopped when they saw me examining my hat. Jack pointed to it and said, “Is that a bullet hole?” and then began laughing.
Cliff Austin joined the group in time to say, “Look, an entry wound and an exit wound.” They were all laughing as if my narrow escape were some big joke that everyone got except me.
To change the subject I said, “All that shooting and one thug took a bullet in his arm, that was it? I don't think there's going to be any marksmanship awards handed out."
But I was wrong. When we were back on the street we learned that the mobster who had taken over running the plant had bolted out a door onto the loading dock, gun in hand, and was shot dead by an Akron policeman.
Jack Eddy's head was shaking. “It's the worst thing that could have happened. He was our our best bet for tracing this setup back to the mob in Cleveland."
I didn't say so, but I didn't think it came close to being the worst thing that could have happened. I made a few notes, went back inside where cops were starting to haul recording equipment out to the street, made a few more notes, then hurried off on foot to the Times-Press building.
The trip took only a couple of minutes, and when I arrived with my bullet-riddled hat on my head, I quickly became a hero. Even Ben Goldsmith was impressed. So much so in fact that he summoned a photographer to take a shot of me with a finger sticking through the entry hole. Then he broke his own rule that a reporter should not be a part of the story by having another man write a short sidebar to go with the front page photo and my banner story on the raid.
In mid afternoon I had a phone call from Sue Baney. “Someone just showed me the paper, Bram. You were in on another shootout, weren't you? You know what I told you, you know how I feel about dating a man who is constantly involved in such things. And this time you were shot in the head."
"Not the head, Sue. The hat."
"That's it, Bram. We're finished, through, all washed up. Don't call me again ... ever.” It sounded like another shot when she banged the phone down. It didn't worry me too much because I was sure she would change her mind. Besides, people from other departments were still coming to the newsroom to see the hole in my hat, and I was basking in the glory of it all.
Despite her orders I called Sue Baney that night. As soon as she heard my voice she banged the receiver down again. I felt bad but not too bad because I was the center of attention at the boardinghouse. Pretty Kitty Bauer was nowhere to be found, but pudgy Mabel Klosterman broke out in a sweat when she examined the hole in my hat. “Oh, Bram,” she said, “you were almost killed.” Prim and proper Nora Ferrabee shook her heard while saying, “To think that such things go on right here in town.” Mr. Reimer, the retired druggist, said, “My, my, Abraham, you really should be more careful."
Ivy Bauer and her husband, Bus, didn't seem as impressed as the others, and the brat Artie looked at the bullet hole and said, “Aw, that's nothin'. Didn't even draw blood.” But it was Jack Eddy who really got under my skin as he stood by watching with a laconic smirk on his face.
Later I followed him up to his room. I said, “No word on Stankowski yet? I thought sure we'd find him locked up somewhere in that plant."
"I can't figure why you'd think that. I don't believe for a minute that the mob has anything to do with his disappearing act. But just for the sake of argument let's say they did. Then why would they have him stashed away down there? If they grab somebody off the street it's the last anybody sees of them, you know that, buddy. They're not in the business of running a jail."
He was right, of course. I had
just been trying to look on the bright side. I just didn't get it. Why would Stankowski give Wellington's money to check out the Orleans Avenue plant and then just wander off without waiting to learn the result?
There was good news a couple of days later when Jack Eddy stopped by the newsroom to tell me the gun used to kill Myron Bullington was the one carried by the mobster killed on the loading dock during the raid. “He must have loved that gun, buddy. The procedure called for him to ditch it after shooting Bullington, but he didn't. A stupid jerk, but it gets Stankowski off the hook."
* * * *
It was pleasantly cool a week later, so after finishing my afternoon rounds I walked north on Main Street to the Wellington Agency's office in the Metropolitan Building, along the way inhaling the blended aromas of diesel fumes from city buses, rubber from the Goodrich complex, and cereal from the Quaker Oats plant a block west. I arrived just as Jack Eddy was convening a meeting of the operatives. Before he got started I poked my head in the door of his office and said, “Any word yet on Stankowski?"
"Come on in and join the party,” he said, winking at the new man, Mac McKelvey. “Nothing on Stankowski, but Mac found Joseph Cermak up in Duluth."
"What?” I said, stunned by the news, then repeated, “What? What are you talking about?"
McKelvey, a thin man as tall as my own six three with a shock of unruly dark hair and a sardonic twist to his mouth for someone only twenty-one years old, said, “He decided he didn't care for Stankowski's life, but figured Cermak's was okay."
"And that's it? He just walked away? And what about those missing fifteen years?"
"Not missing anymore, at least most of them,” McKelvey continued. “From the start of the 1925 shipping season Cermak was working on ore boats right up until the Lewis J. Russell went down this spring. Never married again, never did much of anything but work, and then during the off season hang around a couple of waterfront bars that were speakeasies back during Prohibition."
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