"Either they make the payments," Garner said, "or Caldwell and McFate call a strike."
Savage said, "They do more than that: they vandalize the buildings under construction, ruin machinery, destroy supplies and materials—"
"And this is only what the contractors pay, up front," Garner said, relighting his cigar. Articulate as he was, his voice was slightly halting, and soft, but deep. "They are told not to tell their client about the shakedown; oh, they can pass the cost along to their client, naturally. But they aren't to say a word about it."
"Why?" Ness asked.
Garner's smile was like a fold in leather. "Because that way Caldwell and McFate can hit the owners up later, separately—using their glass scam."
"Glass is generally the last thing to be installed in a new building or a renovated one," Curry cut in. "And Caldwell and McFate don't approach the store owner until the eve of a building's completion."
"Which puts them in a vulnerable postion," Ness said, nodding, "having already invested a small fortune in a structure that has no windows."
"Exactly," Curry said. "And won't have any windows until the 'boys' are paid off."
Ness narrowed his eyes. "You say you've talked to the building contractors; have you gotten anywhere with their clients? The owners of the stores, of the businesses, that were victimized?"
"No," Garner said.
Curry was shaking his head no, as well. "They're still scared; nobody wants their store windows smashed, after all."
"And," Garner said, "we're still on an informal basis with the building contractors. We haven't turned any into grand-jury witnesses yet."
"I'm confident we can," Ness said. "We just have to let them know that there's safety in numbers."
"What do you mean, Mr. Ness?" Savage asked.
"We must assure our potential witnesses that none of them will be called to testify at any time unless there are twenty or thirty others like them who have agreed to do the same."
Again there were nods all around.
"Also," Ness said, "we'll promise—and give—police protection, whenever necessary. We'll put witnesses up in hotels or other 'safe houses,' if that's what it takes, under twenty-four-hour armed guard."
"Can we do that?" Curry asked.
"I think he means," Chamberlin said wryly, tiny mustache twitching, "can we afford it?"
"We have the mayor's full backing on this," Ness said. "Captain Savage, your Vandal Squad is assigned to my office for the duration of this investigation. You'll report directly to me, not the chief of the Detective Bureau."
"Yes, sir," Savage said.
"We're now, all of us, a special 'shakedown squad'—our primary focus to nail McFate and Caldwell. Now, Bob Chamberlin here will be in charge during my absences. Report to him, when necessary."
"Absences?" Curry asked; others were asking the same question with their expressions.
"I have a busy schedule of speaking engagements in the coming months," Ness said, "which will take me to Boston, Milwaukee, New York—"
"Speaking engagements?" Wild said, jaw dropping open.
"You're just an observer here, Mr. Wild," Ness said, with a gently scolding smile.
"Maybe so," Curry said, "but I'm as confused as he is."
"A lot of businesses have been chased out of town by these bastards," Ness said. "I may be able to round up some witnesses outside of Cleveland—big chain-store executives, for example—who will be willing to testify. But as far as greater Cleveland is concerned, I'm simply on the road, being its goodwill ambassador, making speeches, pressing the flesh. Understood, Mr. Wild?"
"Understood, Mr. Ness." The reporter was lighting up a Lucky.
Ness rose, leaned his hands on the table. "We need trial-proof evidence, gentlemen. If we're to give our witnesses real protection, we need to put Big Jim and Little Jim in a room where there's no danger of the windows being smashed—because in place of glass there will be steel bars."
CHAPTER 6
Depression or not, Cleveland boasted one of the busiest, liveliest of American main streets: Euclid Avenue, where shoppers could stalk the big department stores—the May Company, Bailey Company, Halle Brothers, Higbee Company, and more. And so-called Playhouse Square, the concentration of theaters near upper Euclid from East Twelfth to East Eighteenth, offered theatergoers as impressive an array of entertainment as could be found this side of Chicago. Movie/vaudeville showplaces like B. F Keith's Palace, Loew's State, and the Hippodrome, as well as the legitimate stage venues of the venerable Colonial Theater and the regal Hanna Theater, brought Broadway to the midwest, their glittering marquees lighting up the nights.
Right now it was afternoon, and the marquees were unlit, but the eyes of Big Jim Caldwell were electric and alive, as he and his partner, Little Jim McFate, strolled along Euclid. His eyes were fixed upon the restaurant across the street from the Hanna Theater, a restaurant whose plum position at the intersection where Fourteenth, Euclid, and Huron met, would be money in the bank for its owner, one Vernon Gordon.
And, of course, money in the bank for Big Jim Caldwell, as well—not to mention his partner Little Jim.
Jim Caldwell, his designation as "big" notwithstanding, was the smaller of the two men, both of whom (despite the August heat) wore off-the-rack but expensive, dark, vested suits and conservative ties; Caldwell wore a derby, McFate a homburg. Stocky, genial, Caldwell was a round-faced man of forty-five years, his black hair receding at the temples, his small, dark, almond-shaped eyes magnified to a normal size by his thick-lensed, wire-frame glasses.
His companion, Jim McFate, was a lanky man a head and a half taller than Caldwell, with a long face, his eyes hooded and icy blue, his lips thin and frequently thinly smiling, A mild vein-shot reddening of the noses indicated both men drank too much, but only McFate ever drank during working hours. It had been a joke friends had inflicted upon them some time ago—calling the short, chubby Caldwell "big" and the tall, skinny McFate "little" —but good living had put pounds on Little Jim, and his paunch rivaled his partner's.
They had been together for just over five years. A West Side working-class stiff, McFate had gone from house painter to organizer for the painters union to business agent of that and several other unions—everything from barbers to bricklayers. His interests and those of Caldwell, with his positions with the glass workers and carpenters unions, soon converged. McFate had actually tried to shake Caldwell down, which had so amused the latter that he not only threw in with McFate, he put in the good word with Mo Horvitz and got Little Jim elected president of the Builders District Council, one of the city's most powerful building-trade locals.
Though the self-acknowledged "brains of the team, Caldwell was actually newer to unionism that McFate. An East Sider who came up through kid gangs, Caldwell had done well for himself as pickpocket, till he got busted in '15; after he got out, he did some free-lance strong-arm work for the wops on Mayfield Road, until he got the idea for some shakedown rackets of his own. He was hitting dry-cleaning plants and cleaning up, till he shook one down that turned out to have Mo Horvitz as a silent partner. The Jews and micks were the real powers of the Cleveland crime syndicate, and Horvitz was Cleveland's Capone; but Caldwell's ties to the Italian, Mayfield Road branch of the syndicate at least kept him from winding up in a suburban ditch.
In fact, it was Horvitz who had encouraged Caldwell to move his talents into the union field, even opening a few doors for him, particularly with the Building Service Employees union.
Big Jim Caldwell had been in the union racket—and on easy street—ever since.
Now, as he and McFate approached the brick, two-story, corner restaurant, whose GORDON'S sign consisted of a multitude of small moving white lights like those on many a Playhouse Square marquee, Caldwell paused to savor the sight of the row of boarded-up places where windows would be installed.
"Bucko," Caldwell said to his friend and partner, spreading his arms as if before a graven image, "we are about to
partake of a feast."
McFate frowned. "Place ain't even open yet, laddie. I doubt you can get served."
Folding his arms, the smaller man said, "Oh, I'll get served. You'll get served. We'll both get served. Royally." And he smiled at his friend and his friend smiled back, finally getting the drift.
The front double doors were propped open, to allow workers easy entry and exit, and to help air the place out. Caldwell went on in, McFate bringing up the rear; heat and humidity immediately assaulted them. The moisture in the air was due to the plastering that was in progress: plasterers in white coveralls, shirts, and hats were busy along one wall, with their hawks and trowels, while across the wide room carpenters were nailing up lath along another wall, in preparation for the plasterers. The woodwork, unfinished, was already in; so were the booths, though they lacked the leather seats and backs that would be dropped in. Though the floor was bare but for sawdust, though no tables or chairs were in place, though not even a cash register was in sight, this dining room was almost complete. In little more than a week it would be open for business. People would be eating here.
That is, Big Jim Caldwell knew, they would be if Vernon Gordon played it smart.
Right now Vernon Gordon was standing in rolled-up shirt-sleeves, his tie loose, his brown pants plaster-smudged, hands on hips, surveying the work in progress with a tight, businesslike smile. An average-looking, brown-haired man of thirty-two with a sharp-featured, intelligent face, he might have been another worker. At best, a foreman. He was not: he was the boss; the owner, or at least one of them.
Caldwell was well aware that the success of the Gordon's restaurant chain was due to Vernon Gordon's business sense and hard work. Gordon had gotten out of business college in '24 and expanded his farmer father's modestly successful buttermilk stand in the Old Arcade by adding a lunchroom on Eighth Street, then a restaurant in the Citizen's Building, and gradually facilities in Detroit, Pittsburgh, and New York. Caldwell knew very well that Gordon was smart and shrewd, all right. But that didn't mean that he would be any less vulnerable to Caldwell's pressure.
"Hard to believe folks will be dining in this damp, dusty hellhole," Caldwell said pleasantly, "just days from now."
Turning at the sound of Caldwell's well-modulated voice, Gordon noticed the two men for the first time; the faintest grimace, which he suppressed, tipped his true feelings.
But he said, as pleasantly as Caldwell, "Good afternoon, gents. Yes, it's hard to believe how close to feeding the public we are at this stage . . . but we will tidy up a bit first. We'll begin painting tomorrow. Then the glass goes in, the light fixtures and, well... all the trimmings."
"Have to give you credit," Caldwell said, tucking his gripped hands at the small of his back, rocking on his heels, "for being one savvy businessman. Figuring that the common folks, who can't afford the Bronze Room, need a nice place to stop by after the show for a bite." He whistled. "I guess landing this corner doesn't come cheap."
Gordon's smile was as momentary as a twitch. He said, "No it doesn't. I don't find much comes cheap when it comes to renovation."
From behind Caldwell the solemn McFate nodded and said, "Wise words."
"It'd be a pity, wouldn't it?" Caldwell said abruptly.
"What would?" Gordon asked.
"If you couldn't open."
Gordon bit off the words: "And why would that be?"
"You're leasing these premises, aren't you?"
"I own this business, but I am leasing the property, yes."
"At a rate of fifteen hundred dollars a month, I believe."
Gordon said nothing; his eyes narrowed to slits.
McFate made a clicking sound in his cheek; his expression was mournful. "One hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars remodeling expenses, we hear."
Irritably, Gordon said, "More like one hundred and fifty. My contractors use strictly union labor, as you boys well know."
Caldwell sighed. He pointed over to a corner of the room where the wall was nailed with lath, ready for the plasterers; but at the moment it was deserted, but for an empty mortar boat waiting to be filled with horsehair-laced plaster.
"Step over to my office, Mr. Gordon," Caldwell said.
And without waiting, Caldwell walked over to that quiet corner, with McFate following dutifully. Gordon paused, rooted in the spot, clenching and unclenching his hands, his jaw.
Then he sighed heavily and joined the two men.
The background sound of work, the hammering in particular, kept their conversation private. Gordon's expression was one of anger mixed with fatigue; McFate had the dour look of a hanging judge, while Caldwell remained as cheery as a department-store Santa.
"We're calling the painters and glaziers off the job tomorrow," Caldwell said. Ho ho ho.
Gordon's eyes showed the white all around. "You're what?"
"I believe you heard me."
"Why? I've met all the requirements of your various goddamn unions ... I pay on time, I—"
"I'm glad to hear that."
"What?"
"That you pay on time. Because it's going to cost you two thousand dollars."
"For what in hell?"
"For us to tell our people to go back on the job. You see, my friend Mr. McFate here and I may have to step in to settle a jurisdictional dispute amongst several of the unions involved in this renovation of yours."
"This is outright extortion."
"It's business, Mr. Gordon. You know all about business. You're one of the up-and-coming young businessmen in this city, after all. In this nation. Do the right thing, Mr. Gordon. Do what's right for business."
"I'll go to the police. I'll go to Ness."
"You'll go there without windows. You'll go there with unpainted walls. This conversation, by the by, is one we haven't had. Neither my partner here nor I will have any memory of it. What we will have is a list of grievances longer than an elephant's dick, and we'll call a strike and you won't be able to do anything except sit in here and look at your unpainted walls, your unfinished woodwork, and these unsightly boards blocking the lovely view of Playhouse Square designed for all the customers you won't be able to seat."
Gordon's face was as white as the plasterers' coveralls. Whiter. He pointed to the door like a merciless father sending his fallen daughter away. His voice was trembling with rage. "Get. Out."
"Talk to your business partners. I'll need a decision by"—Caldwell withdrew his pocket watch from his vest and made a show of studying it—"eight tonight. I'll be back personally for your decision."
Almost yelling, Gordon said, "Get the hell out! Both of you!"
At this, the hammering stopped; the plasterers in their whites and the carpenters in their coveralls looked at the two union reps who were leaving, smiling and waving at the men as they went, like politicians on parade. Several of the workers grinned and waved back. Others had looks of disgust and did not.
By eight that evening, however, the interior of the unfinished Gordon's restaurant was empty, but for Vernon Gordon and Big Jim Caldwell.
Gordon, wearing a suit and tie now, stood in the midst of the big empty room like an actor about to do a monologue on a stage. Outside, the myriad moving lights of marquees were making a glowing Great White Way of Playhouse Square; but the GORDON'S sign was not yet lit, and the interior was barely lighted by a single jury-rigged hanging bulb. The unfinished dining room, sawdust and plaster stains on the uncarpeted floor, was shadowy and cool, now, the heat and humidity having left with the workers and the daylight.
It was a weary, resigned Gordon who said to Big Jim Caldwell, who had come alone, "I've talked to the other officers of my company. The consensus—with which I don't agree, not that it would matter to you—is that we should consider this a business expense, and pay."
"I think that's a wise decision," Caldwell said brightly.
Gordon cocked his head. "But business expenses need to be reasonable."
"Reasonable. And what do you and your of
ficers consider reasonable?"
"Five hundred dollars."
Caldwell's affable mask dropped and he spat out the words. "No way in fucking hell. Two thousand or be damned!"
Gordon was taken aback, as if a furnace door had opened and flames reached out for him. Swallowing he said, "Six hundred, then."
"No. Not enough. Two thousand. I got to have two thousand."
"That's unreasonable."
Caldwell thumped the restaurateur's chest with a stubby finger. "Maybe you could put up a new sign: Gordon's Open Air Cafe, 'cause without windows, my friend, that is what you'll have."
Impulsively, Gordon blurted, "One thousand, damn it. I can't go a nickel higher."
"For two thousand," Caldwell said smoothly, "I'll see to it you get nothing but the best. Not just plate glass, but bulletproof glass."
"No. One thousand is my top offer."
"Two thousand."
"Be reasonable, man!"
"Two thousand."
Gordon stood shaking his head, thinking. Then, through his teeth, he said, "I want to open. I want to open my goddamn restaurant up. We'll go fifteen hundred. I'm not authorized by my officers to go that high, but I'll go back to them, if you agree to take it, and ask them to authorize it."
Caldwell considered that. "And if they don't authorize it?"
Gordon spat out his response: "I'll kick in the extra five hundred, out of my own pocket."
Caldwell began to smile. He rocked on his heels. "Well. Compromise is the better part of valor, they say."
Gordon said nothing, but anxiety was flickering in his eyes.
"All right," Caldwell said. "We'll settle on fifteen hundred. But the glass installed is going to be standard plate glass, not bulletproof."
"Fine, fine, fine. Whatever you say."
"As far as payment goes, we'll need it in cash, of course."
"Do you want me to deliver it to you, at the union hall?"
"No! I'll have my associate Mr. McFate stop by. You'll go for a ride in his Lincoln sedan."
BULLET PROOF (Eliot Ness) Page 6