Caldwell moved dangerously close to Ness. The stocky man's eyes were hard behind the wire-framed glasses. He said, "If you attack us like this again, pally, we'll stop you. Whatever it takes."
McFate said, "We'll stop you, you little prick."
"Boys," Ness said, going to his side door, opening it, and gesturing gently with one hand for them to make use of the exit, "haven't you heard about people in glass houses?"
They had no answer to that.
Gathering what remained of their dignity, but leaving a good deal of the smell behind, Big Jim and Little Jim stormed out. Ness shut the door hard on them—but not so hard as to break the pebbled glass. He'd hate like hell to have to replace it right now.
CHAPTER 12
Sam Wild was nervous.
He wasn't a nervous man by disposition. In fact, he took most everything in stride; when you'd worked as many beats as he had, from politics to police, from four-alarm fires to auto fatalities, not much of anything shook you.
Tonight, he was shaking. Gently, but shaking, the match with which he was lighting his Lucky Strike trembling as if in a breeze, only there wasn't a breeze. It was a night (just after ten P.M.) as hot and dry as the back room of a bakery. The reporter was parked on East Seventeenth in a Chevy sedan that belonged to his paper, waiting for Jack Whitehall, the hard-nosed Teamster organizer who, it turned out, was a friend of Ness.
Of all things, of all people. Wild wondered if the day would ever come when Mr. Eliot Ness would run out of surprises for him. This time it was a real corker: the black sheep of the Cleveland labor scene turns out to be an old co-worker of the safety director's from a South Side Chicago factory. This one just about topped 'em all.
Over the past few days he and Whitehall had met several times in a saloon near the food terminal, where Whitehall had a major organizing effort under way. Whitehall had told Wild about the blacklist.
"So who's on this list, anyway?" Wild had asked.
"Stores that haven't cooperated with Caldwell and McFate," Whitehall said. "Businesses that aren't paying tribute to Caldwell's window washers union."
"So we're talking about windows that are going to get smashed."
"And windows that have already been smashed. Nobody on the blacklist can buy glass in the city of Cleveland— not till they come to terms with Big Jim and Little Jim."
"And Ness says a copy of this list would make his case."
"That's right. Only he doesn't know any legal way to get his hands on a copy."
Which, of course, was where Wild and Whitehall came in.
Wild smiled and sucked his Lucky, his third since he'd parked here. Without even coming out and asking, the safety director had relegated his dirty work to a member of the Fourth Estate and a representative of the local labor movement. Didn't that just about take the fucking cake.
And now here Wild sat, just down the block from the narrow six-story brick building where, on the third floor, Big Jim and Little Jim kept their union headquarters. At first he'd argued against ransacking Caldwell's office for the list.
"It'd be easier to pull one of 'em out of a glass-company office," Wild had said. "Those places are warehouse affairs, in industrial areas with easy access. You could probably walk right in during business hours, find a place to hide, and wait till—"
"No," Whitehall had said flatly. "The list would turn up missing and there'd be a stink. At the union there's gonna be multiple copies. There's got to be, 'cause Caldwell's giving the list to all the glass companies in town, and to whatever goon or goons are doing his window smashing for him. And then he's got to update it, periodically."
"So," Wild said, reluctantly seeing the logic of it, "you figure there's a stack of 'em someplace in Caldwell's office. We could grab one off the stack, and nobody'd be the wiser. It'd never be missed."
"Right."
Their objective, then, was the union headquarters in that nondescript six-story office building, one of many on the fringes of the downtown, the kind of marginal facility that thrived on mail-order companies, low-rent shysters, and abortionists. There would be no night watchman, and should be little trouble breaking in. Your classic lead-pipe cinch.
Only there was one major hitch: the building, on East Seventeenth near Payne, was about a block and a half from the Central Police Station. Cop cars were constantly cutting down Seventeenth from Payne to get to Euclid. An all-night, white-tile, one-arm restaurant in the next building, just across the alley, was frequented by a heavy police clientele. You couldn't find more cops this side of a Saint Paddy Day's parade.
So. In doing the unspoken bidding of the safety director—who, if his two friends were caught in the act, would no doubt profess disappointment in their lack of moral turpitude—Wild was preparing to burglarize a building within spitting distance of half the boys in blue in the city of Cleveland. What a dandy idea.
"Ready?"
Wild damn near dropped his Lucky in his lap, like to burn his nuts off. He hadn't seen or heard Whitehall approach. Now he looked over and the lantern-jawed, sleepy-eyed roughneck was framed in the car's open window on the rider's side. The bastard even seemed faintly amused.
"Sure," Wild said, with a nasty little smirk. "I'm always ready to risk my ass, and my paper's reputation, for the sake of unionism and Eliot fuckin' Ness."
"Come on, then."
Wild slipped out of the car and joined Whitehall on the sidewalk. Whitehall was wearing dark trousers and a dark blue work shirt with the sleeves rolled up on bulging biceps. Wild was wearing dark clothing himself, which was a change for him. But you don't wear white seersucker on burglaries.
The two men, both tall, Wild as lean as Whitehall was brawny, did not exactly make an inconspicuous pair as they walked down the deserted sidewalk along the busy street past the thriving, cop-filled one-arm joint. Several cops exited the restaurant, heading back to the Central Station on foot just as Wild and Whitehall were strolling by, but paid them no notice.
When the cops had rounded the corner, Whitehall and Wild ducked into the alley. From behind a garbage can, Whitehall withdrew a tool belt, which he slung around his waist; he tucked a pair of padded work gloves behind the tool belt. Then, standing fairly near the side of the building where the union headquarters was housed, Whitehall crouched, his feet planted firmly under him, and locked his hands together, palms up, and said, "Here."
"Where?"
Whitehall glowered and looked up sharply.
Above was the fire escape, which ran across the entire side wall of the building, forming black metal mesh Z's, ending a flight above the alley.
"Oh," Wild said, and put a foot in Whitehall's hands and allowed himself to be boosted to where he could pull down the counterbalanced fire escape stairs. As they swung down under Wild's grasp, Whitehall dodged out of the way, but reached out as he did to brace the stairs, so they didn't clang to the alley floor.
The two men paused, glancing out toward the sidewalk and street beyond the mouth of the alley, watching for cops.
Seeing none, Whitehall shrugged at Wild and Wild shrugged at Whitehall and they went on up the fire escape, the Teamster first. The stairs swung up after them as they went on up to the third floor level, where they walked along the catwalk to the window that looked in on Caldwell's office.
Nothing of the office could be seen, however, as the lights were off within and the window was burglar-proof wire glass.
Wild, already damp with sweat, whispered, "Got something on that tool belt to pry it open?"
"That sash is cast iron," Whitehall said. "I'm not sure I could pry it open, and if I did, it'd make a hell of a racket."
"What, then?"
Whitehall took a roll of masking tape from a pouch on the belt. He tore off long strips of the tape and began to cover the window with them. It seemed to Wild to take forever. The reporter could see the mouth of the alley from up here, and he kept glancing back that way. No cops.
When the window was crisscrossed with tape, till it
seemed made more of tape than glass, Whitehall pulled his work gloves off the belt.
"How's it look?" Whitehall asked, snugging on the gloves.
Wild kept his eyes fixed on the mouth of the alley. "Fine."
Whitehall drew his fist back, about five inches from the center of the taped-over window; his bicep was tight and round and heavily veined.
Wild gripped Whitehall's shoulder.
Whitehall froze, glanced back. Two cops were standing at the mouth of the alley, talking. Their voices were barely audible, but then one of them laughed. The laughter echoed down the alley. Wild had plastered himself to the side of the building. Whitehall hadn't shifted his position, other than to relax his arm; but he was as motionless as a statue.
Footsteps resonated hollowly.
Wild held his breath, getting religion as the cop walked down the alley.
Whitehall remained inanimate as stone.
The cop stopped near the garbage cans below, where Whitehall had stowed his tool belt.
Wild couldn't see the man, now. The officer was under the fire escape, facing the building, that much Wild knew. He held his breath. Listened. Silence.
Then came the sound of a man pissing against a brick wall.
Tentatively, Wild allowed himself to breathe. The statue on the fire escape next to him began to smile, faintly.
Footsteps clip-clopped back up and out the alley, and the two cops were gone.
"That was some feat that bull pulled off," Whitehall said softly.
"Huh?"
"He emptied the piss out himself," Whitehall said, "and scared the piss out of me."
Wild smiled at that, and relaxed a little, then Whitehall smashed his fist into the taped-up window and Wild damn near fell off the 'scape.
But there wasn't much noise. A simple cracking was all.
They paused and waited, watching the alley again, seeing if anybody reacted to the sound, slight as it was.
No one did.
Whitehall returned to his work, picking out the pieces of glass, handing them to Wild, whose hands were cupped; but the wire mesh remained, and glass on the other side of the mesh clung.
"Fuck," Whitehall said. "I thought maybe I could make a hole and get my hand through and unlock this fucking thing. No such luck."
By this point Wild had a precarious house of shards in his cupped, gloveless hands.
"Go down and put those in one of the garbage cans," Whitehall said. "Quietly. Don't take your foot off the step, or the counterweight'll swing the 'scape up."
Wild swallowed and nodded and moved as quietly as he could along the wrought-iron walkway, maneuvering the stairs and keeping his balance though his bare hands were filled with jagged chips and chunks of glass. The most awkward part was getting the counterbalanced final flight of stairs to go down without spilling his brittle cargo, which he deposited as soundlessly as he could in the nearest open can, keeping one foot on the lower step. Then he went back up and got a second load of glass and repeated the procedure.
Whitehall was using wire cutters, clipping along the edges of the window at the wire mesh. Each little snip seemed loud as rifle shots to Wild, whose nervousness was turning into nausea. But the mouth of the alley remained empty of police, or anyone else, for that matter.
Finally Whitehall had snipped an upper corner area of the window sufficiently to push in the netting and the glass that clung to it; splinters and slivers of the already cracked glass gently showered the floor beyond. Whitehall rolled down his right sleeve, tucked the cuff under the glove and reached his hand in and around and unlatched the window.
Then they were over the sill and into Caldwell's office, the glass crackling under their heels. Whitehall left the window open behind them, but pulled the shade. Wild waited as his fellow trespasser walked across the dark room with the sureness of a blind man in his own home, and found the overhead light switch.
"Christ," Wild said, "wouldn't flashlights be better?"
"Why, did you bring some?"
"Well, no . . ."
"It would take forever with flashlights, Wild. With the lights on, we can make quick work of this."
"Where shall we start?"
"You take the desk. I'll take the file cabinets. Don't be tidy. We want 'em to think we were looking for money or valuables."
Wild nodded and went to work.
The desk was mostly empty. A box of Havana cigars, which Wild helped himself to a couple of, was about it. No sign of anything having to do with actual office work, let alone a box of blacklists.
Whitehall, standing at the oak file cabinets, was taking longer.
Wild called over to him, sotto voce. "Anything?"
"No. Just membership records, dues, some business ledgers. Standard stuff. Try that closet, why don't you?"
Wild went over and opened the closet door and said, "Shit."
"What is it?"
"A safe. A short fat squat safe."
Whitehall walked over and had a look. He said nothing.
"Safecracking isn't in my repertoire," Wild said. "How about you? Got some nitro in that tool belt?"
Whitehall looked the rest of the closet over; there were some shelves, but they were empty.
"Let's take a look out in the outer office," Whitehall said.
They went into the reception area, leaving the inner office door open, letting some light in, not turning on a light in there. Might attract a janitor's attention, Whitehall said.
"I'll take the desk," Whitehall said. "Check out that closet."
"If there's another safe in it, I'll spare you the sad news."
"Quiet," Whitehall said harshly, reaching over and pulling the door to the inner office mostly closed, putting the reception area into darkness.
Listening, Wild squinted in the dark, as if it would make him hear better.
Footsteps.
Then the familiar squeaking sound of a bucket and mop being pushed along. The flop and splash of the wet mop followed. The two men breathed easier, but they breathed quietly. If the cleaning woman out there heard them, noticed them in any way, that greasy spoon full of cops was only a scream away.
Wild was leaning on the knob of the closet door and Whitehall was sitting on the edge of the desk when the squeaking rolled on and faded and, finally, left them alone again.
Whitehall let some more light in from the inner office and said, "Nothing in the receptionist's drawers." Then he smiled. "Actually, I've seen the dame. There's plenty in her drawers."
Wild laughed a little at that; he was pleased to see some humor and humanity in the hulking Teamster. "Let me just finish up this closet," the reporter said.
It was a supply closet. Actual work was done out here. Typing paper, ribbons, various forms and application blanks neatly boxed and shelved.
And, in a box on the upper shelf, a stack of stapled sheets; each document, four mimeograph pages in length, listed various merchants in the city of Cleveland. A cover sheet, on Window Washers Union letterhead, said, "The following have been deemed unfair to our local."
Wild took one copy and put the box back on its high shelf.
His nervousness was gone, but he was, suddenly, famished.
Whitehall, who had come up behind him, was looking over Wild's shoulder at the list of business addresses.
"Want to blow this dump and get a bite to eat?" Wild asked the Teamster. "I hear that little one-arm joint next door ain't bad. All the cops eat there."
CHAPTER 13
The mahogany-paneled, marble-floored banquet room on the twelfth floor of the Hollenden Hotel was packed with restless humanity. More than one hundred of the one hundred and twenty-five whose presence had been requested by Chamber of Commerce president Frank Darby had shown up for the afternoon meeting, which had been given the vaguely compelling title, "Cleveland's Brighter Business Tomorrow: A Plan of Action."
The businessmen, seated in chairs facing the riser on which a lectern awaited a speaker, had no notion of the real reason for the
gathering. Cigar and cigarette smoke and impatient murmuring mingled in the air.
Eliot Ness, the man who had unbeknownst to them called this meeting, was late.
He had been caught going out the door of his office by a phone call. But that phone call had been important enough to risk the annoyance of the captive audience that awaited him a few blocks away.
"Eliot," the voice said, "how is Cleveland treating you?"
"Fine, Elmer," Ness said, sitting back down at his rolltop desk. "Are you calling from Washington?"
Elmer Irey was the chief of the Special Intelligence Unit of the Internal Revenue Service. Irey had been the Treasury Department counterpart of Justice Department agent Ness in the two-pronged federal assault on Al Capone.
"I am calling from Washington," Irey said. "I'm not out in the field much these days, I'm afraid."
"I doubt they can keep you behind a desk for long."
"Well. . ." Irey trailed off.
Irey was a modest, soft-spoken, genuinely nice man; but Ness had a somewhat awkward, strained relationship with him. This stemmed from two things: Ness and his "untouchables" had gotten much more press attention in the Capone bust than their IRS allies; and Ness had let Irey know he didn't approve of the Treasury Department going along with a plea bargain for Capone, which to the embarrassment of Irey and others was rejected derisively by the judge in the case.
"Were you able to check out those returns for me, Elmer? I know I'm trying to do a bit of an end run by coming to you . . ."
"Nonsense. We've helped each other before, and I trust we'll help each other again. Although I'm afraid I may not have been of much help, in this instance. Both Mr. Caldwell and Mr. McFate would appear to be law-abiding citizens, at least as regards their taxes. They file returns—on six-figure incomes, I might add—and pay their Uncle Sam his due."
"They do a lot of cash business. Payoffs under viaducts, back-alley bribes, that kind of thing."
"Well," Irey sighed, "we might well turn that up in a full investigation. And I would certainly take it seriously if you felt such an investigation was worth my unit's time. But I don't have to tell you the difficulty of tracing such transactions."
BULLET PROOF (Eliot Ness) Page 11