by Will Rayner
“No, no agreement,” Twait protested. “This arrangement must remain as discreet and secret as possible. A receipt for ‘research and advice,’ if I may so suggest, will be sufficient.”
Sam paused in his writing of the receipt to watch, along with T.J., as Twait endeavored to stand up. Twait’s face became somewhat more ruddy than usual, but he accomplished the feat without mishap. After their new client had closed Sam’s door behind him, T.J. looked at his father with raised eyebrows. “Why doesn’t he just go sit on Bridges?” he suggested. “That would solve everything.”
“Not until we’ve cashed his check,” Sam said in a rare attempt at repartee.
*
After a decent interval to allow the client to vacate the premises, Sam took the check out to Agnes to deposit during the lunch hour and returned with a cablegram pad,
“We’ll tackle this job on two different fronts,” he said, reaching for his pipe. “Mr. Inside and Mr. Outside. You head for the docks straightaway — after changing your clothes.”
T.J. grasped Sam’s point immediately. His normal attire of suit, vest and tie would mark him as an outsider on the waterfront — or worse, a boss. “Right,” he said, mentally going through his wardrobe. “I’ve got an old pair of cords, a windbreaker, my cloth cap.”
“Don’t try to pass as a longshoreman, though,” Sam suggested. “Your hands are too soft. Besides, you’d be an unfamiliar face.” He got his pipe going nicely and T.J. lit a cigarette. For a few moments, both Floods pondered the role T.J. was about to play.
“I’ve got it,” T.J. said. “Remember the year I worked at that Sacramento paper, before I got into police work? I’ll be a writer, a magazine writer, hanging around, trying to ‘expose class conflict in these great United States.’” T.J.’s inflection put the last phrase into obvious quotation marks.
“Don’t get too fancy,” Sam said. “You’re down there to get a line on any Red talk. We won’t tag Bridges at the moment, but try to find out who his lieutenants are, his sidekicks. If the Communist Party is really involved, he’ll have handlers feeding him the socialist line. That’s the way those people work.”
“Meanwhile?” T.J. prompted.
“Meanwhile, I’ll be Mr. Inside. I think I can be reasonably convincing as a disillusioned American cast aside by the capitalist system, who wants to join the Party. I’ll present myself at their alleged headquarters on Jackson Street, I believe it is, and see what I can find out.”
“If you mean 65 Jackson, it’s between Drumm and Davis,” T.J. said. “Their cover name is an outfit called the Marine Workers’ Industrial Union. It was one of Benny the Bundle’s stops.”
Sam looked sharply at his son. He had forgotten that entry in T.J.’s log. Perhaps I’m going senile like Margaret, he told himself, then decided it had been an easy detail to overlook because it wasn’t relevant at the time. “Thank you, Thomas,” he said. “I think that’s the address I’m looking for.” Sam pulled the cablegram pad toward him. “We also need to know as much about this Bridges fellow’s background as we can find out. Agnes has that friend in the morgue at the Chronicle, she can check on what clippings they have. Also, I’ll send a cable to some private inquiry agents in Melbourne who are on the list as being reliable and cooperative. If Bridges is indeed from Australia, perhaps he left some skeletons behind.”
*
Margaret and Amy were appalled at Sam’s choice of attire when he came home to change. He had to explain that he was going undercover and needed his handyman duds, his battered bowler and his tired old brogans to reinforce the image of a jobless transient.
Walking toward the cable car, he pondered Margaret’s condition this day, which was normal good health. These wide swings were complicating the decisions he had to make about her future. A few days ago, Meg was withdrawn and petulant; today it was as if she had never been sick. He knew, however, that his wife’s senility could only get worse. These rational periods, he supposed, would become further and further apart. His recent trip to assess nursing homes had resulted in a choice of a likely candidate, but Sam had delayed any final decision until he had another talk with the doctor. How could he take his wife away from her home if there was any chance at all that she might get better? Sam sighed and stepped out onto Mason Street to wave down the cable car.
Chapter 7
It didn’t take T.J. long to receive a preliminary grounding in the sharp, unhappy life of the longshoreman. Shortly after drifting into a knot of pickets outside Pier 30, he found himself caught up in a discussion about safety measures.
“When we go back, we gotta have language eliminating the speedup,” the striker, whose name turned out to be Tim, said. “Them bastards are so greedy, they don’t care who gets hurt as long as the cargo gets loaded.”
“You mean they force you to rush things to get the job over, but you don’t get paid any extra?” T.J. asked.
“We get our lousy little pittance, no matter how much cargo we handle. And if your gang ain’t working fast enough, it don’t get called and ever’body starves.”
“Must be pretty dangerous, lots of accidents,” T.J. suggested.
“Oh yeah, slings breaking, loads collapsing. The push comes along and tells you to keep working, even when we tell him it ain’t safe. Say, you’re not part of this mob, what’s your angle, mister?”
“I’m doing research for an article I’m working on,” T.J. said. “Doesn’t your union have anything to say about working conditions?”
“Our former union, you mean. The Longshoremen’s Association, la-de-da. The Blue Book Union — the bosses thought it up and the bosses ran it. Sweetheart deal.”
“But we’ve got the International Longshoremen’s Association now,” added another picket. “Harry did all the work signing us up for that. It’s a workers’ union, not a bosses’ union. When we get back to work, there’s gonna be a lot of changes.”
“And a lot more money,” Tim said.
T.J. knew that ‘Harry’ meant Bridges. He was about to inquire about the whereabouts of the union leader when Tim changed the subject. “Hope you’re not writing for the Western Worker,” he said with a scornful laugh. “It’s a pretty mean little rag. Might get a bowl of soup outta them instead of a pay envelope, but that’s about it.”
“Don’t believe I’ve read that publication,” T.J. observed mildly.
“It’s Harry’s union paper,” Tim said.
“Our very own Party rag,” someone else added.
“Party as in Communist?” T.J. asked. He knew it was the kind of leading question that could easily backfire, but these guys seemed disposed to talk.
“So they say, the bosses anyway,” Tim said. “But you should ask McNully over there,” pointing his unshaven chin toward a short skinny youth talking to another group. “He’s the Worker’s star reporter.”
“Hey, here comes Harry now,” came a voice from the crowd. T.J. turned and watched as an automobile rolled slowly toward the picket line. It was an ordinary Ford sedan, but clean and well looked after. When it stopped, Harry Bridges got out of the back seat and walked over. T.J. recognized him right away from the pictures the papers kept running. He was on the short side and neatly dressed in a suit, a white shirt and a loud tie. His fedora looked too big for his small, narrow head. So did his nose, which dominated his thin face.
“How’s it going, boys?” Bridges asked in his nasal Aussie-Cockney twang. Then he turned his small, lidded eyes on Flood. “Don’t believe I’ve seen you around, mate,” he said with a challenge in his voice. “What’s your moniker?”
“Name’s Tommy Jefferson,” T.J. said, improvising easily. He had expected scrutiny and came prepared. “I’m a writer from Sacramento. Come down to visit my sister and she told me there’s lots of action at the docks. Thought I’d hang around, check things out, maybe do some stringing for the Bee, maybe a magazine article on the heavy hand of capitalism versus the free spirit of the working man. Sell it to The Atlantic or the Saturday Even
ing Post.”
Bridges looked directly at him for several seconds. T.J. hoped the union boss’s B.S. meter was on idle today because he had just laid it on a little thick. “Your sister, she wouldn’t be a strikebreaker, then, by any chance?” Bridges asked, finally.
“No damn way,” T.J. answered. “A ball-breaker, maybe.”
Bridges grinned and waited for the laughter to die down. “So you’re a writer. Well, keep your eyes peeled. There’s plenty yet to come. How’s Gerry Gray doing at the Bee?”
“Don’t know the name,” T.J. said. “I’m just a stringer, anyway. He work in the city room?”
“Sets type in the back shop, a good union man from Adelaide,” Bridges said, then turned away as McNully called his name from further down the street. He left Flood’s group with a casual wave and a final, lingering scrutiny of T.J.
So that’s Harry Bridges, T.J thought, watching him strut away. Doesn’t look like a Communist, doesn’t smell like a Communist, doesn’t talk like one. Not that I’d recognize a Communist if I tripped over one in an alley. Yet. No harangue, no inflammatory speech. Of course, Bridges would be preaching to the converted down here, anyway.
*
Sam Flood wandered aimlessly along Jackson Street, looking for all the world like a confused old geezer in need of a job or a handout. This was the exact impression Sam wanted to make; he just hoped it would pay dividends.
The area was a mixture of nondescript structures, some dating back to Barbary Coast days. Sam stood across the street from 65 Jackson and read the sign posted above the doorway: Marine Workers Industrial Union Headquarters. He crossed over just as a man came out with a broom and started to sweep the sidewalk. The man looked to be in his mid-forties, with the white hair and pale eyes typical of an albino.
He looked up as Sam approached. “G’d afternoon,” the albino said. “Looks like a nice day.”
Sam muttered something unintelligible. The man kept sweeping for a few moments, then looked over at Sam again. “Hey, Pops, looks like you could use a cup of java and a cruller. C’mon inside.” With one last flourish of the broom, he swept the last of the trash into the gutter and beckoned Sam to follow him.
The interior was dimly lit by some low-wattage wall fixtures. It was an open room, with rows of chairs lined up as for a meeting, facing a long table at the far end. A staircase led up to a balcony and some closed doors. Another table against the far wall held a coffee urn and plates of doughnuts.
“Help yourself, old-timer,” the albino said. He stuck out his hand. “My name’s Eric.”
“I’m Sam,” Sam said. He shook Eric’s hand, then helped himself to a cup of coffee. “Marine workers, eh? You fellows mixed up with those people on the docks?”
“You betcha,” Eric said. “We’re all one big happy family. Well, happy enough, I guess. There’ll be a bunch of guys dropping in off the picket line, when they’re relieved.” He looked Sam over, taking in his glasses, his slight frame, his age and the carefully cultivated evidence of deterioration. “Looking for a job? You’re not a seagoing man, I’d say.”
Sam took off his derby and absent-mindedly brushed some dust from it. “I’m afraid I’m only suitable for inside work,” he said. “But I sure could use something. Southern Pacific just laid me off. Too old, they said. I was in the passenger traffic department.”
“Those capitalist sonsofbitches don’t even bother to consider the social cost of their greed,” Eric growled. “Well, you’re not too old for us, Pop, but the Party can’t afford to hire anybody at the moment. We accept volunteers, though. Free coffee and doughnuts.”
Carefully, Sam arranged his features into a combination of enlightenment and hope. “Say, you people are Communists, aren’t you? I’ve read about the Reds taking over the unions here in the city, getting ready for the revolution and all that.”
Eric laughed. “The Party doesn’t take anybody over. The working man needs someone to go to bat for him, so they turn to us. And we’re not raving Bolsheviks ready to storm the barricades, either.”
“Don’t misunderstand me,” Sam answered. “If this country needs a new system, I’m ready to help. The present way of doing things is pretty well broken.” He was interrupted by the opening of a door on the balcony. A heavyset man came out, wearing a straw boater, and thumped down the stairs.
“Hello, you’re a new face,” the stranger said. “I’m Hank Schmidt. Has Eric here been filling your head with rosy visions?” Eric laughed again. “This is Sam,” he said. “A loyal employee of Southern Pacific, recently cast aside into the gutter. He’s finding it hard to keep his act together.”
“Well, we can offer you lots of coffee and sympathy, maybe some food vouchers and a bed in a hostel. You’re not out on the street, are you?”
“No, no, I’ve still got a couple of bucks left,” Sam said. Benny the Bundle’s flophouse address popped up in his head. “I’ve got a ten-cent room over on Mission near Sixth.”
“Well, a Party member in good standing won’t go hungry,” Schmidt promised. He turned to Eric. “Say, if Harry or Jo-Jo drop in, tell ‘em I’ve gone up to Haight Street to see if those handbills are ready,” he said, and strode out the door.
“There goes one of our intrepid leaders,” Eric said with a smile.
“Was that Harry Bridges he was talking about?” Sam asked. “I’ve read that he’s a Communist too.”
“Well, Harry is whatever Harry decides he is. But if you want to sign up, take out a Party card, we can do it right now or later, if you want to think about it.”
“I guess I’ll think about it,” Sam said. “Actually I’m feeling a little tired. Think I’ll go back to my room and have a nap before I decide.” He put down his coffee. It was awful.
Chapter 8
T.J. was aware the two men sitting in the front seat of the Model A were watching him as he navigated toward Bridges and McNully. The union boss was making a series of points, slapping his fist firmly into the open palm of his other hand with each one. McNully was furiously taking notes on some folded newsprint.
If this bird is a reporter, he might know where some of the bodies are buried, T.J. thought. Have to wait until Bridges makes himself scarce, though. This didn’t take long. Abruptly, Bridges strode back to the car and into the rear seat. With the Ford rattling along the Embarcadero, T.J. caught up with McNully while he was still scribbling.
“Hi, my name’s Tommy Jefferson and I’m a writer,” he said. “You’re McNully the reporter aren’t you?”
Up close, the kid’s face was pockmarked by acne. He had bad teeth. “That’s right, from the Western Worker,” McNully said, looking up at T.J. “Name’s Peter. Pete for short.” They shook hands.
“Say, who are the two commissars in the car with Harry?” T.J. asked, making a joke of it. “Some sort of labor muscle?”
“What’s it to you, eh, Tommy?” McNully asked. “What kind of a writer are you, if you don’t mind?”
“Oh, I’m freelance. Thinking of doing an article on the dustup down here. I’ve done some stuff for the Bee up in Sacramento.”
“The Bee, eh?” Peter answered, showing interest. “Couldn’t put a good word in for me, could you? I can’t get a leg up with any of the Frisco rags.” He stuffed his notes into one pocket of his ragged jacket. “Yeah, I guess you could call those two mugs Harry’s muscle. They’re his bodyguards - Joe Ring and Georgie Spelts. Georgie is the mastermind and Jo-Jo’s the muscle.”
“Tell me about the Western Worker,” T.J. said, falling in beside McNully as they strolled toward Bryant Street. “A weekly is it, or what?”
“Sort of, but now that the strike’s started, our publishing cycle is pretty flexible.” McNully stopped. “Wait a minute. You’re not after my job, are you? We don’t have much of a staff. I only make eight bucks a week.”
“Naw,” T.J. grinned. “Just looking for background. C’mon, I’ll spring for a cup of joe and you can fill me in.”
“Well, sure, but I’ve got
to get back to Grove Street. Harry just gave me some dope on expanding the strike. The Seamen’s Union and the licensed officers are already on our side, and Harry says the Teamsters ain’t gonna accept hot cargo by strikebreakers, either.”
In a secluded booth in an empty diner, T.J. absorbed a fount of information supplied by Pete McNully. There was a rumor, he said, about a sweetheart settlement about to be signed between the owners and the Blue Book Union’s accommodating president, a patsy by the name of William T. Lewis, but Bridges was telling the pickets to ignore it.
“Yeah, they call Mr. Bridges ‘Red Harry,’” Pete said in answer to a direct question from T.J. “Is he a card-carrying Communist like me, like some of the top guys in the union? Harry won’t say, right out. But he makes no bones about accepting help from anybody, no matter what the color of their politics is. The Western Worker is the official organ of the Communist Party of America, did you know that?” T.J. shook his head. “Well, it is, and Harry Bridges picked it as the official strike newspaper. I guess that pretty well puts him in the Communists’ corner.”
*
They found The Greek floating face down in China Basin, not far from the Third Street Bridge. The patrol unit that hauled him out noted the deceased underworld boss was fully dressed, that his pockets were empty, and there were two bullet wounds in the back of his head. At a guess, they were made by a small-caliber weapon.
The Greek’s real name was Vassilis Gatopoulis. He had been in the country illegally for twenty years, but with enough money and connections, such trifling matters as proper citizenship can be smoothed over. The boys in vice over at the Hall of Justice were mildly concerned about The Greek’s demise, because this meant a squabble was likely to break out over his gambling empire. The cops finally raided the horse wire at Penny Heaven, mostly because nobody was around to pay the weekly pad.
In homicide, Lieutenant James T. Bracken took a lively interest in the late Mr. Gatopoulis. When it turned out that The Greek had been dispatched with a .22, Bracken’s interest began maturing into deep suspicion. Benny the Bundle had been iced with a .22; now the guy he worked for had suffered the same fate. Putting two and two together, the homicide dick came up with Flood and Flood. They had definitely been connected with little Benny’s murder, so it wasn’t much of a stretch to tie them in to The Greek, too. It may have been an oversight not to search the Bush Street premises for a murder weapon, he realized now, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t lean on them a little. Sam Flood was a square enough bloke for a shamus, but that son of his was capable of pulling some dodgy stunts.