MURDER BY THE NUMBERS (Eliot Ness)

by Max Allan Collins

  "They must know you in a lot of towns by now."

  "That they do."

  "Might be nice to settle down."

  "That it would."

  "You ain't been able to light in one place since the old days."

  Slippery had been one of the most successful independent numbers operators on the east side, before the Italians moved in.

  "That's a fact. Jack."

  "Wouldn't it be sweet if them tally fuckers would take a hike."

  "That it would."

  "Like to help 'em?"

  "Yeah, boss, and I'd like to hit my number for about ten grand, too."

  "Didn't Scalise and Lombardi themselfs put the muscle on you, Slip? Way back when?"

  "That they did. They done it personal. Lombardi watched and Scalise beat the ever-lovin', ever-livin' shit out of me."

  "They say Scalise tossed acid in your face."

  "That's a fact, Jack. Damn near blinded me."

  And Slippery took off his glasses; Curry flinched on seeing the scar tissue around the man's eyes. Slippery was a handsome man, but his scars weren't.

  "Good thing I seen it comin'," Slippery said, sliding the shades back on, "and shut my peepers. Or I'd done lost my only other money-makin' knack. Blind men shoot piss-poor pool, you know."

  Johnson walked over close to Slippery; he put a hand on the man's shoulder. "We puttin' together a Grand Jury. We gonna boot them tally fuckers outa the Roarin' Third."

  "You and what the fuck army?"

  "Me and Eliot Ness," Johnson grinned.

  Fifteen minutes of explanation later, Johnson and Curry were back in the Chevy sedan, driving to their next destination.

  "Sounds like he might cooperate," Curry said.

  "He will," Johnson said. "He hates them bastards much as me."

  The next stop was a tenement that even by Scovill Avenue standards was vile. Three old men, wrapped in threadbare sweaters and frayed mufflers, sat in kitchen chairs on the sidewalk right up against the front of the dilapidated frame building; it was even money whether the building was propping up the old men or vice versa. It wasn't a cold afternoon, but was chilly enough, and the old men's breath rose like steam. Johnson and Curry entered the building and walked down a long, narrow, dark, urine-scented hallway, the only light coming from one hanging bulb. The walls were whitewashed, or had been once, before filth and obscene graffiti had taken over. Curry blinked at the sight of a gigantic phallus with a comic-strip speech balloon hovering over it, saying, "Fuk fuk fuk." Johnson, a literate man, was dismayed himself—-kids couldn't spell for shit no more.

  They climbed three floors of dark stairs, occasionally skirting a wino or necking teenagers, and Johnson banged his fist on a numberless door, three times. The door shook from the blows.

  "I can't stop you," a ragged male voice from within said.

  Johnson opened the door and Curry meekly followed; the white boy's eyes were as round and white as Stepin Fetchit's.

  It was a small, one-room apartment with cracked plaster walls, against one of which was a faded red overstuffed sofa that was sprouting its springs. Against another was a battered steel bed, its white paint chipping away, its tattered blankets and dirty sheets mingling in an unmade pile, one of its two pillows greasy with hair oil. Nearby was a chest of drawers with a catalog substituting for one busted-off leg and a cracked marble top bearing a single-burner gas plate. Near that was a small square table stacked with dirty dishes, and under the table was a cracked porcelain washbowl and pitcher. The water source was a single tap down at the base-board, with several feet of garden-type hose attached. A single drop light hung like a noose from the center of the cracked ceiling. In back a rusted potbelly stove crouched beside a wooden box of coal. There was no bathroom.

  A skinny black man in a T-shirt and shabby dungarees, thirty-some years of age, stood in the center of the room, just under the hanging light, as if contemplating tying its cord around his neck. His eyes were muddy, his posture stooped, his greased-back hair the only remaining sign of the street-smart slick hep cat he had been not.so long ago.

  "The man," he said, hollowly, looking at Toussaint.

  "Hello, Eli."

  "Can't offer you nothin'. Nothin' to drink right now."

  "We'll just sit, then."

  Johnson motioned to Curry and the two cops sat on the shabby sofa; a spring jabbed Curry in the ass, and he moved quickly to one side.

  Eli stood before them. He looked weak, but he wasn't shaking, and he wasn't tottering,

  "Are you on the sauce, Eli?"

  "No, sir."

  "Stickin' anything in your arm? Up your nose?"

  "No, sir."

  "What are you doin', then?"

  "Tryin' to get myself back on my feet, sir."

  "Looking for work?"

  "I will be, sir. Can't go back to numbers runnin', not in this town."

  "I hear Scalise had some boys beat you up, while back."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Why is that, Eli?"

  "I was diddlin' this little high-yeller gal."

  "Ah. Dancer at the Cedar Garden nightclub."

  "Yes, sir. They calls her Ginger. Mr. Scalise was diddlin' her, too. I didn't mind. That comes with the territory, don't it?"

  "Seems to, Eli."

  "But he minded me diddlin' her. They busted me up pretty good."

  "What about the girl?"

  "She left town. She went to Chicago town. I might look her up there, when I gets on my feet."

  "Did Scalise do any beatin' on you himself, Eli?"

  "Yes, sir, he did."

  "Would you testify to that?"

  "No, sir, I would not."

  "What if you had immunity?"

  "What's that, sir?"

  Johnson told him.

  "I likes the sound of that. But Mr. Scalise is a bad motherfucker. He'd kill a black man soon as look at him."

  "That right there is a good reason to testify, Eli. You heard of Eliot Ness?"

  "Sure."

  "How 'bout Reverend Hollis, the Future Outlook League?"

  "Everybody heard of Reverend Hollis."

  Johnson patted the sofa cushion next to him. "Sit down with us, Eli. This is Detective Curry, from the office of Eliot Ness. We want to talk to you."

  In the car, Curry said, "I think that fellow could clean up into a damn good witness."

  "So do I."

  "He'll talk, won't he?"

  "If he don't kill himself first."

  "Kill himself?"

  "He been curled up in that rat-hole healing himself. From that beating. Scalise took his girl, took his pride. Some wounds don't heal over."

  Their next stop was a yellow Victorian on 46th off Carnegie, just west of Central-Scovill. The neighborhood was just one small grade up from the nearby slum, and many of the houses—single-family dwellings intermingling with larger rooming-house buildings—were pretty run-down. But the house that belonged to John C. Washington, retired policy king, was well kept-up; it even had a picket fence to make it seem almost idyllic—and to separate it from its more ramshackle neighbors.

  When Washington had bought this property years ago, this neighborhood was a real step up from the slums; but the slums had spread like a disease, though Washington's dwelling had remained immune, an island of relative affluence. In the last several years, some buildings of the nearby slum area had been, and continued to be, torn down, as the WPA housing projects inexorably took their place.

  "Toussaint, you are always welcome here," Washington said warmly, ushering Johnson and Curry through the vestibule, past the second-floor stairs, into the living room.

  The living room was a small but beautifully furnished affair, floral wallpaper, oriental rugs, fringed draperies, wood-and-cut-glass bookcase, fireplace, on the mantel of which were portraits of relatives as well as a large one of elaborately uniformed Marcus Garvey of Back-to-Africa fame. Through a wide archway was the dining room, another small but perfect room, with a long win
dow seat where potted plants sat near sheer drapes.

  Dignified and well-spoken, Washington was a lanky, handsome man of fifty-some years; his skin was a dark, lustrous black, his hair short, his apparel immaculate and expensive—he wore a white shirt and blue silk tie with tiny white polka dots, an English-tailored suit and white-and-black shoes. He had a superficial air of culture and the faintest southern accent, hinting at his illiterate sharecropper roots.

  "Please sit down, gentlemen," Washington said, settling himself in an overstuffed green chair with doilies on the arms. A standing lamp with a fancy fringed shade looked over his shoulder.

  Johnson and Curry sat on a nearby divan.

  "You look well, Johnny," Johnson said.

  "Life is sweet," Washington said solemnly.

  "It could be sweeter."

  Washington gestured around himself. "How?"

  "You could still be policy king."

  He waved that off. "I'm retired from that field."

  A small, beautiful mulatto woman in her late thirties floated in from the dining room. She wore a pink crepe dress with a pearl necklace and a floral brooch. A handsome woman with a big fine ass, Johnson thought; Washington's former-showgirl wife Velma.

  There were no introductions; Velma knew Johnson, and Curry was regarded as an invisible man.

  "Would you men like some coffee, or tea?"

  Washington requested tea and Johnson said that would be fine, too. Curry added a nervous third to the tally.

  When she was gone, Washington said, "I can anticipate what you're after, Toussaint—the good Reverend Hollis paid me a visit late last night."

  "So you know the score."

  "I always do. What good does rocking the boat do? I have no yearning to get back in that business. I have legitimate interests now—real estate, a few restaurants ..."

  "You might be livin' in a better neighborhood, if Lombardi and Scalise hadn't come along."

  "I have a nice home."

  "What'll this neighborhood look like in five years? Ten? You got a young pretty wife, Johnny."

  Irritation creased Washington's smooth, seemingly unused face. "I can take care of myself and my wife, Toussaint."

  "You and your bodyguards, maybe. Why does a man who ain't in the rackets no more still move about with body-guards?"

  Washington shifted in his chair. "Any successful businessman is at risk. We live and work in a community that has more than its share of risks. You know that better than most—you're in the police business."

  "I think it's 'cause you a nervous man, Johnny. Nervous ever since Scalise beat the hell out of you."

  "Toussaint ... I invited you into my home ..."

  Mrs. Washington returned with a silver tray on which were three cups of tea and a small bowl of sugar.

  "If anyone would like cream," she said, "I can oblige."

  No one did. The woman picked up on the tenseness in the air, quickly and efficiently served the cups of tea around, and left with grace and haste.

  Johnson sipped his steaming tea. "I think you're still afraid, Johnny."

  Washington's tea sat on a coaster on the small table beside him. His face was as blank as a baby's.

  "No denying it, is there, Johnny?"

  Washington looked at the floor. He seemed to be trying to decide whether or not to get mad.

  Johnson sat forward. "There's a goddamn good reason why you should testify. Reasons beyond the fact that you're gonna be safe. Reasons beyond the fact that it could pay off for you, financially."

  Washington smiled humorlessly. "And what reason is that, Toussaint?"

  "The best reason there is, Johnny. Revenge."

  Washington thought about that.

  "If black men wasted time revenging themselves on white men," Washington said finally, "where would we be?"

  "Where are we now?" Toussaint Johnson asked.

  TWO

  JANUARY 9-1O, 1939

  CHAPTER 10

  Normally on a Monday, with a City Council meeting coming up at seven-thirty, Ness would have stayed in his office and worked straight through. But it was Ev's birthday and he had promised her they'd have supper together at the boathouse; then he could drive back and catch an hour or so of the meeting, for appearance sake, and return for a quiet evening with her.

  He first met Ev MacMillan in Chicago, seven or eight years before, when he was still heading up the Justice Department's prohibition unit in Chicago. Daughter of a prominent stockbroker, she was really just a kid then, a fresh-faced art student; and Ness—married at the time—had taken notice of the attractive girl, but nothing more.

  Then, a little over a year ago, at the Michigan-Chicago football game at Ann Arbor, he ran into her and some chums of hers at the stadium. He and Bob Chamberlin were staying at the same hotel as Ev, and she and her friends joined them for dinner. She had flirted with him, and he repaid the compliment, and as the wine flowed, things got friendly.

  But sobering news, by way of a phone call, interrupted the proceedings: Ness's mother had died that afternoon.

  Even though their relationship was but a few hours old, Ev insisted on accompanying him back to Chicago—she lived there, after all; and the two of them, still a little drunk, shared a compartment together and he cried in her arms. The thought should have embarrassed him, sober, over a year later, but it didn't.

  He had stayed in Chicago for several days tying up family loose ends, and doing some work on the Chicago aspects of the then ongoing labor racketeering investigation. She had stayed by his side. Day and night.

  And when it was time to return to Cleveland, she came with him—not to stay. Just to see if he was telling the truth when he whispered, "Cleveland is very beautiful during the wintertime." He didn't think she'd found it beautiful at all; gray, dirty Cleveland hardly suited her artistic sensibilities.

  But Ness himself, apparently, did suit her; because she began applying for jobs on that very first visit. She was a gifted artist who had already illustrated several children's books for New York publishers, and he didn't have to pull a single string for her to land her job as fashion illustrator at Higbee's department store. A few months later, she moved to what she was inclined to call "the dullest, dirtiest city on earth."

  Ev had no complaints, however, about the boathouse hide-away in posh suburban Lakewood. The boathouse, which belonged to one of the Burton/Ness financial "angels," was on Clifton Lagoon, the deepest mooring point on Lake Erie; the boathouse was in an exclusive subdivision with a private, guarded drive and high-tone occupants. Ness was probably the only non-millionaire of the bunch.

  She had waited till after the November elections to move in with him; but there had been no direct talk of marriage. Apolitical though he was, Ness did not want to cause Mayor Burton any problems, nor did he want to endanger his own job. Cleveland was a conservative, predominantly Catholic community and Ness marrying for a second time would be viewed with disapproval by many a voter.

  Setting up unmarried housekeeping together might seem dangerous in and of itself, but Ness was in so tight with the newspaper boys that the Ness/MacMillan cohabitation was unlikely to go reported. Even Jack Raper, who took catty swipes at Ness in his column from time to time, would look the other way on this one.

  His first marriage, to the woman who had been his secretary back in his Chicago "untouchable" days, had not been an unhappy one, exactly; he still thought of his ex-wife with affection, and they kept in touch, though there had been no children. It had been the pressure of his profession—the long hours, the danger, and (Ness now realized) his reticence to speak about that—that had finally made their marriage come irreparably apart.

  Usually, when he made this drive it was after dark; in the overcast winter late afternoon, the sky looked faded, like it was wearing out. The castle-like boathouse itself and the skeletal trees nearby were stark against the sky. Small but massive, the turreted structure rose two stories with a smaller, third tower-like story crouching on top; the ligh
ts were on in the tower, meaning Ev was at work. A half-story stone wall created a modest courtyard. The barrenness of this study in gray tones—gray sky, dark gray lacework of bare tree branches against that faded sky, darker gray stones of the castle itself—was made picturesque by the several inches of white on the ground. Only the cement ribbon of the road, yet another gray tone, broke the spell of the snow.

  The breeze had some bite but he didn't mind, as he stepped out of the EN-1 Ford sedan, which he'd parked behind Ev's dark-blue Bugatti right in front. He paused to look at the frozen lagoon, white and gray and gray-blue stretching to the horizon. No yachts this time of year. The weather gave no special dispensation to the wealthy.

  He hung his topcoat in the closet, and slipped out of his suitcoat, which he folded neatly over a chair near the stairs. The brown leather shoulder holster that he always wore was, as usual, empty; he didn't like to carry a gun, but when a gun was needed, he liked to be ready. But it looked a little silly, he knew, and he crawled out of the leather harness before climbing two flights of stairs to the tower.

  The top floor was a single medium-sized room that had been turned into Ev's studio. It was well-organized, but gave the impression of untidiness because various reference photos and fashion-section clippings and preliminary drawings were taped here and there to the cream, plaster walls. The studio was filled with the expensive matching oak pieces Ev's parents had had delivered from Chicago: a pair of file cabinets, one for business papers, another (shorter, wider) for storing artwork; a bookcase stuffed with reference volumes; and a large drafting table, at which Ev sat in an office-style swivel chair, working on a large black-and-white illustration of a woman wearing a mannish pinstriped suit. She was applying watered-down india ink as a wash, making the suit gray.

  She didn't notice him, at first, so lost in her work was she. Her light brunette hair was pinned up, but half-heartedly; her handsome features bore no make-up and horn-rimmed glasses hid her almond-shaped eyes. Wearing a shapeless blue smock, she was hunched over the drawing board, squinting, her right hand moving with swift, sure strokes, laying in the gray tones with a fine brush. She was sitting near the heat; his fat gray cat, Big Al, was curled up there.