Harry Gibson tapped Callahan on the shoulder and nodded at Carney, and the two men moved from the crowd to back up Rose and O'Day, who was swinging again. This time the farmer grabbed the arm as the punch swooshed by and swung O'Day like a square dance partner into the open tailgate of the truck and rocked the truck and its contents and O'Day and his contents. Struck hard at mid-thigh by the tailgate, O'Day shrieked like a woman, shaming Harry, and the mustached farmer moved forward, grabbed O'Day by the shoulder and hand of his left arm and threw him onto the pavement with a motion not unlike a grave digger heaving a shovelful of dirt. O'Day landed in the spilled produce and did not get up, the greens making a wreath around his head.
Rose, stunned by this display, finally swung into action and managed to land a blow against the side of the mustached farmer's face, only something strange happened: the mustache flew off.
And so did the floppy straw hat, and the face of the farmer minus mustache and hat was all too familiar to Harry Gibson, who sucked air into his chest like a drowning man coming up for the third time.
Meanwhile, the tow-haired younger farmer was kicking Rose in the stomach, doubling the big man over, and when Carney moved in to help, the other farmer flipped him, with one of those goddamn Jap moves, landing Carney flat and hard on his back on the cement. The sight of that froze Callahan in his tracks and the younger farmer swung a hard sharp right hand that about took Callahan's jaw off at the hinges. When Callahan failed to go down, however, and came back for more, the younger farmer stepped inside Callahan's follow-up swing, grabbed his arm, turned his back on Callahan, and threw him over his shoulder.
And Harry Gibson's men were spread out on their backs, unconscious or otherwise out of commission, like kids making angels in the snow. Only the pavement wasn't snow, and Harry Gibson's men weren't angels.
Harry rushed into the terminal and went to a wall phone. He dropped in a nickel and called Caldwell at home.
"Holy Mary mother!" Caldwell said. "Do you have any idea what time it is, man?"
"I ain't calling to tell you what time it is," Harry said. "Other than it's later than you think. I'm calling to tell you that Eliot Ness and some kid just beat the ever-living shit out of four of my men."
"What? Are you drunk, you simple bastard?"
"They came in dressed like farmers and started unloading a truck. They baited my boys into a fight."
"And nobody recognized Eliot fucking Ness? I know your boys can't read, but they at least see the goddamn papers, don't they?"
Harry shrugged elaborately, made a face, as if Caldwell could see him. "He didn't look like himself. He had on this fake mustache and a floppy old hat. And I never seen this kid before who was with him, who is probably also a cop."
"Did you get in and mix it up yourself?"
"No."
A long sigh. "Well, that's one thing, anyway. Praise God for small favors."
"What should I do?"
"Don't trade any punches, for Christ's sake. But stand up for your union. Speak your mind."
"Which is what?"
A long silence. "Use your head, why don't you, Harry? For something other than raising a crop of hair."
"Are you coming down?"
"Are you crazy, or just stupid? It's not my union. It's your union. You're the business agent."
"But boss-you're the brains!"
"Well, the brains are going back to bed. Good luck to you, my boy."
The click in Harry's ear told him he was on his own.
A paddy wagon had arrived by the time Harry rejoined the crowd. His four leather-jacketed men were being handcuffed and escorted into the back of it by bluecoats. Several press photographers were shooting pictures of the event. How the hell, Harry wondered, did everybody get here so soon?
Ness, who had not put his hat or mustache back on, was speaking to the crowd that had, by this point, swelled to at least a hundred people. Among them were truck drivers, farmers, vendors, buyers-men, and a few women, representing every branch of life and business at the food terminal.
"This little impromptu performance this morning," Ness was saying in a mild, mellow voice, "is only one small part of an ongoing criminal investigation here at the terminal. My office has been aware, for some time, of the activities of a gang engaged in a shakedown racket here at the market, extorting money by threats and force. This gang of racketeers, operating under the guise of a labor union, has preyed upon you people long enough. And they have preyed upon the city of Cleveland long enough- driving up food prices, pushing buyers and sellers into other markets in other cities."
Harry's jaw tightened as heads around him were nodding as Ness's words hit home.
"Right now," Ness continued, "my investigators are working undercover in this terminal. They are gathering evidence but will, if necessary, abandon their 'cover' and intervene, if this so-called union's goon squad interferes with the daily operations of this market. Undercover officers will continue to work the terminal until these acts of violence and extortion end."
Many heads were nodding now, and even some scatterings of applause broke out. Harry Gibson's face was reddening; his teeth were clenched-his fists were, too.
"But to really clean up this market," Ness said, hands on the hips of his coveralls, "I need the cooperation of those of you who have been victimized. If enough witnesses come forward, we can shut down this phony union."
Gibson shouldered his way through the crowd. Standing up on the loading dock, he gazed coldly down at Ness.
"My name is Harry Gibson. I'm the business agent of what you're calling a phony union. We are, in fact"-he searched for the words, tried to remember things he'd heard Caldwell say-"a legitimate labor union organized and operated to protect the, uh… interests of our members."
From the crowd came the sound of a raspberry. Gibson glared back at blank faces.
"I know who you are, Mr. Gibson," Ness said evenly.
Gibson turned back to Ness and pointed down at him. "And I know who you are. You're a cop in the pocket of the moneyed class. You're a union-busting copper."
From behind the press photographers stepped a satanic scarecrow in a seersucker suit and straw fedora with a red band. He had a pad and pencil in his hands and a smartass look on his face.
"Sam Wild," the man said, looking up at Gibson, introducing himself. " Plain Dealer. What makes you think Mr. Ness is a union buster?"
"He was just down busting heads at the steel mill, wasn't he? Then he climbs up on that truck and plays God for the press. Look at him here, in his farmer getup." Gibson turned to the crowd. "This is just some lousy publicity stunt!"
"Not that lousy," Wild said, smiling, scribbling. He turned to Ness, who stood with arms folded near the younger cop/farmer (whose name, Harry later found out, was Albert Curry). "How about it, Mr. Safety Director? Are you against labor?"
"I'm against racketeers in labor," Ness said. His eyes traced the crowd. "I'm against racketeers in the police department." He shrugged. "I'm against racketeers."
And now applause rang out-not just scattered: widespread.
Harry Gibson, feeling naked as a head of lettuce, scowled, and pushed his way through the crowd, disappearing inside the market, feeling depressingly sober.
Outside, the sun was coming up.
CHAPTER 5
Eliot Ness handed the report to County Prosecutor Cullitan, saying, "A little light reading for you, Frank."
Cullitan, standing behind his big oak desk in his first-floor office in the Criminal Courts Building, took the hefty black-foldered document and pretended to gauge its weight in one hand like a market melon he was considering.