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."