"Yeah, yeah. Well the niggers ain't the problem right now."
"What is? Pittsburgh?"
"Fucking Pittsburgh, yeah," Angelo said, nodding. He finished his beer, waved for another. He leaned forward and waggled a finger at Sal. "We're gettin' too soft. We got to show some fuckin' muscle again."
"What do you propose?"
"There's only about a dozen of these Pittsburgh punks in town at this time."
"Are they Syndicate guys?"
"Who the fuck cares? They bleed like anybody. They got themselves plopped down in the middle of the Roarin' Third, offering the suckers odds of 500 to 1."
The normal odds were 600 to 1.
Sal sipped his milk. "What makes them think we'll let 'em get away with undercutting us like that?"
"They think we got our hands full, with Ness on our butts."
"Do they. And what do you propose?"
"I propose to kick their Pittsburgh asses outa town. Personally."
Sal nodded, but he motioned gently with one hand. "We have people who can do that for us. And if we spread the word to the nigger policy writers that we're going to pay more than the Pittsburgh boys do, well
…"
"Hey, fuck that! We'll spread the words that any jig that works for the Pittsburghers is a dead jig, capeesh?"
The bartender quickly deposited the second beer before the animated Angelo and departed.
The dark little man pointed at himself with a thumb. "And I'm gonna take care of this personal. This is a matter of respect. Of making sure they know and everybody else knows that just because we run a smooth racket, that don't make us soft."
Sal thought about that. "A matter of respect," he said softly.
"Yeah. That's exactly what it is."
"I like that," he said, and smiled. "Yeah. Go ahead, Ange. Take care of it yourself. Have yourself some fun for a change."
The sudden sound of a strike in the lane just beyond the thin wall didn't make Sal flinch a bit.
Angelo finished his beer, grinned wolfishly, and said, "Guess I'll go out and bowl a few lines."
"And cripple a few pin boys?"
Angelo laughed. "You're a good guy, Sal. You may got a weak stomach, but you still got both your balls."
The little man strutted out, whistling "Heigh Ho, Heigh Ho," and Sal finished his milk and left.
CHAPTER 6
Ness sat studying the Lombardi and Scalise files at the scarred rolltop desk in his City Hall office, a desk that had been with him since his Chicago days. It was Monday afternoon, and the day had been filled with routine but necessary administrative duties. Now he could have some fun. He began going over the records of the Negro cops, as well, which he'd had Curry drop off.
Toussaint Johnson was indeed an interesting man; his folder was brimming with commendations. But Moeller was right about Johnson's connection to the numbers game: The Negro detective had been at the scene the night Rufus Murphy was shot and killed.
Shortly before four, the intercom buzzed and his secretary's voice said, "A visitor, sir."
"Does he have an appointment?" Ness said, absently, still studying the Johnson file, not remembering having anything scheduled.
"No, sir. It's a Reverend Hollis."
Ness looked up. "Send him in."
The Reverend James A. Hollis entered. The tall dignified leader of the Future Outlook League, dressed in clerical black, approached Ness, who stood and met the man midway. They exchanged reserved smiles and firm handshakes. Then Ness offered Hollis a seat at the nearest conference table.
"Reverend Hollis, I do have an engagement at four-thirty," Ness said, respectful but firm. "I'm afraid I only have a few minutes for you."
"I understand, Mr. Ness, and I appreciate your seeing me with no notice."
Hollis's speech was so well enunciated, it sounded almost British, though a vague vestige of the South lurked in the mellow, resonant baritone.
"What can I do for you, Reverend?"
"It's what I can do for you, Mr. Ness."
"Really."
A handsome smile formed slowly in the dark brown face; but the eyes behind the wire-rim glasses were cool. "I do want to commend you on your conduct last week, at the market. People could've been hurt. Thanks to you, they weren't."
"Reverend Hollis, you're lucky you weren't. These boycotts and picket demonstrations may result in violence. We both know that."
Hollis nodded. "Progress has its price. But I did want to say that I was… pleasantly surprised."
Ness smiled humorlessly. "The Call and Post has made me, and my department, out to be heavies. The editor, who I believe is on your board, likes to link my name with charges of police 'terrorism' and 'brutality.' "
"You've been criticized," Hollis admitted. "With some justification, I'm afraid."
"I don't see it that way."
Hollis cleaned his glasses on a white hanky; his expression was pleasant, his tones warm, but his words had bite.
"When Negro bathers were being harassed at Woodland Hill Pool this summer," he said, "you withdrew the two Negro policemen who took the white bathers to task. When park police used their nightsticks on a Negro couple at Euclid Beach for no reason other than race, you stood behind your men. Similarly, you failed even to reprimand the officer who shot and killed a fifteen-year-old boy, in the disturbance the night Joe Louis defeated Schmeling."
Ness did his best not to sigh. He said, with as much patience as he could muster, "Reverend Hollis, I am not the chief of police. You're speaking of matters that are not under my direct supervision."
"That sounds suspiciously like passing the buck, Mr. Ness."
"Perhaps. But I back Chief Matowitz in his decisions. As I understand these situations. Chief Matowitz responded responsibly."
"That's your view, sir?"
"Yes. Those officers were withdrawn from Woodlawn Hill Pool in an effort to cool off a racially tense situation. The couple you say were assaulted by park police were resisting arrest, for drunk and disorderly conduct. And they were convicted."
"I see. You assume that the Negroes were lying."
"If by that you're implying race prejudice on my part, I should point out that you're assuming the white cops were lying. It cuts both ways, Reverend. And the Joe Louis victory 'disturbance' you refer to, as you well know, was a full-scale riot that tore the entire Central-Scovill district apart."
Hollis shifted uneasily in his wooden chair. "It was a celebration that got out of hand. Tragically out of hand. A fifteen-year-old boy died, shot in the back."
"That is a tragedy," Ness said, meaning it. "I'm told the policeman was firing warning shots into the air, but got jostled. Bricks were being hurled at him. Four policemen were hospitalized. Reverend. A tragic night indeed; but not an example of rampant police brutality."
Hollis had a somber expression that stopped short of a frown. "It was obvious that the focal point of any Louis victory celebration would be East 55th and Central. Why didn't you detail more policemen, to prevent these things?"
Ness shook his head in exasperation. "And then be accused of subjecting the east side to undue force? Reverend, how exactly can I win with you?"
After an awkward moment, a chagrined smile spread across the preacher's face. "Mr. Ness, I believe I may have misjudged you in the past. You 'won' with me last week, at the market, let me assure you."
Ness smiled politely, glanced at his watch. "Reverend, I really do have another appointment. If I can be of specific help…"
"Mr. Ness, I think you know of the goals of the Future Outlook League."
"I do, and I agree with them. You're trying to persuade white-owned businesses in Negro neighborhoods to hire Negro help."
Hollis sat forward. "It's that, Mr. Ness, and more. We also advocate Negro ownership of businesses in those neighborhoods. That's why I am so encouraged, when I read in the white papers that you have made as your next target the Italian gangsters who hold the east side in their sweaty grip."