Ness raised a finger. "So-called…"
Burton waved his cigar in deference. "So-called police brutality incidents we've had, we have a need-a political need, and a moral one-to accommodate these people."
Racial concerns were nothing new for Burton, of this Ness was well aware. Burton's 1935 mayoral campaign had been a success due to his putting together a coalition of minorities-Negroes included. And Burton had been publicly vocal in opposing segregation in local hotels and restaurants.
"I understand the moral need," Ness said. "But I don't see where politics enters into this." He spit out the word "politics" like a seed.
Painfully, Burton explained. "We have a state election coming up, Eliot. I know all about your disinterest in politics, but this has been in all the papers. Next month? Governor? State senators, state representatives? Elective offices? Sound familiar?"
"Do I really deserve this sarcasm?"
"God, yes! The three black city councilmen who are behind Hollis and, yes, are tied to the would-be Negro numbers racketeers are Republicans. Not only do they control the crucial swing vote that gets you your police department and fire department funds, they are key figures for rounding up the Negro vote in the state election."
"The colored vote has always gone Republican," Ness said. Archly he added, "I may not know politics, but I know that much. It's been that way since the civil war."
Burton was shaking his head. "Times are hard, and times are changing. The New Deal is turning a lot of Negro voters Democratic. And I need to help deliver the Republican vote in this state election, Eliot. It's important to me."
"To you?"
Burton's cigar had gone out. He seemed about to relight it, then settled it in the ashtray, folded his hands, and smiled at Ness. There was embarrassment in the smile.
"I'm giving serious consideration to running for senator, Eliot, in the next national election."
Ness hadn't seen this coming; it struck him like a blow.
"This would be your last term, then…"
"No. There'd be one more term as mayor-and this all assumes we'd win the mayoral race next year."
Ness smiled dryly. "I think we can we make that assumption-you're the most popular mayor in the city's history. That's why the powers-that-be axe singling you out for greater things. And I don't blame them."
"That's kind of you, Eliot. But those 'greater things' are unlikely to happen for me, if I'm not able to deliver the vote. And without the support of key race leaders, frankly, I can't."
"I see."
"I'd consider it a personal favor if you did your best to accommodate Hollis and Councilman Raney and other race leaders-if you can do so without compromising your own principles."
Ness said nothing.
Nor did Burton, and Ness realized their meeting was over. He stood and the two men, the two friends, smiled warmly if wearily at each other across the massive oak desk, and nodded their goodbyes.
Ness walked down the hall to his office, where Bob Chamberlin and Albert Curry were waiting, seated at one of the conference tables.
"How did it go?" Chamberlin asked; he was in the process of lighting his pipe, his long legs crossed casually as he leaned back against the table. He was in suspenders and shirtsleeves.
"I'm not sure," Ness said. He sat on the edge of the conference table.
Curry said, "What do you mean?"
"His Honor would like us to cooperate with Hollis and any other race leaders who are willing to help. Just what the ramifications of that are, well…"
Chamberlin's little mustache twitched as he smiled. "You mean, Burton wants you to give the Negro racketeers a free ride."
Ness said nothing.
Curry said, "Why don't we worry about that later… like if and when we put the Mayfield Road boys out of commission."
Ness smiled faintly. "Good point, Albert."
Chamberlin blew out some pipe smoke and shrugged. "So we cooperate with Hollis. Let's set up a meeting between you and him."
"Good idea," Ness said. "Albert, could you arrange that?"
Curry nodded and went over to the phone on the desk.
Chamberlin said, "When are you going to start utilizing the handful of Negro cops we have at our disposal?"
"Very soon," Ness said. "I'm going to put Albert right on that…"
"Mr. Ness," Curry said, his hand over the mouthpiece of the phone. He looked pained. "I've located Mr. Hollis."
"Good."
"Not really," Curry said. "He's in the lock-up at Central Jail."
"What?"
Curry shrugged facially. "He and his Future Outlook League buddies got busted. They were picketing the Wool-worth's store on Central Avenue, for not hiring blacks. It got a little out of hand."
Ness sighed. He turned to Chamberlin. "Get him out. And the rest of his people."
"What if he's already been booked…?"
"I don't give a damn. Tell Matowitz to spring him, and set up a meeting between me and Hollis, tonight, here at the office."
Chamberlin nodded, put out his pipe and tucked it away, got up, put on his suitcoat and topcoat, and went out.
Ness turned to Curry. "I want to talk to Toussaint Johnson."
"When?"
"Now."
Curry nodded. "I'll call over to his precinct house and see if I can get a line on where he is."
Soon they were riding in the EN-1 sedan, Curry at the wheel, Ness sitting broodingly as they abandoned the imposing granite structures of downtown Cleveland to head down East Ninth Street toward the vile east-side area nicknamed the Bucket of Blood. They turned onto Scovill Avenue, a nightmarish slum street that ran from 55th Street to 14th Street on the edge of the Negro district. Late afternoon was blurring into early evening and those neons and street lamps that weren't broken or burned-out smoldered in the twilight and helped make a world that was all too real seem unreal.
The Bucket of Blood was an urban swamp of squalid cold-water tenements, ramshackle warehouses, filthy junk yards, and rat-infested garbage dumps. Mangy dogs and cats scurried; white eyes in dark faces looked with suspicion at the sedan as it glided by like an apparition. It was a street where addicts, bums, and winos mingled with honest out-of-work laborers and kids who scampered down streets littered with garbage, broken glass, and dog shit. This sordid world, Ness realized, was Toussaint Johnson's beat.
The Boll Weevil Bar was on the comer of Scovill and 35th, next door to a nameless flophouse. The long narrow boxcar of a bar had an endless counter at left with a scattering of tables along the right; the floor was covered with soggy sawdust. A few neon beer signs glowed on the walls and provided most of what little light there was; the air was stale and smoky and rippled with the strains of a Fats Waller tune, "I Want a Little Girl to Call My Own,' from a colorful jukebox squeezed in the far corner. Two burly bartenders were working the customers, and looked capable of serving up ball bats as well as brews. The bar stools were filled with weary working men and petty hustlers and a few hard-eyed whores. Most of the tables were taken, too, primarily by drunks sleeping on their folded arms.
At one of the tables, with his back to the wall, was a big, angular-featured Negro in a dark brown suit that looked slept-in and a black fedora that looked run-over by a car, or maybe a truck. He was drinking a beer without any apparent enthusiasm. His angular eyes had a sleepy look, but that was deceptive: They didn't miss a thing.
Ness and Curry, the only white men in the place, were given the once-over by perhaps a third of the clientele. A good proportion were drunk or didn't give a damn. The two detectives approached the big angular Negro, who sat alone.
"Toussaint Johnson?" Ness asked. "Detective Johnson?"
Johnson nodded. He rose and offered his hand. "Director Ness. Pleasure."