But now there was a chance for recompense. Now there was a chance, finally, to revenge himself on those white sons-of-bitches. Now there was a chance, finally, to start putting money in the bank again, maybe put his two boys in college, give them a shot at a decent life.
He'd gone to Raney's law offices just yesterday and the councilman, looking fatter and sassier but with the same sharp hard look in his eyes, had told Johnson to cooperate with Ness.
"Ness works for Burton," Raney said, "and the Mayor needs the Negro vote-both in the council and at the polls."
"Ness don't cut deals," Johnson said.
"I know he doesn't. But he did have a meeting with Reverend Hollis yesterday evening, and gave certain assurances to Hollis."
"What kind?"
"Ness told Hollis he couldn't promise he'd cast an entirely benign eye on the numbers racket, once it got back in colored hands. But he admitted that it would not be high on his list of priorities.''
"That's 'bout as close to a deal as you can get out of Ness," Johnson admitted. "Mayor must've put the pressure on."
"I'm sure he did. You spoke to Ness yourself?"
"Yes-right before he talked to Hollis, 'pears."
"And?"
"Ness had plenty of time to ask me about my ties to the numbers kings-and didn't."
Raney beamed. "Good, good. With the seal of approval of both Ness and Hollis, you may find yourself some witnesses."
"Maybe. But the Mayfield boys killed three men the other night. Two white and a colored."
"So I hear."
"That send a message 'cross the east side that ain't easy to unsend."
Raney's smile disappeared and he said, "I have confidence in you, Toussaint."
"I have confidence in dry ammunition, councilman."
Now Toussaint Johnson and his white companion Curry were trying to put the designs of this unlikely coalition-Mayor Burton, Eliot Ness, Councilman Raney, and Reverend Hollis-into motion. They were walking into a Central Avenue poolroom called the Eight Ball.
Behind a squared-off counter at the left as you came in sat a chunky cue ball-bald Negro wearing a green eyeshade, collarless white shirt, and black vest with a gold chain. He was perched on a high stool, like a frog who thought he was a prince, guarding the cash register like it was his crown jewels, overlording six pool tables arranged in pairs of three. Cones of light spread from hanging lamps, cutting the dark, smoky parlor geometrically. It was the middle of the morning and only a couple of the tables were in use.
Slippery Stevens, wearing a dark suit and a dark tie and dark glasses, looked like a blind skinny undertaker. He was practicing; he couldn't find many locals to play him, good as he was. Johnson and Curry stood watching as Slippery chalked up a cue, placed the cue ball on its marker, stroked smooth and broke the balls, scattering them like gamblers out the back door when a raid was coming down. Five dropped into pockets, and then Slippery ran the rest, balls clicking like castanets. It took about two minutes.
Curry was visibly impressed.
Slippery leaned against the table, chalking his cue; his smile was as crooked as he was.
"Toussaint, my man," he said. He said the name like too-saunt. "Who's the ofay motherfucker?"
Curry blinked. Johnson repressed a smile; he had a notion that this casual term-"motherfucker"-was new to the white boy-possibly the very idea it expressed was new to him. But Curry didn't seem offended-just surprised.
"He's the man," Johnson said.
"Hell, Toussaint- you the man."
"He's the man, too. And he's with me. Call him a motherfucker again and you'll have to squat to take your next shot."
Slippery's smile vanished, then returned. "So what's up, gentlemens?"
"I'm surprised to find you here," Johnson said. "Heard you was out on the road these days."
"Got to be," Slippery said. "Got's to play where my face ain't my callin' card."
"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.