"Are you through upstairs, already?" Curry asked.
"Garner's wrapping it up," Ness said, with a little shrug. Absently, he flicked on the police radio, keeping the volume at a low but decipherable hum. "We'll head over to Central Headquarters and question some of Lombardi's help, after they're booked. Maybe we'll get something."
"Wish I'd gone in with you."
"You didn't miss any action." He smiled over at Curry. "Things'll get lively as we close in on the Mayfield boys."
They waited at a stoplight.
Curry frankly wasn't convinced that the Lombardi investigation was going to flourish, now that the next logical step was to tackle the numbers game on the east side. That was foreign territory.
The light changed and Ness turned right, onto Superior.
"This little raid may turn out to be important," Ness said.
"Oh?"
"The receptionist had three bank books in her purse, but they weren't her bank books. They were in the name of the 'Chestnut Magazine Subscription Service,' only I doubt they've sold any subscriptions."
"To a racing form maybe," Curry said, with a grin.
Ness grinned back; he had one hand on the wheel, very relaxed in the aftermath of his success. "Those bank books show deposits of three quarters of a million bucks."
Curry whistled low.
"If we can do a little backtrack bookwork, we're going to make it hot for Lombardi and company. I'll call my federal friends over at the I.R.S."
"If we can't nail 'em on the numbers racket," Curry said, nodding, "income tax evasion'll do just fine."
"It worked for Capone," Ness said, softly. He turned onto Payne. "What makes you think we won't nail them on the numbers racket?"
"Well, I…"
Ness laughed shortly. "You have a point. Working the east side is a riddle I haven't solved. Albert, I want you to look over the records of every Negro cop on the force."
"That won't be hard," Curry said, smirking humorlessly. "There are only ten of 'em."
"I know. That's a problem. How can we launch an effective investigation in the colored community when we don't have enough colored cops to do the job?"
"You don't need an army of men if you run an undercover operation. We've proven that time and again."
Ness shook his head no. "Every one of those ten cops is well known in that part of town. None of them could go undercover effectively."
"How welcome would Garner be, in Bloody Scovill? What's the Negro attitude toward an Indian?"
Ness shrugged. "I don't know. I'm not very knowledgeable about race relations, I admit. And this is a good argument for getting more Negro cops on the force…"
As he trailed off, he was glancing at the two-way radio under the dash. Something had caught his ear. Curry hadn't been paying any attention to the broadcasts; apparently Ness had.
"What is it?" Curry said, sitting forward.
Ness shushed him and turned up the volume.
"… Terminal, request back-up. We have a near riot situation here…"
Ness plucked the microphone off the radio unit.
"This is Director Ness," he said. "What's the situation?"
"This is Patrol Sergeant John Wilson, Director Ness." The voice over the small radio speaker was tinny but distinct. "We have what is developing into a riot situation here at the east side market."
"Explain."
"We've got picketers blocking the doors and things are getting out of hand. They've been here all day but the crowd that's supporting them, well, their numbers have been increasing throughout the afternoon."
"Who are these picketers, the Future Outlook League?"
"Yes-Hollis and his bunch."
"How many men do you have?"
"There's a dozen of us."
"I'm on my way."
"But, sir-we need more back-up!"
"And I'm going to give it to you. Don't let this escalate into a riot, officer."
"I… I'll try, sir."
Ness clicked off, put the mike back on the radio unit.
He arched an eyebrow. "I guess we're going to get our feet wet on the east side, Detective Curry."
"What's going on?"
"You're familiar with the Future Outlook League, aren't you?"
"Frankly, no."
Ness turned right on East 17th, working his way over to Woodland and 40th, where the east market was.
"They've been around a couple of years. A Negro protest group. They're trying to get jobs for their people."
Curry snorted a laugh. "Well, hell. You don't have to be colored to be out of work these days."
Ness looked sharply at Curry. "No, you don't get it. They want jobs in their own neighborhood, in the east side stores whose clientele is colored, but whose clerks are invariably white."
"Oh."
"The Reverend James A. Hollis founded the group and he's its president. They use pickets and boycotts to pursue their goals. They're peaceful but persistent."
"How active is this group?"
"Very."
Curry frowned. "Why the hell haven't I heard of them?"
"Do you read the Call and Post?"
That was Cleveland's primary black newspaper.
"Well, no, of course not."
"That's the only place you're likely to read about the F.O.L. The white papers and the radio stations pay them no heed."
Curry didn't know what to say about that, or what to think about it, either. He didn't consider himself prejudiced; nor did he consider his city to be backward in race relations. This was the progressive north, after all, not some redneck southern bastion of bigotry. But once the investigation into the policy racket began to rear its head, Curry had started to realize just how separate the worlds of the Negro and the white races were.
Curry glanced at the speedometer. The needle was nearing thirty-five.
"Maybe we should hit the siren," he suggested.
"No," Ness said curtly. "I don't want to add to the hysteria."
Curry shrugged.
Ness looked quickly at Curry. "We don't need a repeat of what happened at Republic Steel."
"You cooled that off well enough."
"Eventually. But a lot of heads got cracked, first. I won't have my police beating up civilians. These things can turn into shooting wars in an instant. Do the words Memorial Day Massacre ring a bell?"
Ness was referring, Curry knew, to an incident in Chicago the year before when a parade of strikers was fired upon by cops; ten strikers were killed, hundreds were injured in the tear-gas-flung, nightstick-happy, bullet-ridden assault. It had happened in a field not far from where Ness grew up.
The Northern Ohio Food terminal was a sprawling affair covering thirty-some acres from East 37th to East 40th between Woodland and Orange, with five massive concrete buildings and an only slightly smaller auction hall. It was a vivid, bustling world of fresh fruits and vegetables, wholesale meats, live and dressed poultry, butter, cheese, and milk, carted in from surrounding states and local producers as well. The facility was less than ten years old, a modern, clean, proficient wholesale market, serving the grocery, hotel, and restaurant trades.
But it also served, with its four and a half acre grower's market, the predominantly black residents of the east side.
"The Negro community that borders the terminal," Ness said, "supports the market here to the tune of twenty grand a day."
The two men were carefully crossing busy East 40th Street, leaving the Ford parked across the way.
"Brother," Curry said, trying to grasp just how much money twenty thousand dollars was. "No wonder they think this joint owes 'em a few jobs."
"No wonder," Ness said dryly.
At the front entrance of the market building, a yellow-brick structure a block long and half again as wide, a mostly colored crowd had gathered. Men, women, young, old, they were restless and packed and noisy; Curry couldn't understand much of what was being said, but the mood of the crowd seemed not one of anger, but curiosity: They were pushing and shoving to see better. Ness pushed through them like a knife through soft butter, saying "Excuse me" in a loud voice with the edge of authority. Curry followed along, feeling some trepidation that Ness, apparently, did not.