Terrell smiled faintly. “Here’s another point I’m curious about. Most of the Parking Authority contracts went to two firms — Acme Construction and Bell Wreckers. I’d like some dope on those outfits. Who owns them, how much they’ve earned, what kind of financial structure they’ve got — everything you can turn up.”
Moss made a note of the firm names, and said, “I’ll put somebody on it. I assume you’re in a hurry?”
“Sorry, but I am. I’ll have lunch and drop back. Okay?”
“I’ll try to have the information for you then.”
Terrell returned to his desk and picked up his coat. As he was turning away his phone rang. He lifted the receiver and a voice said crisply, “Mr. Terrell? One moment please. Superintendent Duggan.”
Terrell smiled slightly. “Jack Duggan, the wild colonial boy?”
“Sam?” Duggan’s voice was low and insistent. “Sam, I’m sorry about what happened this morning. It was rotten.”
“Sure,” Terrell said. “Did you tell the Mayor that?”
“There wouldn’t be any point to it.”
“I guess not. What’s on your mind?”
“You can help me, I think. If you’ll tell me what you’ve learned, I’ll give you my promise it will be used efficiently and honestly.”
“No good,” Terrell said. “Anything else troubling you?”
“Perhaps I deserve this,” Duggan said. “But maybe you’re making a big mistake. I’ve done an honest job. A sergeant can work without worries, but I’ve always got to squeeze through a dozen conflicting pressures. I’ve made compromises, sure, and used a little tolerance for human weaknesses, but that isn’t criminal activity, Sam.” Duggan’s voice was rising angrily. “Is that what you’re accusing me of?”
“Tolerance and compromise,” Terrell said. “It’s funny, but cops seldom use those words until they’re pulled up in front of a Grand Jury. That’s when you hear their views on human nature, and their philosophy about merciful tolerance toward sinners.” He dropped the phone back into its cradle as Duggan began roaring angrily at him. He liked Duggan and almost trusted him; but you couldn’t fully trust a man who was walking about in a self-induced trance.
Terrell went down to the drugstore in the lobby of the building and ate a hamburger and drank three cups of black coffee. At two o’clock he was back at Bill Moss’ desk.
“Here’s your information,” Moss said, tapping a neat stack of folders with his pencil. “I can probably give you a synopsis faster than you can dig it out for yourself. To start with, and I imagine this is one thing you wanted to know, both companies are legitimate. Adequately financed, excellent earning rates, appropriate stocks of heavy equipment, competent men at the management level. They don’t seem to be in any trouble. Taxes, loans, labor relations — all in good shape. But there is something queer about them. For one thing, I’m not satisfied by their statements of ownership. I’ll explain that in a minute. And secondly, they’ve been too lucky. They’ve grown too fast. Starting from scratch, they’ve mushroomed into huge organizations, with all of their work coming from the Authority. Considering their assets when they started, that’s a highly irregular sort of thing. Bell Wreckers, for instance, had no office space or heavy equipment when it was given the job of clearing a square block of city property. Very unusual, you’ll agree.”
“How about their ownership? You said something was odd there.”
“Well, they list four or five men as owners. I know a couple of them, and well—” Moss shrugged lightly. “It’s not evidence, mind you, but in business you get so you can spot the lightweights. These men, in my opinion, don’t have the substance, the brains and backing, to have pulled these companies into shape.”
“They’re figureheads, you’d say.”
“That would be my guess — acting for owners who want to conceal their connections with these companies.”
“How do I find the real owners then?”
“That’s a tough one. The arrangements may be oral and you can’t very well examine or analyze an oral contract.”
“Well, thanks a lot. To sum up: they’re legitimate companies, but they wouldn’t be in existence if the Parking Authority hadn’t thrown business at them. Is that about it?”
Moss nodded. “That’s it. Let me know what else you find out. I’m always interested in larceny.”
“Me too,” Terrell said. “Particularly grand larceny.”
At his own desk, Terrell sat for a while smoking and mulling over what he had learned from Moss. Obviously his next step was to try to find out who owned Bell Wreckers and Acme Construction. This was a funnel through which the Parking Authority had poured streams of taxpayers’ money. Finally he picked up his phone and dialed the downtown office of Dan Bridewell’s firm. As he was relayed from a switchboard operator to Bridewell’s secretary, he assembled from his mental filing system the essential data on the old man. One of the state’s largest contractors, Bridewell had started as a bricklayer and worked his way up to the presidency of the company.
He was a living Alger story; a hard-fisted old man who had begun life in the slums of Belfast, and was now one of the most important men in his adopted community. He had sent four sons to college, and a daughter to Europe to study music at world famous conservatories. He gave impressive sums to local charities, and his name was on the letterheads of a dozen prominent institutions in the city. He had come a long way, but he had fought for every foot of it, Terrell knew. He was a rugged old man, who asked no quarter, and gave none; he had made enemies on his way to power, but he was fond of saying he wouldn’t give a damn for a man without enemies.
“Yes? Who’s this?” It was Bridewell’s voice, high, sharp and irritable. “Terrell? With the paper?”
“That’s right, Mr. Bridewell. Sam Terrell. I’m doing a piece on the Parking Authority, and I’ve come across a point or two I’d like to check with you.”
“I’ll save you some time, Terrell. The Parking Authority won’t give me a contract — they prefer dealing with fly-by-nights. I use the wrong kind of bath soap, or I don’t vote right. I’ve said all this a dozen times, and it’s all on the record.”
“I want to ask you about Bell Wreckers and Acme Construction — the firms who do the Authority jobs.”
“Well, they’re not my outfits, so all I know is what I read in the papers. They get the jobs, we don’t.”
“Do you know the men who own these companies?”
“You’d better go down to the Hall and ask that question, son, They must know. But they never told me. I’ve got work to do now. Good-bye.” The receiver clicked in Terrell’s ear.
Terrell smiled and put his phone back in place. For another fifteen minutes he sat at his desk, staring out at the activity and tension that radiated from the city desk and the copy wheel. There was only one way to get the information he wanted; he had to make a deal. In time he might smoke it out by patient, dogged leg work. But there wasn’t that time. He had to gamble now. He was the only person Paddy Coglan had told the full truth to. That should be something to bargain with. He picked up the phone and called Superintendent Duggan’s office. When he got through to Duggan, he said, “This is Terrell. I’ve got something you might be able to use and I need some help. Can we make a trade?”
Duggan hesitated a few seconds; Terrell could hear his soft, heavy breathing. Then he said, “What do you want?”
“Supposing you meet me at the north annex to the Hall?” Terrell said. “We can talk it over.”
“In about five minutes?”
“Fine.”