"Are we the law or not?" somebody behind him said.
"The hell with it," Cullitan muttered, and pointed to a wooden bench near the door. "Would any of you men like to sit down and rest? Or would you prefer to use this little item as a battering ram?"
Several grinning volunteers stepped forward, hoisted the bench and began to slam it into the closed door, splinters and chips of wood flying. The door was solid and didn't give easily, but the men kept at it, with a steady jungle-drum rhythm that, Cullitan thought with a smile, must be playing hell on the nerves of the folks within.
Finally a voice from inside made itself heard above the drumming of the battering ram: "Okay, okay, okay!"
The eager private cops backed off and the door cracked open, revealing the pasty wedge-shaped face that went with the eyes seen in the speakeasy slot.
The guy said, "I'm tryin' to find somebody to talk to you. You'll just have to wait a little."
"Like hell," one of the boys said, and they dropped the bench with a thud. One of them yanked the door open, another pushed the lookout out of the way, and the party of deputized private cops went in, followed quietly by a smiling Cullitan and two assistants.
The front part of the club was a dimly lit bar, but in back was a big, mostly undecorated room where a crowd of five hundred or more well-dressed, upper-class patrons, mostly couples, stood at numerous tables playing blackjack, roulette, chuck-a-luck, and craps. Slot machines lined one wall and were doing good business.
Cullitan and his crew went unnoticed at first, as they spread themselves out around the large room, where the action was so hot and heavy that gamblers were banked three and four deep around the tables.
The gambling din was considerable, but Cullitan was a trial lawyer and he could be heard when he wanted to be. He wanted to be. "Ladies and gentlemen, this is a raid!"
A woman screamed, but Cullitan cut off a general panic, saying "We'll be holding no one but employees and operators. Those of you who are patrons are free to go. Move out slowly and quietly."
A raider was posted at each exit to make sure no employee slipped by.
At the gambling tables, Cullitan and his men found stacks of silver dollars, used for chips, which were swept by the raiders into two large sacks. A dozen payoff windows lined one wall. On one side of them a door led to the office, a massive room behind the payoff windows, its back wall an immense chart posting racing results. Above the windows was a sign listing seven locations in Cleveland where customers could catch a free limo to the club, every fifteen minutes from noon to six P.M., seven days a week, encouraging daylight-hour patronage of the club.
Just inside the office, Cullitan found a telegraph switch panel with a key and a resonator, which he ripped out. A loudspeaker system which announced race results was removed as well. So were various casino supplies-sealed decks of playing cards being the staple-and an arsenal including sawed-off shotguns, revolvers, blackjacks, sheathed knives, and a tear gas gun. And six trays of silver dollars, approximately a thousand dollars' worth, and over fifty thousand in paper money.
"Gameboy Miller isn't here," one of Cullitan's assistants announced, coining in from the gaming room where the casino's staff was being rounded up. "None of the big wheels are here. All we drew is working stiffs."
That didn't bother Cullitan. He wasn't looking to prosecute anybody. Pulling in these private eyes as his personal army of deputies could get his case tossed out anyway, not that judges in the pockets of the Mayfield Road gang needed any legitimate excuse. The point of the exercise was to close these clubs down. And in the case of the Thomas Club, Cullitan noted with satisfaction-watching his raiders dismantle and seize the equipment, loading it and the handcuffed employees into the moving van for the first of two trips-that objective had been met.
He left the mop-up to his assistants and took his car over to the Harvard Club to see how that raid had come off.
Only it hadn't yet.
He found McAndrew's raiding party huddled in front of and inside a Sohio gas station across the street from the Harvard Club, which was sheltered on either side by a wooded area.
"What the hell is going on?" Cullitan demanded.
McAndrew told him.
"Machine guns," Cullitan said, rubbing his chin.
"Nobody's left yet. The patrons are still in there. Maybe they're hostages."
"I doubt that."
"It's a Mexican standoff. I decided to wait for you."
"Damn. We need more men."
"What about yours?"
"They're already headed downtown with a vanload of gambling gear and arrests."
"Do you want to try the sheriff?"
"He wouldn't give us the time of day."
"What about your friend Ness?"
"We aren't in Cleveland."
"But this whole damn thing was his idea."
"Not really." Cullitan liked to think it was his own idea, but Ness certainly had been there rooting him on.
"Call him. What harm can it do?"
Cullitan looked across at the Harvard Club. "Why's it so dark?"
"Patton turned off the parking lot lights. That's why I moved my men across the street. Standing in the dark like that, waiting for the shooting to start was playing hell with everybody's nerves."
"Give me a nickel."
"What?"
"Give me a nickel," Cullitan said.
Time to call Ness.
CHAPTER 11
Eliot Ness sat in the gallery of the City Council Chambers-a vast, ornate assembly hall of dark wood paneling where even the dolts among the council could hear their pronouncements resonate-and fought sleep. All evening he'd been subjected to floor fights on procedural matters, stemming from the fact that Monday night's turbulent meeting had resulted in multiple roll-call votes. The final one, which took place just before dawn, was disputed, leaving two claimants to the council presidency. Mayor Burton had ties to Sonny D'Maioribus, the Republican who seemed to have won the presidency. But Democrat William Reed also believed himself the rightful winner and on Wednesday had filed suit in the Court of Appeals.
Tonight a president pro tern was being elected, to preside till the courts sorted it all out. But the heated battle of Monday night had deteriorated into bickering as Friday evening eroded.
Ness had been here Monday and had seen the whole fracas. He'd gotten into it, inadvertently. The onlookers in the gallery had seemed on the verge of rioting-pushing each other around physically, reflecting the verbal war on the chamber floor-so he'd sent for a riot squad to expel all the spectators. When the squad arrived, a big uniformed cop immediately grabbed Ness by the collar and ejected him first.
He almost wished that something that interesting would happen tonight. The council chambers were just across from his office, and Ness was thinking about slipping over there. His administrative assistant, political appointee John Flynt was working on a summary of crime statistics that Ness was anxious to go over.
And, too, he really ought to get home. He'd promised Eva he'd be in no later than ten for a late supper. He'd been trying to be nice to her lately, because she'd been so disappointed when they couldn't get back to Chicago for a family Christmas. Also, Eva didn't seem too happy about their new apartment, nice as it was.
She also didn't seem to understand that his job included some duties beyond the work itself. Like attending city council meetings, for the next few weeks anyway, because Mayor Burton had asked him to. Budget hearings were coming up, after all. The mayor wanted his new, apolitical safety director's physical presence in those council chambers, wanted him to become a familiar face at meetings. The young cop who'd failed to recognize his safety director boss was emblematic of the need for newcomer Ness to make himself known.