The budgets Chiefs Matowitz and Grainger had come up with for their respective departments added up to a staggering three million-plus dollars. The mayor's budget clock was ticking, and this was the second week of January, but Eliot Ness had spent most of his time thus far at his desk, in public hearings, and in city council meetings. Not in the field, where he belonged. Not cracking down on the policy banks; not sniffing out the "outside chief." Sitting, like tonight. His frustration was chewing at him, just as he was chewing at his own thumbnail, his most noticeable nervous habit.
What had eaten up his time most, as Sam Wild had predicted, were the public hearings over the dismissal of the two intoxicated-on-duty cops. Each cop, one a ten-year and the other a sixteen-year veteran, got a separate hearing, and both had worked up some public sympathy. Outside City Hall, school children paraded with placards pleading for their "big pals." Character witnesses lauded the patrolmen as "upright men who merely strayed" and should be given a second chance.
At the hearings, Ness had cut through the bullshit with facts: both men had past records of drunkenness on duty, but had previously been no more than censured by the department.
"I won't put up with that," Ness had told the civilian review board. "In testimony, their fellow officers admit the first thing they did when handling these men was to disarm them. In London, where police aren't armed, drunkenness on duty is sufficient cause for immediate dismissal. Here, in this country, in this city, a drunken cop is a menace because he has a gun on his hip."
It had played well in the press, which noted that dismissals of this sort were a "notable departure" from the actions of previous safety directors, arid Burton had been pleased. But at the same time, the mayor pointed out that a powerful enemy had been made of Councilman Fink. He was a small, natty, rodent-like man who scowled at Ness when their eyes met in council chambers, and he was also the brother-in-law of one of the busted cops.
Ness was just nodding off when he felt a tap on his shoulder. He glanced up and realized that his assistant, Flynt, was leaning in from the row behind him.
John C. Flynt, a thirty-seven-year-old lawyer whose bearing and appearance were slightly military, apologized for the interruption.
"But," he whispered, with a lift of one eyebrow, and a twitch of his tiny waxed mustache, "Mr. Cullitan is on the phone. He says it's urgent."
Ness, embracing the interruption, slid out of the pew and followed the dark-haired, dapper Flynt across the hall into the office.
He sat at his desk and picked up the phone. "What is it, Frank?"
"Eliot, we need your help. This Harvard Club raid is turning into a disaster. I need at least twenty men for backup before I dare make another move."
Ness had a lot of respect for Cullitan. The hardnosed prosecutor was a Democrat, but was no more political than Ness, conducting his election campaigns without Democratic party funds or contributions from lawyers or anybody else who might have an ulterior motive. He was an ally.
"I'd like to help," Ness said. "I realize I got you into this."
"I'm not saying you did. I have to shoulder the responsibility on this one."
"Well, you are out of my jurisdiction. I don't have to tell you I hold no authority past the city limits."
"I know," Cullitan sighed. "But what in hell can I do? Just tuck my tail between my legs and go?"
"What exactly is the situation there?"
Cullitan told Ness.
"Machine guns," Ness repeated coldly, standing.
"McAndrew only saw two, but I'd wager that's just a hint of their firepower. It's a big place. They'll have a big staff."
"Let me see what I can do for you."
"Thanks, Eliot."
"Give me the number of the phone you're calling from and stay right by it."
Cullitan gave him the number, and they hung up.
Ness sat again and called Sheriff Sultzman's office at the county jail.
"Let me speak to the sheriff," Ness said after identifying himself.
"Sheriff Sultzman's not in his office," a bored male voice replied.
"Where is he?"
"Home sick with the croup."
"I see. Who am I speaking to?"
"The chief jailer."
"Does the chief jailer have a name?"
"Sure. Edward Murray. This is Edward Murray."
"Mr. Murray, Prosecutor Cullitan is at the Harvard Club with several of his staff and their lives are endangered. As a private citizen, I'm calling on you to send deputies out there to protect the prosecutor."
"Sorry, but we can't send men out there without a call from the mayor of Newburgh."
"The mayor can't be reached." Ness hadn't tried to, of course, but what good would it have done? The Harvard Club had operated wide open in Newburgh Heights for over five years.
"Well, I don't know," the jailer whined. "The sheriff has his home-rule policy, you know."
"Will you go out or won't you?"
"I'll have to call the sheriff and call you right back."
"To hell with that. Have you got another line?"
"Yes."
"I'll stay on this one while you call him. I'll wait on the phone."
"Okay."
Several minutes crawled by. Ness gritted his teeth, pounded a fist on his desk, listening to silence.
The jailer returned. "No, we won't go out there."
Ness slammed the receiver into the hook, then quickly dialed again.
"Frank," he said into the phone, "I've exhausted all legal means."
"Yes? And?"
"And I'll be there as soon as I can."
Cullitan sighed his relief. "Thank you, Eliot."
"Just do me one favor."
"Yes?"
"Try not to start without me."
Flynt, who'd been standing by hearing only Ness' half of these conversations, seemed a bit puzzled.
Ness said, "Get your topcoat and pistol and wait for me here."
Flynt's eyes went wide for a moment. "If I understand what you're up to, the legal ground is shaky."
Ness just looked at him.
Then Flynt was off to his own office for his coat and gun.
Ness returned to the Council Chambers, walked up to Mayor Burton's chair, and leaned in and, sotto voce, told His Honor the tale.
"This doesn't sound like our business, Eliot," Burton said reluctantly.
"These sons of bitches are parading around in public with machine guns," Ness whispered harshly, "making the law a laughingstock. Am I supposed to put up with that?"
Burton's broad brow creased. "You can't step in officially,"
"How about unofficially?"
Burton shrugged, smiled faintly. "There's nothing stopping you from going out there as a private citizen."
Ness grinned. "Thanks."
"Eliot." The Mayor raised a cautionary finger. "Watch your step. This will attract publicity. Make sure it's the kind we're looking for."
Ness nodded and went out in the hall and down to the next door, which said PRESS. Inside he found Sam Wild, Clayton Fritchey, and half a dozen others, most of whom were sitting at a table playing poker, money openly on the table.
"Gambling's illegal in this town, fellas," Ness said.
Wild smirked. "Prove it."
"Meet me at the Harvard Club in half an hour or less," he told them, "and I will."
He shut the door on the startled faces and strode back down the hall and into his office, where Flynt waited in his topcoat, pistol in hand.
"Put that in your pocket or something," Ness said, irritably. He went to his desk and unlocked and opened the bottom drawer. He withdrew a shoulder holster which held his. 38 Police Special. He got out of his suitcoat and was unbuttoning his vest when he thought better of it.
"No guns for us," Ness said, putting the. 38 and harness back, rebuttoning the vest buttons, and slipping on the coat.
Flynt was puzzled again. "Why not?"
"That shaky legal ground you mentioned. We're going out as private citizens. Actually, you don't have to go at all."