A little over two thousand dollars was found in the safe, as were the day's records. Most policy operators burned their records nightly, so, not surprisingly, no others were found.
"This fella Hogey is the biggest numbers operator in the city," Ness explained to Gwen. "He's tied in with the Mayfield Road mob now."
She looked both amused and dumbfounded. She pointed out toward the street. "As in that Mayfield Road out there?"
"Right," Ness smiled. "We're in the midst of their home territory. This place used to be a speakeasy."
"And you frequent it?"
"Sure. Why not? It's legal now. Have some more wine."
He poured for her and she smiled and shook her head. Then her expression turned serious, interested. "What's so important about this guy Hogey? Will he go to jail a long time?"
Hogey, who also ran a chain of butcher shops, was a former Police Court bondsman who knew his way around the legal system.
Ness lifted an eyebrow. "Probably he'll just get a slap on the wrist and a fine. The judges are so corrupt we can't hope for more. But by raiding him, we're putting him on notice."
"What sort of notice?"
"That he'll be raided again. And again. That his life will be made pretty much miserable, from here on out."
"That sounds like harassment."
"That's exactly what it is. If the courts aren't behind me, what other recourse do I have? I'd like to catch Hogey on a murder rap, but that'll never happen."
"A murder rap?"
Ness nodded. "Just a week ago today, a former policy writer of his wound up dead in a ditch."
"My. I think I read about that in the paper…"
"Yeah. From the evidence at the scene, it's clear the guy was shot by a friend or associate. From other things we know, we believe Hogey and his people were responsible, probably bumping the guy off at the May field Road mob's behest."
"I'm glad you're naturally soft-spoken," she said, rolling her eyes, glancing about the restaurant, "or we'd probably be in a ditch by now ourselves."
He grinned, and swirled his wine in his glass. "Not everybody in Murray Hill is a part of the mob. I promise."
"So you raided Hogey to get back at him for the murder? It didn't have anything to do with this policy racket?"
"Well, I had Hogey on my mind because of the murder, yes. But cracking down on policy is a priority, anyway."
"This policy you're talking about… that's what they call the numbers racket, isn't it?"
"Right."
"I don't even know how you play the numbers."
He shrugged again. "It's simple. The bettor takes a 1,000-to-1 chance that he'll pick a set of three digits between 000 and 999, as they'll appear on some prearranged daily newspaper statistics. Locally, they key off racetrack results. A winner gets, at most, a 599-to-1 payoff."
"That's a lot of money."
"It sounds like it, but the odds are impossible. It's a sucker bet."
"So it's sort of like a lottery."
"That's right."
She made a face, as though this all seemed ridiculous to her. "Still, I don't understand why something so harmless would be anything you would want to expend your valuable time and energy on."
"A lot of people have the idea that the numbers racket is harmless. Maybe it is. I do know that nickel-and-dime bets aren't as common these days as quarter ones, and dollar ones aren't unusual. And most bettors bet daily, or anyway six days a week. That means real money in times like these. I've got crime figures from New York that show over a hundred million dollars gets gambled away every year in that city on numbers alone. A city the size of Cleveland is going to be playing in the same ballpark. How would you like to be the mother of seven, and your husband plays his entire relief check on the numbers?"
"No, thank you."
"And the mob into whose pocket this money goes is using it to finance labor union infiltration, loan-shark syndicates, and expansion of organized crime activity of every stripe… prostitution, narcotics, you name it."
"I never thought of it that way."
He grunted. "But the real problem with the policy racket is that it encourages cops to go on the pad."
"The pad?"
He gestured with his wineglass. "The pad's a police-okayed list of spots, of locations, where a policy writer can operate. It might be a grocery store, it might be a luncheonette, a bank of elevators in an office building, or a newsstand on any street corner."
"And these 'spots' can get a police 'okay'? How?"
"It starts with the cop on the beat. Precinct detectives get a taste. So do lieutenants, sergeants, and especially the captain. It makes crooks out of cops, and it lends itself to the forming of a structure, a, network of crooked cops, within a police department."
Hence, Ness thought, the need for an "outside chief" to coordinate all the corruption. But this he didn't mention to Gwen. He and Wild hoped to make the concept public once the "outside chief" himself had been nabbed.
"I really shouldn't be boring you with this," Ness said. He wondered what it was about the girl that made him open up so. He had rarely talked so openly to Evie about his work. Not since the days when Evie was his secretary back in Chicago, anyway.
But Gwen, as worldly as she apparently was, was naive about cop concerns, for a cop's daughter. Cooper had obviously sheltered her from it all.
"I don't even know how you can find time to do all this police work," Gwen said, starting in on the antipasto that the waiter had delivered during their discussion of the numbers racket. "Just your speaking engagements alone take up enough of your time."
That was true. In the past two weeks, he'd shared his "experiences as a G-man" in addresses to the Advertising Club, the Auto Club, Cleveland College, and the Boy Scouts of America-Wild had a laugh on that one.
"It comes with the territory," he shrugged. "The mayor wants me visible. We're trying to pry a big budget out of a largely unsympathetic city council."
"So you have to be a star."
"If that's what talking to the Boy Scouts of America makes you." He nibbled at the antipasto plate. "How are the other girls in the office treating you?"
"Very nicely. I'm surprised that they are, since I'm a young upstart put suddenly in charge of things."
"I've had some experience in that line, myself."
"Didn't your former secretary resent being shuffled out?"
"Betsy? No. She didn't like the pace of my office. She's working in the City Hall Library now. Much more restful."
"Eliot, maybe I shouldn't say anything…"
"What?"
She was looking past him. "There's a man at a table in the corner. He's been watching us. Or at least I think he has."
Ness turned and looked.
A small man in his late thirties dressed in a gray suit and blue tie sat with a blonde even more lovely than Gwen, at least superficially so. They were being serenaded by the violinist waiter-"Come Back to Sorrento." The blonde was big and buxom, wearing a lot of make-up and a tight, dark blue gown. She was perhaps eighteen years old. The small man was balding and had a bulbous nose and squinty eyes and a pleasant smile. He put his fork down to smile at Ness and lift his hand in a gentle wave. Then he returned to his spaghetti.
Ness, who had not waved back, turned and looked at the food which the waiter was putting before them. Gwen was looking at him with concern.
"What's wrong?" she asked.
"Nothing."
"Who is that guy?"
"It's not important."
"Don't go tight-lipped on me now, boss. My curiosity's killing me."
"It's Mo Horvitz."
"Who?"
"He's a gangster."
"Really?"
"Really." Ness couldn't stop the frown. He shook his head. "He's the one they should call 'untouchable.' Come on. Forget it. Let's eat."
Later, as they were finishing their meal, the violinist waiter finally came around to their table, but not to play the fiddle. He wasn't fiddling around at all, actually.