"Has Vehovic ever talked to you about this?"
Flynt shrugged. "Several times. He came around to see you, and I deflected him."
"Deflected him?"
"That's part of my job, isn't it? To keep you from getting your time wasted by the lunatic fringe?"
Flynt was a more than competent assistant, but there were times when Ness would have liked to be well and truly rid of him; this was one of those times. But the mayor had made it clear that Flynt was necessary political baggage.
Nonetheless, Ness' voice was tight with barely concealed anger as he said, "I don't think any member of the city council, particularly one requesting that I crack down on vice, qualifies as a part of the lunatic fringe."
"Perhaps I misjudged. But I called it as I saw it."
After lunch Ness sent Flynt on an errand to Cullitan's office in the Criminal Courts Building, and when he met with Vehovic at City Hall, the safety director and the Thirty-second Ward councilman were alone.
They sat at the conference table in Ness' office.
"I hear some good things about you," Vehovic admitted, with apparent reluctance. "This cemetery racket that the grand jury's looking into, they say you broke that wide open."
"I didn't have much to do with that. A reporter friend of mine did most of the work."
Ness did have some people on the case, looking into the possible death-by-arson of the two old men in the Joanna Home. Two McGrath Agency investigators Heller had chosen were showing the drawing of the phony G-man around, but so far had had no luck. Ness was beginning to think the son of a bitch had bolted town by now, but he still had hopes of collaring him. He'd convinced Wild not to air the arson suspicions or publish the drawing, but as the grand jury investigation drew to a close in the weeks ahead, all that would come out.
In the meantime, the bulldog face in the cartoonist's sketch haunted Ness. Some distant memory was stirring, but only stirring.
"That was my people," Vehovic said, with some passion. "Not just in my ward-those bums hit my ward, too, you know-but I mean Slavs, like me. Poor ignorant immigrants that believe in this country and got fleeced for it. If you helped break that racket open, my hat's off to you."
His hat was off actually; the straw boater sat on the table between them, next to an ashtray where the councilman's latest foul-smelling cigar smoldered.
"The city should set an example," Vehovic continued, shaking a fist, letting Ness know that all compliments had ended. "If you aren't ready to do it, I'll do it myself. I'll take a baseball bat and show you how to really raid a bookie joint."
"You have any particular bookie joint in mind?"
"Sure. The biggest one in town."
Publicity. Ness could smell it. This wasn't as good as nabbing the "outside chief," but it would carry some weight. Yes it would…
Vehovic was saying, "The joint's on the top floor of the Paradise Hotel on West Twenty-fifth. There's a greasy-spoon saloon downstairs called the Club Cafe."
"That isn't even in your ward."
"I'm interested in cleaning up the whole goddamn town! Aren't you? Besides, that's Tommy Fink's place. Not his only one, but the biggest."
"Give me the exact address."
"Two-oh-seven-seven West Twenty-fifth."
Ness wrote that down. "That's in the Eighth Precinct."
"Yeah, but them cops is no good over there."
"Have you tried them?"
"Lineham told me not to stick my nose in his business."
"Captain Lineham? The precinct commander?"
"That's him. His kids work summers for Tommy Fink at one of his racetracks."
"Are you sure of that?"
"You're supposed to be a detective. Look into it."
"I will. Give me a couple of days on this. A week at most."
"You really gonna do something?"
"Yes."
"Then maybe we can hit some places in my ward?"
"Sure."
"And I can come along?"
Ness nodded. "But leave your baseball bat at home, okay?"
"It's a deal."
Vehovic stood and offered his hand, which Ness shook.
"You know," the stocky councilman said, "ninety percent of the police force is honest and would clean themself up if they wasn't under the thumbs of some old-timers who had to pay for their appointments and want to get their money back. The honest fellas get shoved in some shit job if they don't do what the crooked ones say."
"You're probably right."
"No probably. I am right. Ever ask yourself why the only councilman makin' waves is crazy ol' Tony? Why aren't these other councilmen getting out and saying there's vice in their wards?"
"What are you saying?"
He shrugged elaborately. "They're grafters. Not all of 'em. But sitting right there on the council with me is grafters. I turned down four grand from a Chicago slot-machine salesman to lay off the slots. He said the other councilmen are getting theirs and I should get some, too. I told him to go fuck himself and I put my ordinance through. It passed, too, till your friend the mayor nixed it."
Could the mayor have vetoed Vehovic's bill simply to placate some crooked councilmen whose votes were needed to pass the budget? Ness dismissed the thought as quickly as it came, saying to himself as much as to Vehovic, "Burton's no crook."
"I know, I know. He's just another fancy-pants, that's all. He's like all mayors-he attends his banquets, never misses a chicken. He says hello to me at least. That's more than that weasel Davis ever did."
Ness, feeling a bit like he'd been run over by a friendly truck, showed the councilman to the door. He said, "Thank you for coming to me with this."
About to go out, Vehovic paused and looked at Ness curiously, as if he were a species of animal he'd never seen before. "Are you for real? I'll be damned if I don't think you're maybe for real."
"Give me a week and see. You need a lift anywhere? I can call up a car for you."
"No. I pedaled over from Collinwood, and I'll pedal back."
"Pedaled?"
"Yeah, I go everywheres on my bicycle. I don't get my goddamn exercise at no health club."
"But it's winter."
"Ain't you the Sherlock Holmes to figure that out," Vehovic said, and he put his boater on, tipped it to Ness and went out.
Ness buzzed for Gwen, who came in, steno pad in hand. She was wearing another knit pullover, a light blue one with a dark blue skirt, and looked very pretty, even with her hair up and her glasses on.
"Put the pad down," Ness said, "and pick up the phone."
"Why?"
"I want you to call the Eighth Precinct and report a bookie joint."
She shrugged and lifted the phone receiver. "Okay," she said.
Ness gave her the phone number and the address.
As she dialed, he said, "You're the wife of a W.P.A. worker who lost all his money in the place."
"Got ya," she said, and waited as the phone rang.
The safety director's standing orders to all precincts, well-publicized in the papers, were that such tips should immediately be acted upon.
Then she was talking to a desk sergeant, and she told him what Ness had said to say, putting the proper outrage in her voice.
She listened for a moment, then went on, "If you say so. But if you don't raid that joint immediately, I'm going straight to the safety director's office!"
She listened again, momentarily, and said, "Fine. Do that. I pay taxes!"
And she hung up.
"How'd I do?" she asked.
He put a hand on her shoulder; the sweater felt warm, the wool tickling his palm. "Swell. You ever think about going into acting?"
"Not since my high school's production of Hamlet. You think they'll raid the place?"
"They'll raid it. Whether it'll still be operating when they get there, that is the question."
"I got a hunch it won't be operating."
"I got a hunch you're right. But why do you say that, Ophelia?"
She sighed. "Well, when I told the desk cop that my husband lost all his money at this place on West Twenty-fifth, he said, 'Oh-you must mean that bookie joint just down the street.' "
She smiled and shrugged and went back into the outer office.
Then Ness used the phone and left word at the Hollenden for Nate Heller to check in with him. He had a special job for his private-detective friend. When, soon after, Flynt got back with some papers from Cullitan's office, Ness didn't mention Vehovic, or the raid that should now be under way in the Eighth Precinct.