"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.
CHAPTER 18
On the following Tuesday, mid-afternoon, Ness, looking like a successful young banker in his gray vested suit with black and white tie, sat at the counter of Clark's Restaurant on East Ninth, drinking black coffee and waiting for Nate Heller, who was ten minutes late.
Ness was reflecting on Friday's raid by the men of the Eighth Precinct on the bookie joint at West Twenty-fifth Street, a raid which had proved just as fruitless as the one the previous Wednesday.
He had again instructed Gwen to call the desk at the Eighth Precinct, posing as the W.P.A. worker's wife whose husband was gambling away his meager paycheck, threatening to go straight to the safety director's office if the joint wasn't shuttered "this very minute."
As had been the case with Wednesday's raid, however, it had taken a little over an hour for the boys from the Eighth Precinct to hit the bookie joint "just down the street," by which time all gambling operations had-gee, what do you know? — ceased.
The difference tonight was that a handful of Ness' undercover men were on the scene as the raid was about to get under way. One of them was a McGrath Agency man, recommended by Heller. The others were actually Cleveland cops.
Ness had picked five of twenty-one rookie patrolmen he'd recently sworn in, and sent them to the West Twenty-fifth Street joint to play the ponies at the city's expense. They had witnessed the raid, or, more importantly, what had gone before: warning lights had flashed and the patrons were given an opportunity to exit, while the gambling equipment was quickly stored away.
The manager had told the patrons that they could wait downstairs in the cafe, if they liked; it shouldn't take more than an hour to get the place up and running again, once the cops had stopped by, seen the empty room, and headed back to the precinct house. And, according to the undercover men, it hadn't. The place was soon in full swing again.
This had been reported to Ness by one of his rookies, whose frustration and disgust made Ness feel very good.
Heller arrived at the restaurant sixteen minutes late. He hung his topcoat next to Ness' on the metal tree just inside the door, then sat on a stool to Ness' right, took off his hat, and put it on the counter. His thick reddish-brown hair needed cutting. He said, "Sorry I'm late. I just can't get the hang of these goddamn Cleveland streets."
Ness grunted. "I know what you mean."
The counter waitress, a slim, rather plain girl whose make-up made her nearly pretty, smoothed her apron and tried out her smile on Heller; he gave her one back, briefly, absently, not noting her look of disappointment as she filled him a cup of coffee.
Heller was still bitching about the Cleveland streets. "It's like navigating the spokes of a big, busted wheel. Every time I turn around, I'm facing one of those flatiron type buildings."
"I'm not used to it either. Probably never will be. What didn't you want to tell me over the phone?"
"Hey, when you spend your time listening in on other people's phone conversations, you're careful about what you say on the line yourself."
Heller had been tapping the Eighth Precinct's phones since last Wednesday.
"Understood," said Ness. "We already know the warning call to the bookie joint came direct from the desk sergeant. That's incriminating enough, isn't it?"
Heller shook his head, smiling. "Nope. I got better. Today I heard Tommy Fink himself chewing out somebody's ass."
The councilman's brother didn't like getting raided, apparently.
"Whose ass would that be?"
"None other than Captain Timothy Lineham. The precinct commander."
"Do tell," Ness said, angry but pleased, pounding a fist on the counter. His coffee cup jumped and spilled a bit.
Heller seemed faintly amused. "Fink was extremely pissed off about these raids, two comin' so close together. 'What am I payin' good money for?' he says. He said if Lineham couldn't do his job, maybe somebody else would be commanding the Eighth before long; he was 'takin' his beef to Lineham's boss. Who would that be? This 'outside chief you been talking about?"
"Probably. No name mentioned there, I suppose?"
"No, that was pretty vague. Still, it was some conversation. Too bad you can't use this stuff in court."
"We'll hang Lineham by his balls with this, admissible evidence or not."
Heller put a hand on Ness' shoulder. "Don't let it get you down. A little honest graft never hurt anybody."
"Then why did you quit the force back in Chicago?"
"A weak moment. By the way, I poked around that West Side neighborhood over the weekend, like you asked. From what I hear, that West Twenty-fifth Street joint- which everybody seems to refer to as Tommy Fink's' — has been running almost continuously for at least ten years."
Ness laughed humorlessly. "Why not? Lineham's been commanding the Eighth that whole time. He's been a cop for twenty-six years."
"He must be a wealthy man by now."
Ness looked at his watch. "Do you have to check back with your operatives?"
"No, not for a while. They're big boys."
"Then go take a load off your feet at the Hollenden. I'll call you sometime in the next hour or two."
"What's up?"
"I'm going to raid that joint myself, and I want to take a few trusted men with me. You're one of them."
"Trusted? Me? Gee, I haven't been so excited since I ran across a Melvin Purvis badge in my Post Toasties."
"Why don't you bring that badge along? It's worth at least as much as the Cleveland variety. And your gun."
"Bullets too?"
"Why not? Live a little."
Ness reached for the check, but Heller stopped him.
"Let me," he said. "I'm on an expense account."
Ness laughed shortly, shook his head, and headed for the pay phone on the back wall. He rang Chief Matowitz at the Central Police Station and filled him in about Lineham.
"What do you suggest we do about the bastard?" Matowitz said.
"Call him up right now. Tell him to get over to your office straight away. Don't tell him why."
"Then what?"
"Have a resignation written and ready for him to sign."
"We'll need a lawyer to do that."
"You're a lawyer."
There was a pause, as if that fact had slipped Matowitz's mind.
Then he said, "I'll get right on it. Are you coming over for this?"
"I wouldn't miss it."
Ness phoned the Plain Dealer and happened to catch Sam Wild in. He filled him in and Wild promised to stay at his desk till Ness phoned back.
Then Ness walked quickly through the white-tiled restaurant, (Heller was having another cup of coffee and chatting with the waitress, apparently trying to decide whether she was pretty or plain,) and stopped to pluck his topcoat and fedora off the metal tree. He went out the door onto the cold Cleveland street and turned left toward City Hall, where his city sedan waited in the parking lot.
When he arrived at Matowitz's first-floor office at the Central Police Station, he found the chief once again at the birdcage in the corner, feeding his parakeet bread crumbs.
"You're going to fatten that bird up," Ness said, shutting the door, "till it's just a round yellow ball with legs."
"I know," Matowitz admitted, with an embarrassed little smile. The blue eyes behind the wire frames showed worry. "When I get nervous, either I eat, or the bird eats. Better him than me."