Eliot’s political fortunes waned, in the wake of the “unsolved” Butcher slayings. Known for his tough stance on traffic violators, he got mired in a scandal when one pre-dawn morning in March of 1942, his car skidded into an oncoming car on the West Shoreway. Eliot and his wife, and two friends, had been drinking. The police report didn’t identify Eliot by name, but his license number-EN-1, well-known to Cleveland citizens-was listed. And Eliot had left the scene of the accident.
Hit-and-run, the headlines said. Eliot’s version was that his wife had been injured, and he’d raced her to a hospital-but not before stopping to check on the other driver, who confirmed this. The storm blew over, but the damage was done-Eliot’s image in the Cleveland press was finally tarnished.
Two months later he resigned as Safety Director.
Lloyd Watterson kept sending the threatening mail to Eliot for many years. He died in a Dayton, Ohio, asylum in 1965.
How much pressure those cards and letters put on the marriage I couldn’t say; but in 1945 Eliot and Evie divorced, and Eliot married a third time a few months later. At the time he was serving as federal director of the program against venereal disease in the military. His attempt to run for Cleveland mayor in 1947 was a near disaster: Cleveland’s one-time fairhaired b was a has-been with a hit-run scandal and two divorces and three marriages going against him.
He would not have another public success until the publication of his autobiographical book,
I saw Eliot, now and then, over the years; but I never saw Vivian again.
I asked him about her, once, when I was visiting him in Pennsylvania, in the early ’50s. He told me she’d been killed in a boating accident in 1943.
“She’s been dead for years, then,” I said, the shock of it hitting me like a blow.
“That’s right. But shed a tear for her, now, if you like. Tears and prayers can never come too late, Nate.”
Amen, Eliot.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Research materials included
SCRAP
Friday afternoon, December 8, 1939, I had a call from Jake Rubinstein to meet him at 3159 Roosevelt, which was in Lawndale, my old neighborhood. Jake was an all right guy, kind of talkative and something of a roughneck, but then on Maxwell Street, when I was growing up, developing a mouth and muscles was necessary for survival. I knew Jake had been existing out on the fringes of the rackets since then, but that was true of a lot of guys. I didn’t hold it against him. I went into one of the rackets myself, after all-known in Chicago as the police department-and I figured Jake wouldn’t hold that against me, either. Especially since I was private, now, and he wanted to hire me.
The afternoon was bitterly cold, snow on the ground but not snowing, as I sat parked in my sporty ’32 Auburn across the street from the drug store, over which was the union hall where Jake said to meet him. The Scrap Iron and Junk Handlers Union, he said. I didn’t know there was one. They had unions for everything these days. My pop, an old union man, would’ve been pleased. I didn’t much care.
I went up the flight of stairs and into the outer office; the meeting room was adjacent, at my left. The place was modest, like most union halls-if you’re running a union you don’t want the rank and file to think you’re living it up-but the secretary behind the desk looked like a million. She was a brunette in a trim brown suit with big brown eyes and bright red lipstick. She’d soften the blow of paying dues any day.
She smiled at me and I forgot it was winter. “Would you be Mr. Heller?”
“I would. Would you be free for dinner?”
Her smile settled in one corner of her bright red mouth. “I wouldn’t. Mr. Rubinstein is waiting for you in Mr. Martin’s office.”
And she pointed to the only door in the wall behind her, and I gave her a can’t-blame-a-guy-for-trying look and went on in.
The inner office wasn’t big but it seemed bigger than it was because it was under-furnished: just a clutter- free desk and a couple of chairs and two wooden file cabinets. Jake was sitting behind the desk, feet up on in, socks with clocks showing, as he read
“How are you, Jake,” I said, and held out my hand.
He put the paper down, stood and grinned and shook my hand; he was a little guy, short I mean, but he had shoulders on him and his grip was a killer. He wore a natty dark blue suit and a red hand-painted tie with a sunset on it and a hat that was a little big for him. He kept the hat on indoors-self-conscious about his thinning hair, I guess.
“You look good, Nate. Thanks for coming. Thanks for coming yourself and not sending one of your ops.”
“Any excuse to get back to the old neighborhood, Jake,” I said, pulling up a chair and sitting. “We’re about four blocks from where my pop’s bookshop was, you know.”
“I know, I know,” he said, sitting again. “What do you hear from Barney these days?”
“Not much. When did you get in the union racket, anyway? Last I heard you were a door-to-door salesman.”
Jake shrugged. He had dark eyes and a weak chin and five o’clock shadow; make that six o’clock shadow. “A while ago,” he allowed. “But it ain’t really a racket. We’re trying to give our guys a break.”
I smirked at him. “In this town? Billy Skidmore isn’t going to put up with a legit junk handler’s union.”
Skidmore was a portly, dapperly dressed junk dealer and politician who controlled most of the major non- Capone gambling in town. Frank Nitti, Capone’s heir, put up with that because Skidmore was also a bailbondsmen, which made him a necessary evil.
“Skidmore’s got troubles these days,” Jake said. “He can’t afford to push us around no more.”
“You’re talking about the income tax thing.”
“Yeah. Just like Capone. He didn’t pay his taxes and they got ‘im for it.”
“They indicted him, but that doesn’t mean they got him. Anyway, where do I come in?”
Jake leaned forward, brow beetling. “You know a guy named Leon Cooke?”
“Can’t say I do.”
“He’s a little younger than us, but he’s from around here. He’s a lawyer. He put this union together, two, three years ago. Well, about a year back he became head of an association of junkyard dealers, and the rank and file voted him out.”
I shrugged. “Seems reasonable. In Chicago it wouldn’t be
Jake was nodding. “Right. The new president is Johnny Martin. Know him?”
“Can’t say I do.”
“He’s been with the Sanitary District for, oh, twenty or more years.”
The Sanitary District controlled the sewage in the city’s rivers and canals.
“He needed a hobby,” I said, “so he ran for president of the junk handler’s union, huh?”
