over fifty thousand in paper money.
'Gameboy Miller isn't here,' one of Cullitan's assistants announced, coining in from the gaming room where the casino's staff was being rounded up. 'None of the big wheels are here. All we drew is working stiffs.'
That didn't bother Cullitan. He wasn't looking to prosecute anybody. Pulling in these private eyes as his personal army of deputies could get his case tossed out anyway, not that judges in the pockets of the Mayfield Road gang needed any legitimate excuse. The point of the exercise was to close these clubs down. And in the case of the Thomas Club, Cullitan noted with satisfaction-watching his raiders dismantle and seize the equipment, loading it and the handcuffed employees into the moving van for the first of two trips-that objective had been met.
He left the mop-up to his assistants and took his car over to the Harvard Club to see how that raid had come off.
Only it hadn't yet.
He found McAndrew's raiding party huddled in front of and inside a Sohio gas station across the street from the Harvard Club, which was sheltered on either side by a wooded area.
'What the hell is going on?' Cullitan demanded.
McAndrew told him.
'Machine guns,' Cullitan said, rubbing his chin.
'Nobody's left yet. The patrons are still in there. Maybe they're hostages.'
'I doubt that.'
'It's a Mexican standoff. I decided to wait for you.'
'Damn. We need more men.'
'What about yours?'
'They're already headed downtown with a vanload of gambling gear and arrests.'
'Do you want to try the sheriff?'
'He wouldn't give us the time of day.'
'What about your friend Ness?'
'We aren't in Cleveland.'
'But this whole damn thing was his idea.'
'Not really.' Cullitan liked to think it was his own idea, but Ness certainly had been there rooting him on.
'Call him. What harm can it do?'
Cullitan looked across at the Harvard Club. 'Why's it so dark?'
'Patton turned off the parking lot lights. That's why I moved my men across the street. Standing in the dark like that, waiting for the shooting to start was playing hell with everybody's nerves.'
'Give me a nickel.'
'What?'
'Give me a nickel,' Cullitan said.
Time to call Ness.
CHAPTER 11
Eliot Ness sat in the gallery of the City Council Chambers-a vast, ornate assembly hall of dark wood paneling where even the dolts among the council could hear their pronouncements resonate-and fought sleep. All evening he'd been subjected to floor fights on procedural matters, stemming from the fact that Monday night's turbulent meeting had resulted in multiple roll-call votes. The final one, which took place just before dawn, was disputed, leaving two claimants to the council presidency. Mayor Burton had ties to Sonny D'Maioribus, the Republican who seemed to have won the presidency. But Democrat William Reed also believed himself the rightful winner and on Wednesday had filed suit in the Court of Appeals.
Tonight a president pro tern was being elected, to preside till the courts sorted it all out. But the heated battle of Monday night had deteriorated into bickering as Friday evening eroded.
Ness had been here Monday and had seen the whole fracas. He'd gotten into it, inadvertently. The onlookers in the gallery had seemed on the verge of rioting-pushing each other around physically, reflecting the verbal war on the chamber floor-so he'd sent for a riot squad to expel all the spectators. When the squad arrived, a big uniformed cop immediately grabbed Ness by the collar and ejected him first.
He almost wished that something that interesting would happen tonight. The council chambers were just across from his office, and Ness was thinking about slipping over there. His administrative assistant, political appointee John Flynt was working on a summary of crime statistics that Ness was anxious to go over.
And, too, he really ought to get home. He'd promised Eva he'd be in no later than ten for a late supper. He'd been trying to be nice to her lately, because she'd been so disappointed when they couldn't get back to Chicago for a family Christmas. Also, Eva didn't seem too happy about their new apartment, nice as it was.
She also didn't seem to understand that his job included some duties beyond the work itself. Like attending city council meetings, for the next few weeks anyway, because Mayor Burton had asked him to. Budget hearings were coming up, after all. The mayor wanted his new, apolitical safety director's physical presence in those council chambers, wanted him to become a familiar face at meetings. The young cop who'd failed to recognize his safety director boss was emblematic of the need for newcomer Ness to make himself known.
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
