'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.
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
