sotto voce.
'They copped to it, all of 'em but One-Arm Nick: recording bets, running the wire service, dealing blackjack. We got a good bust here.'
'What about this One-Arm character?'
'He's protecting Tommy Fink.'
Ness walked over and smiled and sat down next to the one-armed man. 'We know for a fact Fink owns this building.'
'I heard that myself,' Nick said. He was smoking a cigarette, trying to look calm. He wasn't.
'So you admit you work for him.'
'I don't work for anybody. I run this place.'
'So you just rent the room from Fink then.'
'Naw. I rent it from somebody else.'
'Who?'
He shrugged. 'Funny. I never caught his name.'
'Funny,' Ness said, and stood, calling to the rookies. 'Get a Black Maria and haul them to the jug. The Ninth Precinct, not the Eighth. We'll get a stenographer and get down their stories.' He looked at Fink's men. 'You can all have a restful night in jail till you get your fines and suspended sentences tomorrow.'
The men at the two tables grinned at each other.
Ness put a hand on the back of Nick's chair and said, 'Of course, your evening's not going to be so restful, Nick.'
'Yeah? Why not?'
'I'm going to have some nice bright lights set up, and then I'm sending somebody out to look for your arm.'
'My arm? What…?'
Ness smiled pleasantly and said, 'I've never conducted an interrogation at the Ninth Precinct before. They may not have any rubber hoses handy. We may need something to beat you over the head with.'
Nick didn't like the sound of that.
It took several hours to cart out the gambling equipment and the stacks of records, which the rookies loaded into paddy wagons from the Central Station. Spectators gathered, perhaps a hundred of them, braving the cold to witness this unheard-of event: a successful gambling raid in Cleveland.
Heller was sitting in the Club Cafe drinking coffee, not rum, when Ness came down to leave for the precinct house.
'How much cash was up there?' Heller asked.
'A couple grand,' Ness said, 'more or less. Today's receipts.'
'Healthy little operation.'
'It isn't feeling so good now.'
Heller stood, yawned. 'For a guy who likes excitement, Eliot, you seem determined to turn the world into a dull damn place.'
'That kid we saw in the ditch,' Ness said, moving out into the chill evening, Heller following, 'isn't in the world at all, anymore. Dull or exciting.'
'Well, I get your point, and this town sure could use some cleaning up. Just don't overdo it. Need me anymore tonight? Any of your cop pals need rides home?'
'No, Nate, on either count. Thanks for your help.'
'You coming home tonight? Or are you heading out to the boathouse again?'
'The boathouse. You'll have the apartment to yourself tonight.'
'Not necessarily,' Heller said, smiling a little, tipping his hat, pushing through the throng of spectators and heading for his car.
Under bright lights at the Ninth, One-Arm Nick Selby didn't change his story. Ness, who didn't use either a rubber hose or a dismembered limb during questioning, took satisfaction in simply ruining Nick's evening, and complicating his life. He wanted Nick to give serious consideration to a new line of work, or at least a change of scenery. And he wanted to send a message to the Mayfield Road mob, and to gamblers like Fink, and to Fink's councilman brother, as well.
It was almost midnight when Ness left the Ninth Precinct house, and nearly one A.M. when he reached suburban Lakewood. He pulled into the private drive, checking in with the guard in the little booth, before heading down the winding drive to the nest of cottages and boathouses, one of which was now a hideaway of sorts for him.
The boathouse, on Clifton Lagoon in the ritziest part of Lakewood, was a fringe benefit compliments of Mayor Burton's friend Alexander Wynston. Legally, the safety director had to maintain a residence in Cleveland; he had to have a listing in the city directory, so the Lake Avenue apartment had to stay, death-threat phone calls and all.
But Ness wanted a place where he could get away, where he could spend some time alone or with a lady friend, like Gwen Howell, without having to worry about the prying eyes of neighbors. Even with the papers on his side, gossip could get around and do damage.
So Burton had arranged this additional residence for him, the third counting the Bay Village house where Evie was, but he hadn't set foot out there since they moved. Ness had been staying here most evenings for several weeks now, leaving his apartment to Heller.
For a relatively small building, the boathouse looked massive, its design-like a castle, with two stories of gray stone topped by a squat tower-setting it apart from the more traditional frame structures of the surrounding cottages. Its yard was walled off with more gray stone, and there was even a moat of sorts, frozen over now.
Ness didn't feel much like a king, however, even if a queen of a woman waited within, probably long since asleep. He felt like a very tired cop. He parked the car in front of his castle, behind Gwen's little Chevy coupe, and paused to look at the front yard, which was Lake Erie. The lake was just across the drive, or anyway the lagoon that became the lake was-an endless stretch of gray-blue in the moonlight.
He wondered whether tonight had been a triumph or a disaster. The papers would love the story and the mayor would get the best Ness publicity yet. But Tommy Fink's brother on the city council would hardly be happy. Somehow he couldn't make himself care. He had done his job. What the hell else could they ask of him? He was a tired cop who'd done his job.
Then he let go of the thoughts and wandered into the boathouse without turning on any lights. He hung his topcoat in the hall and drifted into the living room which took up half the lower floor; its pale yellow stucco walls were trimmed with dark wood, and occasional wildlife paintings and prints gave the place a male ambiance. He tossed his jacket on a chair and loosened his tie and dropped himself into a soft brown sofa in front of the fireplace, wishing it were going. He thought, for a moment, about sitting in front of the fireplace with Evie, back in Bay Village.
'It's not too late,' a female voice said.
For a moment he thought it was Evie.
But of course it was Gwen. She was in a sheer blue nightgown. Even in the dim light, he could see the lovely shape of her, the generous breasts, the supple muscles of her stomach, the blonde triangle, the sleek legs. Evie would never have worn such a gown. Evie was no prude, but neither was she forward. Gwen was a modern, anything-but-modest woman. He liked this quality in her, but was nonetheless a little thrown by it. He wondered if he'd ever get used to it.
'Too late?' he asked.
She settled in next to him. 'For a fire. We could still build a fire.'
'Let's just go to bed.'
'Did you have anything to eat? I could fix you something.'
'Let's just go to bed.'
'And sleep?'
'We can negotiate that.'
'I don't know why I'm even speaking to you.'
'Oh?'
'You said you'd be home early tonight. I didn't know you meant early in the one-in-the-morning sense.'
