however, and came back for more, the younger farmer stepped inside Callahan's follow-up swing, grabbed his arm, turned his back on Callahan, and threw him over his shoulder.
And Harry Gibson's men were spread out on their backs, unconscious or otherwise out of commission, like kids making angels in the snow. Only the pavement wasn't snow, and Harry Gibson's men weren't angels.
Harry rushed into the terminal and went to a wall phone. He dropped in a nickel and called Caldwell at home.
'Holy Mary mother!' Caldwell said. 'Do you have any idea what time it is, man?'
'I ain't calling to tell you what time it is,' Harry said. 'Other than it's later than you think. I'm calling to tell you that Eliot Ness and some kid just beat the ever-living shit out of four of my men.'
'What? Are you drunk, you simple bastard?'
'They came in dressed like farmers and started unloading a truck. They baited my boys into a fight.'
'And nobody recognized Eliot fucking Ness? I know your boys can't read, but they at least see the goddamn papers, don't they?'
Harry shrugged elaborately, made a face, as if Caldwell could see him. 'He didn't look like himself. He had on this fake mustache and a floppy old hat. And I never seen this kid before who was with him, who is probably also a cop.'
'Did you get in and mix it up yourself?'
'No.'
A long sigh. 'Well, that's one thing, anyway. Praise God for small favors.'
'What should I do?'
'Don't trade any punches, for Christ's sake. But stand up for your union. Speak your mind.'
'Which is what?'
A long silence. 'Use your head, why don't you, Harry? For something other than raising a crop of hair.'
'Are you coming down?'
'Are you crazy, or just stupid? It's not my union. It's your union. You're the business agent.'
'But boss-you're the brains!'
'Well, the brains are going back to bed. Good luck to you, my boy.'
The click in Harry's ear told him he was on his own.
A paddy wagon had arrived by the time Harry rejoined the crowd. His four leather-jacketed men were being handcuffed and escorted into the back of it by bluecoats. Several press photographers were shooting pictures of the event. How the hell, Harry wondered, did everybody get here so soon?
Ness, who had not put his hat or mustache back on, was speaking to the crowd that had, by this point, swelled to at least a hundred people. Among them were truck drivers, farmers, vendors, buyers-men, and a few women, representing every branch of life and business at the food terminal.
'This little impromptu performance this morning,' Ness was saying in a mild, mellow voice, 'is only one small part of an ongoing criminal investigation here at the terminal. My office has been aware, for some time, of the activities of a gang engaged in a shakedown racket here at the market, extorting money by threats and force. This gang of racketeers, operating under the guise of a labor union, has preyed upon you people long enough. And they have preyed upon the city of Cleveland long enough- driving up food prices, pushing buyers and sellers into other markets in other cities.'
Harry's jaw tightened as heads around him were nodding as Ness's words hit home.
'Right now,' Ness continued, 'my investigators are working undercover in this terminal. They are gathering evidence but will, if necessary, abandon their 'cover' and intervene, if this so-called union's goon squad interferes with the daily operations of this market. Undercover officers will continue to work the terminal until these acts of violence and extortion end.'
Many heads were nodding now, and even some scatterings of applause broke out. Harry Gibson's face was reddening; his teeth were clenched-his fists were, too.
'But to really clean up this market,' Ness said, hands on the hips of his coveralls, 'I need the cooperation of those of you who have been victimized. If enough witnesses come forward, we can shut down this phony union.'
Gibson shouldered his way through the crowd. Standing up on the loading dock, he gazed coldly down at Ness.
'My name is Harry Gibson. I'm the business agent of what you're calling a phony union. We are, in fact'-he searched for the words, tried to remember things he'd heard Caldwell say-'a legitimate labor union organized and operated to protect the, uh… interests of our members.'
From the crowd came the sound of a raspberry. Gibson glared back at blank faces.
'I know who you are, Mr. Gibson,' Ness said evenly.
Gibson turned back to Ness and pointed down at him. 'And I know who you are. You're a cop in the pocket of the moneyed class. You're a union-busting copper.'
From behind the press photographers stepped a satanic scarecrow in a seersucker suit and straw fedora with a red band. He had a pad and pencil in his hands and a smartass look on his face.
'Sam Wild,' the man said, looking up at Gibson, introducing himself. ' Plain Dealer. What makes you think Mr. Ness is a union buster?'
'He was just down busting heads at the steel mill, wasn't he? Then he climbs up on that truck and plays God for the press. Look at him here, in his farmer getup.' Gibson turned to the crowd. 'This is just some lousy publicity stunt!'
'Not that lousy,' Wild said, smiling, scribbling. He turned to Ness, who stood with arms folded near the younger cop/farmer (whose name, Harry later found out, was Albert Curry). 'How about it, Mr. Safety Director? Are you against labor?'
'I'm against racketeers in labor,' Ness said. His eyes traced the crowd. 'I'm against racketeers in the police department.' He shrugged. 'I'm against racketeers.'
And now applause rang out-not just scattered: widespread.
Harry Gibson, feeling naked as a head of lettuce, scowled, and pushed his way through the crowd, disappearing inside the market, feeling depressingly sober.
Outside, the sun was coming up.
CHAPTER 5
Eliot Ness handed the report to County Prosecutor Cullitan, saying, 'A little light reading for you, Frank.'
Cullitan, standing behind his big oak desk in his first-floor office in the Criminal Courts Building, took the hefty black-foldered document and pretended to gauge its weight in one hand like a market melon he was considering.
'One hundred pages?' Cullitan asked, sitting, placing the report before him. The prosecutor was a large man, fifty-six years of age, his gray hair streaked by stubborn dark strands, his quiet manner belying the power that could erupt from him in a courtroom.
'Eighty-five pages,' Ness said, shrugging, sitting across from the prosecutor. 'But when you start taking the witness depositions, you'll need a bigger office to hold the transcripts.'
'You got witnesses to come forward?'
'Over one hundred.' Ness pointed at the black-jacketed report. 'We've substantiated forty-five acts of vandalism, bribery, and extortion. The Marketer's Co-op has already been disbanded, and we've made twenty-one arrests.'
Cullitan's smile was gently mocking. 'That stunt of yours, at the food terminal last month, would seem to have paid off.'
Ness smiled back, somewhat sheepishly. 'Well, Frank-I don't like to think of it as a stunt exactly…'
Cullitan's smile settled in one cheek. 'Even if your reporter friend Sam Wild did happen to be on the scene, along with half the photographers in town.'
Ness could only shrug.
