we haven't had. Neither my partner here nor I will have any memory of it. What we will have is a list of grievances longer than an elephant's dick, and we'll call a strike and you won't be able to do anything except sit in here and look at your unpainted walls, your unfinished woodwork, and these unsightly boards blocking the lovely view of Playhouse Square designed for all the customers you won't be able to seat.'
Gordon's face was as white as the plasterers' coveralls. Whiter. He pointed to the door like a merciless father sending his fallen daughter away. His voice was trembling with rage. 'Get. Out.'
'Talk to your business partners. I'll need a decision by'-Caldwell withdrew his pocket watch from his vest and made a show of studying it-'eight tonight. I'll be back personally for your decision.'
Almost yelling, Gordon said, 'Get the hell out! Both of you!'
At this, the hammering stopped; the plasterers in their whites and the carpenters in their coveralls looked at the two union reps who were leaving, smiling and waving at the men as they went, like politicians on parade. Several of the workers grinned and waved back. Others had looks of disgust and did not.
By eight that evening, however, the interior of the unfinished Gordon's restaurant was empty, but for Vernon Gordon and Big Jim Caldwell.
Gordon, wearing a suit and tie now, stood in the midst of the big empty room like an actor about to do a monologue on a stage. Outside, the myriad moving lights of marquees were making a glowing Great White Way of Playhouse Square; but the GORDON'S sign was not yet lit, and the interior was barely lighted by a single jury-rigged hanging bulb. The unfinished dining room, sawdust and plaster stains on the uncarpeted floor, was shadowy and cool, now, the heat and humidity having left with the workers and the daylight.
It was a weary, resigned Gordon who said to Big Jim Caldwell, who had come alone, 'I've talked to the other officers of my company. The consensus-with which I don't agree, not that it would matter to you-is that we should consider this a business expense, and pay.'
'I think that's a wise decision,' Caldwell said brightly.
Gordon cocked his head. 'But business expenses need to be reasonable.'
'Reasonable. And what do you and your officers consider reasonable?'
'Five hundred dollars.'
Caldwell's affable mask dropped and he spat out the words. 'No way in fucking hell. Two thousand or be damned!'
Gordon was taken aback, as if a furnace door had opened and flames reached out for him. Swallowing he said, 'Six hundred, then.'
'No. Not enough. Two thousand. I got to have two thousand.'
'That's unreasonable.'
Caldwell thumped the restaurateur's chest with a stubby finger. 'Maybe you could put up a new sign: Gordon's Open Air Cafe, 'cause without windows, my friend, that is what you'll have.'
Impulsively, Gordon blurted, 'One thousand, damn it. I can't go a nickel higher.'
'For two thousand,' Caldwell said smoothly, 'I'll see to it you get nothing but the best. Not just plate glass, but bulletproof glass.'
'No. One thousand is my top offer.'
'Two thousand.'
'Be reasonable, man!'
'Two thousand.'
Gordon stood shaking his head, thinking. Then, through his teeth, he said, 'I want to open. I want to open my goddamn restaurant up. We'll go fifteen hundred. I'm not authorized by my officers to go that high, but I'll go back to them, if you agree to take it, and ask them to authorize it.'
Caldwell considered that. 'And if they don't authorize it?'
Gordon spat out his response: 'I'll kick in the extra five hundred, out of my own pocket.'
Caldwell began to smile. He rocked on his heels. 'Well. Compromise is the better part of valor, they say.'
Gordon said nothing, but anxiety was flickering in his eyes.
'All right,' Caldwell said. 'We'll settle on fifteen hundred. But the glass installed is going to be standard plate glass, not bulletproof.'
'Fine, fine, fine. Whatever you say.'
'As far as payment goes, we'll need it in cash, of course.'
'Do you want me to deliver it to you, at the union hall?'
'No! I'll have my associate Mr. McFate stop by. You'll go for a ride in his Lincoln sedan.'
Gordon laughed shortly. 'I've already been taken for a ride.'
Caldwell raised a scolding finger and said, 'Tut tut, now. Let's not be bitter. It's just a matter of business, after all. By the way-once you have your windows installed, you're going to need somebody to wash them.'
'Well… I suppose so. But I have people on my staff who-'
'Here's a reliable union firm,' Caldwell said, handing him a card.
Resignedly, Gordon took the card and slipped it in a suitcoat pocket.
'Of course I'll need to run some interference for you, with the window washers union.'
'What?'
'One hundred dollars a month. Small price to pay for the knowledge that your windows will be clean… and unbroken.'
'I'm getting a little tired of your threats, Caldwell.'
'Then I'd suggest you get some rest.' He glanced about the now completely plastered room. 'Getting a joint like this going is a big job. Big responsibility.' He smiled at his victim. 'You must be exhausted.'
And he tipped his derby and left Gordon alone with his thoughts and his unfinished restaurant.
CHAPTER 7
The neighborhood was working class, edging into lower middle class, a street lined with duplex houses marked by the overhang of second-story porches. They were built close together, simple wooden-frame houses, unlike the brick two-flats Ness was familiar with back in Chicago. But they were well-kept, freshly painted structures that indicated Jack Whitehall had, to some degree, 'made it.'
Ness left his black Ford sedan across the street, just down from a Sohio station and in front of a ma-and-pa grocery. The zoning in Cleveland was loose as hell; commercial and even industrial mixing in with residential like this was common, though it always threw Ness a little.
The night was dark-the blackness emphasized by a broken streetlight-and it was warm. But Ness was not sweating. He rarely did, even on a close night like this one.
Whitehall and family lived downstairs (Whitehall owned the duplex). Ness went up the short flight of wooden steps to the front porch, where he rang the bell.
An attractive dark-haired woman of about thirty, in a blue-and-white floral print dress and an apron, opened the door and smiled shyly, tentatively.
'Mr. Ness?' she asked through the screen door, arching her eyebrows. She had a sweet, almost melodic voice-feminine, rather timid.
'Yes.' He removed his hat. 'Mrs. Whitehall?'
'Yes,' she said, with another shy smile, and opened the door. 'Please come in.'
Ness stepped in. There was no vestibule; he was immediately in a modestly but well-furnished living room. Other than Ness and Mrs. Whitehall, who took his hat, the room was unpopulated. Several windows were open and an electric fan was going. There was an overstuffed couch upholstered in green mohair, and a matching overstuffed chair with a standing lamp, turned on. Nearby was a coffee table where a sweating bottle of beer sat on a Liberty magazine next to a copy of the novel Of Mice and Men. A big console radio was softly playing orchestral music, a syrupy rendition of 'Pennies from Heaven.' On the wall were several framed prints, including one of sheep grazing on a hillside, and another of Jesus, a three-quarter front view of an almost feminine, cow-eyed Christ in soft sepia tones. The latter print was very familiar to Ness: he'd seen the original in a church in downtown Chicago, and framed prints in countless Chicago homes since. Never before in Cleveland, though.
