Reverend, how exactly can I win with you?'
After an awkward moment, a chagrined smile spread across the preacher's face. 'Mr. Ness, I believe I may have misjudged you in the past. You 'won' with me last week, at the market, let me assure you.'
Ness smiled politely, glanced at his watch. 'Reverend, I really do have another appointment. If I can be of specific help…'
'Mr. Ness, I think you know of the goals of the Future Outlook League.'
'I do, and I agree with them. You're trying to persuade white-owned businesses in Negro neighborhoods to hire Negro help.'
Hollis sat forward. 'It's that, Mr. Ness, and more. We also advocate Negro ownership of businesses in those neighborhoods. That's why I am so encouraged, when I read in the white papers that you have made as your next target the Italian gangsters who hold the east side in their sweaty grip.'
Ness might have been amused by the preacher's arch phrasing had the sincerity of the words not been so deep. But he failed to see the connection between his attack on the Mayfield gang-ruled numbers racket and the F.O.L. advocating home-owned businesses. He told Hollis that.
Hollis replied, 'Before the Italians moved in, the policy and clearing-house business was a positive economic force on the east side. Men like Rufus Murphy contributed to charity, to churches, but even more important, they invested their money in Negro businesses.'
'I'm afraid, Reverend, that I still do not see your point.'
'I'm suggesting that the numbers game is a harmless diversion for my race, and one that provides many desirable economic side effects.'
'It's not so harmless when you start listing the corpses that have accumulated in the past five years.'
Hollis raised a finger. 'That is not the doing of the Negro policy kings. That was a one-sided war. The Italians did all the shooting.'
'That would seem to be true,' Ness admitted.
'Frankly, Mr. Ness, you have a problem. You will need the evidence of the Negro numbers operators, who are now reluctantly aligned with Black Sal Lombardi.'
'That is definitely true.'
'How do you propose to gain their trust, then: support?'
Ness pointed at himself with a thumb. 'I'll offer police protection. I have a reputation for protecting the lives and even the identities of my witnesses. If you followed my investigation into illegal labor practices, you'll know that's true.'
Hollis was smiling again, the frustrated smile of a man trying to explain a complexity to a child. 'You must understand, Mr. Ness, that the Negro numbers operators are going to be… reticent about cooperating with you, as they are technically law-breakers themselves.'
'No 'technically' about it. But I'm prepared to offer immunity in return for testimony.'
'Then I am prepared to help you. To act as an intermediary with the colored community.'
Ness leaned forward. 'You are? Reverend Hollis, that would be most appreciated…'
'But I would need to be able to pass along certain assurances.'
'What sort of assurances?'
'That the policy and clearing house games will be turned back over to the Negro community, once we've helped you drive the influence of the Italian gangsters out of our neighborhoods.'
'You mean… exercise a sort of benign neglect, where the numbers racket is concerned, once it's back in Negro hands?'
Hollis nodded somberly.
Ness frowned. 'Reverend Hollis, I'm disappointed that a man of your stature, of your religious background, would even suggest such a thing.'
Hollis seemed both sad and amused. 'Mr. Ness, policy is not a crime, on the east side. It's a small ray of hope, in one sense. In another, it's a rare example of economic independence for my people. There are others of 'stature' in the Negro community who feel as I do.'
Ness knew that Hollis meant Raney and the other Negro councilmen, who would certainly like to have the campaign contributions of the policy kings once again.
Wearily, Ness rose.
He said, 'Thank you for stopping by, Reverend.'
'Will you think it over, Mr. Ness?'
'I have,' Ness said. 'No deals.'
Hollis smiled patiently. He rose and said, 'Life is more complicated than that, Mr. Ness. Consider it. Ponder it. My offer stands. Good afternoon.'
He nodded and Ness held open the hall door for the man, and let him out. Hollis's footsteps echoed out on the marble floor, sadly, ominously.
Detective Albert Curry passed the clergyman on the walkway and met Ness, who was getting into his topcoat, at the office door.
'Wasn't that that fellow Hollis? From the Negro protest group?'
'Yes,' Ness said, locking his office door.
'What did he want?'
'To protest,' Ness said. 'Let's take an unmarked car, Albert. We'll leave EN-1 in the parking lot.'
Curry nodded and followed Ness onto the open hallway; beyond the railing the City Hall atrium rose. 'Moeller and the others are waiting at the station,' he told Ness.
'Fine,' Ness said.
A few minutes later, Curry was behind the wheel of a black Ford sedan.
'Where did we get this tip?' Curry asked, driving.
'Garner.'
'Already? He hasn't been undercover a week!'
Ness shrugged. 'He's good at it. Struck up a friendship with one of Frank Hogey's policy runners.'
Curry smiled over at his boss. 'He's the biggest policy banker on the east side. And the only white one.'
Ness said nothing for a while, watching the downtown glide by his window. Then he said, 'Hogey knows his way around the legal system. Used to be a Police Court bondsman. But if we make a good bust… maybe we can do some business.'
Soon they pulled up the ramp into the parking lot of Central Police Station at 21st and Payne, where they met Sergeant Moeller and two rookie patrolmen, who wore plainclothes for the occasion. Ness had requested that Moeller pull in two rookies, because Ness had virtually hand-picked every cop added to the force since he'd taken the safety director job. He could trust rookies.
They took two unmarked cars, taking 22nd less than a mile down to Central Avenue. Off Central, on East 36th Street, in the slum-choked midst of the Central-Scovill district, was a run-down, wooden-frame house, the paint long ago having peeled off it, a big ungainly structure with a short front yard thick with dead weeds. The two cars rolled down the street, windows down.
It was dusk already, though it was not yet six; the smells of pungent cooking spiced the air. All of the houses here were large enough to serve several families, but were ramshackle enough to topple in a strong wind. A few colored school kids were running down the sidewalk, playing a game Ness didn't recognize and laughing for no reason Ness could discern, other than childhood itself. He envied them their innocence, but not their future.
As they had prearranged, the car with Moeller and the two rookies parked on East 36th, just down the block from the house in question. Ness and Curry drove around back, to the alley, where they parked and got out and skirted a tumble-down shack of a garage and walked quietly across the back-yard, where a dead dog was rotting next to a discarded mattress, to the rear of the house, where on the back steps a man and a woman, both colored, were smoking and laughing.
The man, who might have been twenty, wore a dark gray suit with wide pinstripes and wide lapels and a dark tie with a jewel stickpin; he wore black and white shoes and looked as spiffy as a department store mannequin. The woman, who was probably five years older than the man she was sharing her cigarette with, had skin the color of copper and her slinky, clingy dress was of a shade only slightly darker than her own. She also wore black high heels and a choker of cultured pearls and her hands flashed with jewelry.
