One day in 1927, Prosecutor Raney asked Toussaint to drop by his office at the Criminal Courts Building.
Raney, a stocky, pleasant-featured light-skinned Negro with sharp, dark eyes, had sat behind a big mahogany desk with his hands folded like a preacher. His smile was gentle and a touch self-satisfied as he said, 'They tell me you apply to the police department about three times a week.'
'They exaggerating,' Johnson said. 'Some.'
'I want representatives of our race on the department. There are people in city government who agree with me. White people. And a hell of a lot of Negroes on the east side feel that way. We need Negro cops. You're going to be one of them.'
'Good.'
'You have a fine war record, and a high school education. Good grades, too. Why didn't you go to college, Toussaint?'
'Money.'
'What about your family's restaurant?'
'Lost it.'
'Oh. Well, your latest application is going to be approved. Needless to say, your affiliation with Mr. Rufus Murphy will come in handy.'
'I ain't gonna roust Murphy…'
'You might on occasion, for appearance sake.' Raney smiled slyly. 'No, Toussaint, Mr. Murphy is a friend of mine and a campaign contributor. You'll still be working for him, in capacities that you and he will determine. This is the last you and I will speak of it, because there might be, in the eyes of some, a certain… conflict of interests.'
'You won't take the fall,' Johnson assured him, 'if it comes to that. I'm willing to take the job and what comes with it.'
'Good!' Raney stood behind the desk and smiled and the two men shook hands. In two days Johnson's application was officially accepted.
The years that followed had been rewarding ones, in just about every sense. With his cop's pay and certain compensations from Rufus Murphy, Johnson was able to move his wife and two kids to the white-frame house on Hough. And he had racked up an arrest and conviction record second to nobody in the crime-ridden Roaring Third. Commendations overflowed in his file.
The gravy train had slowed, though, when the policy kings got overthrown by those tally bastards from Murray Hill. Added to that was the pain and sorrow of losing Rufus Murphy, of having this second father shot right out from under his file-folder-full-of-commendations ass.
But now there was a chance for recompense. Now there was a chance, finally, to revenge himself on those white sons-of-bitches. Now there was a chance, finally, to start putting money in the bank again, maybe put his two boys in college, give them a shot at a decent life.
He'd gone to Raney's law offices just yesterday and the councilman, looking fatter and sassier but with the same sharp hard look in his eyes, had told Johnson to cooperate with Ness.
'Ness works for Burton,' Raney said, 'and the Mayor needs the Negro vote-both in the council and at the polls.'
'Ness don't cut deals,' Johnson said.
'I know he doesn't. But he did have a meeting with Reverend Hollis yesterday evening, and gave certain assurances to Hollis.'
'What kind?'
'Ness told Hollis he couldn't promise he'd cast an entirely benign eye on the numbers racket, once it got back in colored hands. But he admitted that it would not be high on his list of priorities.''
'That's 'bout as close to a deal as you can get out of Ness,' Johnson admitted. 'Mayor must've put the pressure on.'
'I'm sure he did. You spoke to Ness yourself?'
'Yes-right before he talked to Hollis, 'pears.'
'And?'
'Ness had plenty of time to ask me about my ties to the numbers kings-and didn't.'
Raney beamed. 'Good, good. With the seal of approval of both Ness and Hollis, you may find yourself some witnesses.'
'Maybe. But the Mayfield boys killed three men the other night. Two white and a colored.'
'So I hear.'
'That send a message 'cross the east side that ain't easy to unsend.'
Raney's smile disappeared and he said, 'I have confidence in you, Toussaint.'
'I have confidence in dry ammunition, councilman.'
Now Toussaint Johnson and his white companion Curry were trying to put the designs of this unlikely coalition-Mayor Burton, Eliot Ness, Councilman Raney, and Reverend Hollis-into motion. They were walking into a Central Avenue poolroom called the Eight Ball.
Behind a squared-off counter at the left as you came in sat a chunky cue ball-bald Negro wearing a green eyeshade, collarless white shirt, and black vest with a gold chain. He was perched on a high stool, like a frog who thought he was a prince, guarding the cash register like it was his crown jewels, overlording six pool tables arranged in pairs of three. Cones of light spread from hanging lamps, cutting the dark, smoky parlor geometrically. It was the middle of the morning and only a couple of the tables were in use.
Slippery Stevens, wearing a dark suit and a dark tie and dark glasses, looked like a blind skinny undertaker. He was practicing; he couldn't find many locals to play him, good as he was. Johnson and Curry stood watching as Slippery chalked up a cue, placed the cue ball on its marker, stroked smooth and broke the balls, scattering them like gamblers out the back door when a raid was coming down. Five dropped into pockets, and then Slippery ran the rest, balls clicking like castanets. It took about two minutes.
Curry was visibly impressed.
Slippery leaned against the table, chalking his cue; his smile was as crooked as he was.
'Toussaint, my man,' he said. He said the name like too-saunt. 'Who's the ofay motherfucker?'
Curry blinked. Johnson repressed a smile; he had a notion that this casual term-'motherfucker'-was new to the white boy-possibly the very idea it expressed was new to him. But Curry didn't seem offended-just surprised.
'He's the man,' Johnson said.
'Hell, Toussaint- you the man.'
'He's the man, too. And he's with me. Call him a motherfucker again and you'll have to squat to take your next shot.'
Slippery's smile vanished, then returned. 'So what's up, gentlemens?'
'I'm surprised to find you here,' Johnson said. 'Heard you was out on the road these days.'
'Got to be,' Slippery said. 'Got's to play where my face ain't my callin' card.'
'They must know you in a lot of towns by now.'
'That they do.'
'Might be nice to settle down.'
'That it would.'
'You ain't been able to light in one place since the old days.'
Slippery had been one of the most successful independent numbers operators on the east side, before the Italians moved in.
'That's a fact. Jack.'
'Wouldn't it be sweet if them tally fuckers would take a hike.'
'That it would.'
'Like to help 'em?'
'Yeah, boss, and I'd like to hit my number for about ten grand, too.'
'Didn't Scalise and Lombardi themselfs put the muscle on you, Slip? Way back when?'
'That they did. They done it personal. Lombardi watched and Scalise beat the ever-lovin', ever-livin' shit out of me.'
