wood-and-cut-glass bookcase, fireplace, on the mantel of which were portraits of relatives as well as a large one of elaborately uniformed Marcus Garvey of Back-to-Africa fame. Through a wide archway was the dining room, another small but perfect room, with a long window seat where potted plants sat near sheer drapes.
Dignified and well-spoken, Washington was a lanky, handsome man of fifty-some years; his skin was a dark, lustrous black, his hair short, his apparel immaculate and expensive-he wore a white shirt and blue silk tie with tiny white polka dots, an English-tailored suit and white-and-black shoes. He had a superficial air of culture and the faintest southern accent, hinting at his illiterate sharecropper roots.
'Please sit down, gentlemen,' Washington said, settling himself in an overstuffed green chair with doilies on the arms. A standing lamp with a fancy fringed shade looked over his shoulder.
Johnson and Curry sat on a nearby divan.
'You look well, Johnny,' Johnson said.
'Life is sweet,' Washington said solemnly.
'It could be sweeter.'
Washington gestured around himself. 'How?'
'You could still be policy king.'
He waved that off. 'I'm retired from that field.'
A small, beautiful mulatto woman in her late thirties floated in from the dining room. She wore a pink crepe dress with a pearl necklace and a floral brooch. A handsome woman with a big fine ass, Johnson thought; Washington's former-showgirl wife Velma.
There were no introductions; Velma knew Johnson, and Curry was regarded as an invisible man.
'Would you men like some coffee, or tea?'
Washington requested tea and Johnson said that would be fine, too. Curry added a nervous third to the tally.
When she was gone, Washington said, 'I can anticipate what you're after, Toussaint-the good Reverend Hollis paid me a visit late last night.'
'So you know the score.'
'I always do. What good does rocking the boat do? I have no yearning to get back in that business. I have legitimate interests now-real estate, a few restaurants…'
'You might be livin' in a better neighborhood, if Lombardi and Scalise hadn't come along.'
'I have a nice home.'
'What'll this neighborhood look like in five years? Ten? You got a young pretty wife, Johnny.'
Irritation creased Washington's smooth, seemingly unused face. 'I can take care of myself and my wife, Toussaint.'
'You and your bodyguards, maybe. Why does a man who ain't in the rackets no more still move about with body-guards?'
Washington shifted in his chair. 'Any successful businessman is at risk. We live and work in a community that has more than its share of risks. You know that better than most-you're in the police business.'
'I think it's 'cause you a nervous man, Johnny. Nervous ever since Scalise beat the hell out of you.'
'Toussaint… I invited you into my home…'
Mrs. Washington returned with a silver tray on which were three cups of tea and a small bowl of sugar.
'If anyone would like cream,' she said, 'I can oblige.'
No one did. The woman picked up on the tenseness in the air, quickly and efficiently served the cups of tea around, and left with grace and haste.
Johnson sipped his steaming tea. 'I think you're still afraid, Johnny.'
Washington's tea sat on a coaster on the small table beside him. His face was as blank as a baby's.
'No denying it, is there, Johnny?'
Washington looked at the floor. He seemed to be trying to decide whether or not to get mad.
Johnson sat forward. 'There's a goddamn good reason why you should testify. Reasons beyond the fact that you're gonna be safe. Reasons beyond the fact that it could pay off for you, financially.'
Washington smiled humorlessly. 'And what reason is that, Toussaint?'
'The best reason there is, Johnny. Revenge.'
Washington thought about that.
'If black men wasted time revenging themselves on white men,' Washington said finally, 'where would we be?'
'Where are we now?' Toussaint Johnson asked.
TWO
CHAPTER 10
Normally on a Monday, with a City Council meeting coming up at seven-thirty, Ness would have stayed in his office and worked straight through. But it was Ev's birthday and he had promised her they'd have supper together at the boathouse; then he could drive back and catch an hour or so of the meeting, for appearance sake, and return for a quiet evening with her.
He first met Ev MacMillan in Chicago, seven or eight years before, when he was still heading up the Justice Department's prohibition unit in Chicago. Daughter of a prominent stockbroker, she was really just a kid then, a fresh-faced art student; and Ness-married at the time-had taken notice of the attractive girl, but nothing more.
Then, a little over a year ago, at the Michigan-Chicago football game at Ann Arbor, he ran into her and some chums of hers at the stadium. He and Bob Chamberlin were staying at the same hotel as Ev, and she and her friends joined them for dinner. She had flirted with him, and he repaid the compliment, and as the wine flowed, things got friendly.
But sobering news, by way of a phone call, interrupted the proceedings: Ness's mother had died that afternoon.
Even though their relationship was but a few hours old, Ev insisted on accompanying him back to Chicago-she lived there, after all; and the two of them, still a little drunk, shared a compartment together and he cried in her arms. The thought should have embarrassed him, sober, over a year later, but it didn't.
He had stayed in Chicago for several days tying up family loose ends, and doing some work on the Chicago aspects of the then ongoing labor racketeering investigation. She had stayed by his side. Day and night.
And when it was time to return to Cleveland, she came with him-not to stay. Just to see if he was telling the truth when he whispered, 'Cleveland is very beautiful during the wintertime.' He didn't think she'd found it beautiful at all; gray, dirty Cleveland hardly suited her artistic sensibilities.
But Ness himself, apparently, did suit her; because she began applying for jobs on that very first visit. She was a gifted artist who had already illustrated several children's books for New York publishers, and he didn't have to pull a single string for her to land her job as fashion illustrator at Higbee's department store. A few months later, she moved to what she was inclined to call 'the dullest, dirtiest city on earth.'
Ev had no complaints, however, about the boathouse hide-away in posh suburban Lakewood. The boathouse, which belonged to one of the Burton/Ness financial 'angels,' was on Clifton Lagoon, the deepest mooring point on Lake Erie; the boathouse was in an exclusive subdivision with a private, guarded drive and high-tone occupants. Ness was probably the only non-millionaire of the bunch.
She had waited till after the November elections to move in with him; but there had been no direct talk of marriage. Apolitical though he was, Ness did not want to cause Mayor Burton any problems, nor did he want to endanger his own job. Cleveland was a conservative, predominantly Catholic community and Ness marrying for a second time would be viewed with disapproval by many a voter.
