accomplished on this long night.
CHAPTER 16
The next night, crowding ten, the same four men-Eliot Ness, Robert Chamberlin, Will Garner, and Albert Curry-sat at a booth in the lounge of the Hollenden Hotel. It was the same booth in which, months before, Ness had held court with various members of the Cleveland press, announcing his intentions to launch a numbers-racket inquiry. The walnut-appointed lounge had a low-key atmosphere, with subdued lighting to match. The mood of these men, however, was neither low-key nor subdued.
The nation's most famous former Prohibition agent was pouring to overflowing the other three detectives' upraised champagne glasses with the appropriate bubbly beverage. The men were all smiles-even Garner, who prided himself on his stoic Indian countenance, was grinning like a C stu-dent who just got straight As.
Ness, grinning at least as wide as any other man at the table, poured himself some champagne and they clinked glasses.
'To Salvatore Lombardi,' Ness said. 'Wherever he is.'
Everyone laughed. This was a good sign, considering the escape of Lombardi was easily the biggest stain on their victory. Word on the street was that Lombardi had skipped town; that he had headed south, figuratively and literally. Mexico, it was said.
Even without Lombardi's presence at the Grand Jury today, there was much to celebrate. Indictments had indeed come down on all twenty-three numbers racketeers; only five were still at large. Even without Lombardi and Scalise in custody, the Mayfield Road mob's hold on the numbers racket was broken. The boys couldn't run the racket from jail or from Mexico or whatever rathole the likes of Scalise had dug him-self.
And one key figure-slot-machine king Albert 'Chuck' Polizzi, peer of Lombardi and Scalise-had sauntered into the Hollenden lounge earlier this afternoon, when Ness was at lunch.
'Sit down, Chuck,' Ness had said. 'I'll buy you a drink.'
Nattily dressed in a cream-color summer suit, darkly tanned, the forty-five-year-old gangster had grinned smugly and slid into the booth next to the safety director.
'I been in Florida,' Chuck Polizzi said cockily. 'Fishin'. Spending' time with the wife and kids. Flew back when I heard you guys was interested in talkin' to me.'
'You were indicted this morning,' Ness said.
Dark-haired, bright-eyed Polizzi shrugged, smirked, and had a bourbon and Coke, on Ness. Chuck Polizzi had done time for armed robbery, once, long ago; but more recently had beaten rap after rap. He obviously thought he had no reason to worry. But Ness, knowing the witnesses and the evidence, knew better. Polizzi would finally do his second stretch.
Ness had spent the morning with the Grand Jury, of course, and the afternoon on the phone to friends at the FBI, who had promised to arrest any of the five who fled, under the new federal fugitive law that made it a crime to cross a state line to avoid felony charges.
He'd also had a visit from Reverend Hollis of the Future Outlook League. Again, Hollis did not have an appointment, but Ness didn't care: He was eager to see the race leader. The victories of the day faded, momentarily, and the anger of the early-morning hours had returned like a chronic injury that flared up in bad weather.
But Hollis was angry, too.
'You're to be congratulated, obviously,' Hollis said tightly, 'on your success with the Grand Jury this morning.'
'Thank you. Will you have a seat?'
'Thank you, no. I won't be here that long, Mr. Ness.'
That may have been a tactic, Ness realized; the preacher, imposing in clerical black, was taller than the safety director and was looking down at him with condescension masquerading as righteousness.
'You did much damage last night,' Hollis said, in a clipped, clearly angry fashion. 'That raid at the Democratic League was the poorest possible public-relations move you could have made.'
Ness was astounded. 'What?'
'You've made yourself look extremely bad in the Negro community-white cops harassing some of the east side's finer citizens. The white press has given you a free ride, but the Call and Post will crucify you. I only hope it won't damage your ability to hang on to your witnesses in the coming trial.'
Ness resisted the urge to remind the good Reverend that the 'finer citizens' of the east side who were arrested last night included a man who engaged in a sex act on stage, as well as many of the enthusiastic audience members who had cheered him on.
Instead, Ness said, 'Good God, man-the tip came from you, didn't it?'
Now it was Hollis's turn to look startled.
'Hell, no!' the clergyman said.
'Hell no?' Ness asked.
Hollis looked at Ness warily. 'Frankly, that might have been a tactic my friend Councilman Raney would approve of-in a weak moment-but I have enough common sense to assess the ramifications of such a foolhardy enterprise.'
Hollis always sounded like he was giving a sermon, Ness noted; and it was getting goddamn irritating.
Ness pointed a lecturing finger at the preacher-he didn't poke him with it, or shake it in his face; but he did point.
He said, 'We had a call from one of your Future Outlook League members. Look in your own backyard, Reverend, if you want somebody to blame.'
Hollis thought about that for a moment, then his eyes squinted behind his wire-frame glasses as he said, 'Which member called? Did he give a name?'
'Well, no.'
'Then how do you know it really was one of my members? Perhaps you should look in your own backyard, Mr. Ness.'
There was an awkward moment then, as both men realized the anger they had brought into this impromptu meeting was ill-placed. Hollis nodded and twitched a smile of farewell; they did not shake hands before the preacher left.
That one, odd encounter had been the only inglorious moment in a great day for Eliot Ness and his staff.
'Cullitan's going to ask that bail be set at fifty grand per defendant,' Ness said, between sips of champagne. 'Except for Willie the Emperor-he's worth one hundred and fifty.'
Curry smiled and shook his head. 'Think the prosecutor can pull that off? That'd be an all-time record for a criminal case in this county.'
'I think so,' Ness said. 'Judge Walther is one of the honest ones.'
'Here's to Judge Walther,' Chamberlin said, raising his glass, and the rest of the men followed suit, clinked, drank.
Ness glanced up and saw a big black man in a baggy brown suit moving quickly through the lounge, carrying a battered black fedora in one hand like a dead rat to be dumped in a garbage can. Most of the all-white patrons of the Hollenden lounge looked at Toussaint Johnson as if a rat were exactly what he was carrying.
'Detective Johnson,' Ness said pleasantly. 'Sit down and join us-have some champagne.'
Toussaint Johnson shook his head, no. His harshly hand-some face looked like a carved African mask; his eyes were intense and troubled.
'Bad shit happening in Central-Scovill,' he said.
'Sit,' Ness said. This time it wasn't a request.
Johnson squeezed in next to Curry; the men were watching the Negro cop with rapt attention: None of them had ever seen him this close to upset before.
'There's a flyin' squad of dago hoodlums racing around the east side,' Johnson said. 'Offering cash money.'
