…'
'I don't need your testimony anymore, Frank. Scalise is dead, and Lombardi went south. And we got testimony and evidence enough on the rest of you to last till Christ comes back.'
Hogey's voice exploded with frustration. 'Jesus, how the hell was I supposed to know you'd pull off this goddamn harebrained investigation?'
'You gambled, Frank. You lost.'
And Ness, with a great deal of satisfaction, had hung up.
This morning, in court, Hogey's attorney had described his client as a large property holder, the proprietor of meat markets, cafes, restaurants, and a former bail bondsman himself. 'We don't deny Mr. Hogey has operated gambling games to some extent, but we do deny he ever extorted money from anybody. A bond of $ 10,000 would be more than adequate.'
But the judge hit Hogey with the by-now standard $ 50,000, anyway.
And Ness had sat in court, arms folded, smiling to himself, feeling like the cat that ate every goddamn canary in town.
Despite his canary feast, he'd taken his inner circle- Chamberlin, Garner, and Curry-out to lunch. No champagne, but he did pick up the tab. After they'd eaten, the ebullient men had a couple of drinks.
'I've asked the U.S. Immigration Bureau to help us hunt for the missing fugitives,' Ness said.
'You still hold out hope to bag Lombardi?' Chamberlin asked.
'As long as I'm safety director, he'll stay a prime target. We're already talking to the Mexican authorities.'
'Good,' Garner said.
'And we're going to keep the heat turned up on the east side. Various Mayfield Road lieutenants are scurrying around the Roaring Third, trying to carry on for their departed bosses. We have to make sure they don't get a foothold.'
'Then what?' Curry said.
'Then,' Ness said, sipping his Scotch, 'we get on about our business. We have bigger and better crimes to tend to than persecuting small-fry Negro policy operators.'
'Do I smell the subtle perfume of politics?' Chamberlin said, a wry little smile curving under the military mustache, as he lit up his ever-present pipe.
'You smell your own damn fumes,' Ness said cheerfully. 'And you smell reality.' Ness sipped his drink, raised an eyebrow. 'With the Mayfield Road mob out of business, the numbers racket just isn't a major concern of the department of public safety anymore.'
Curry was swirling his drink, a bourbon and water. 'Maybe that's not such a bad thing.'
'What?' Chamberlin asked.
'You know what I mean,' Curry said, shrugging. 'Leaving the east side Negro community alone, where that's concerned. For a lot of 'em, the numbers is the only hope they got in a hopeless life.'
No one said anything.
Ness smiled one-sidedly and said, 'Albert, that doesn't sound like you. You usually see problems in terms of black and white.'
'No,' Curry said, shaking his head. 'I've always seen problems in terms of white. We all have.'
That sobered everyone, but not in a bad way; everyone was smiling, albeit faintly.
Then Garner said, 'What you mean 'we,' paleface?' and the table broke up into laughter.
'Albert,' Ness said, 'you seem older, all of a sudden-maybe it's being a sergeant that's done it.'
Curry looked at Ness curiously. 'A what?'
'A sergeant,' he said. 'If you pass the exam, that is.
Here's to Sergeant Albert Curry, Department of Public Safety.'
Ness raised his glass to the suddenly grinning Curry and the other men raised their glasses and smiled and general congratulations were passed around.
Now Ness was back at his office, and he had one other member of his team to deal with. At two-thirty, right on time, Detective Toussaint Johnson was shown into the safety director's office. Johnson held his misshapen charcoal fedora in one hand; his angularly handsome face was a blank slate. He looked considerably different than he had when, dressed in John C. Washington's finery, he led the bad guys from Washington's house to Outhwaite, where a trap was being laid.
'Sit down, Detective,' Ness said, pleasant but business-like. Ness was standing, gesturing to the nearby conference table.
Johnson nodded, and sat. Ness stood nearby. Even standing over him. Ness felt the massive presence of the big colored cop. This was not a man who could be easily intimidated.
'I've been searching my soul,' Ness admitted, 'about what to do with you.'
Johnson thought for a moment, before calmly saying, 'What you mean, Mr. Ness?'
'I mean you're a good cop. One of the best I've worked with in Cleveland.'
Johnson grinned easily. 'Is that what white folks call damnin' with faint praise, Mr. Ness?'
Ness didn't grin back. 'Not really. There are quite a few good cops in this town. But, I'll admit, not many in your class.'
'You mean, colored?'
'No. I mean, good. Dedicated. Hard. I want to promote you, Toussaint.'
Johnson sat up; the surprise registered only in his eyes, but it registered.
Ness sat on the edge of the conference table. 'Only I have a problem. You did a fine job on this numbers racketeering case. We couldn't have done it without you. No question of that.'
'Thanks.''
'I've already put you in for a certificate of commendation, and a medal of valor.'
'Well. Thanks, again.'
'No thanks necessary. You earned both, in spades.'
Johnson's lips quivered with amusement.
Then Ness realized what he'd said, and, embarrassed, added, 'You know what I mean.'
'Yes, sir.'
'And a promotion would certainly be appropriate. I've put Albert Curry in for promotion, to sergeant, for his work on this case.'
'He got it coming.'
'No more than you. Not as much as you, frankly.'
'Well…'
'He's white? Sure he is. But that's not why I promoted him, without having to dedicate one moment to soul- searching. You see, Albert's loyalty is unquestioned. His integrity you could bounce rocks off.'
Johnson shifted in his chair; he swallowed thickly. Something approaching anger was building behind his eyes. 'What are you sayin', Mr. Ness?'
'I'm saying you held out on me, Toussaint. You knew Clifford Willis was a dirty cop. You knew that was why he got bumped off by the Mayfield bunch. You knew that he used to be Johnny C.'s bagman. You knew that was why his brother officers rushed to his presumed defense, smashing up Johnny C.'s castle. And you didn't tell me. I had to find out elsewhere. I had to find out from a goddamn snitch.'
Johnson's anger never got off the ground; his eyes went hooded, as if he were sleepy. He seemed more weary than ashamed. If he felt any shame. Ness couldn't tell.
He tried to find out. 'What do you say to that, Toussaint?'
Johnson sighed; he moved his head on his neck like it weighed more than the rest of him put together. 'Mr. Ness-I told you when we first talked, I used to work for Rufus Murphy. You knew I wasn't no angel. But you didn't ask me no questions about whether I was ever on the pad or not. You know why you didn't ask?'
Ness paused. Then he said, 'Why?'
' 'Cause you didn't want to know.'
Ness said nothing.
Toussaint went on: 'I wasn't hiding anything from you. I just 'didn't want either one of us to have to come to terms with why I knew what I knew. That's all.'
