William Bernhardt - Nemesis - The Final Case of Eliot Ness

“I’m not sayin’ nothin’ to nobody.”

“Right, I heard that. Let’s put him away for a few days and see if he changes his mind. We’ve got four potential squealers here. Five, once the sniper with the lousy aim gets out of the hospital. There must be someone in such a large and distinguished group who doesn’t want to spend the rest of his life in prison.”

“You’d think,” Chamberlin remarked.

“You would indeed. Can you take it from here, Robert?”

“Sure. We’ll get these boys downtown. And we’ll call the ATU and have them confiscate all this illegal hooch.”

“Good. Give all these agents the day off. They’ve earned it.”

Faces all around him suddenly brightened.

“Will do. Best to Edna.”

“Actually, I think I’ll head downtown myself. I want to be there for the interrogations. I might be able to help.”

Chamberlin nodded. “Of course. See you there.”

Ness turned back to Matowitz. “Not a bad night’s work, I think, Chief. Can I give you a lift home?”

“You sure can,” Matowitz replied. “Could I talk you into a cheese-steak? I know a great place that’s open all night. All this running around and shooting has left me famished.”

Ness clapped a hand on Matowitz’s shoulder. “Hard to turn down an offer like that, Chief. Lead the way.”

“Pass the ketchup, would you?”

“Certainly. Want some mayo?”

“Nah. Sissy stuff.”

“Pickles acceptably manly?”

“Sure. Onions, too.”

“Glad to hear it. I love onions. Don’t care what they do to my breath. Have some more.”

“Don’t mind if I do.”

“Care for some chopped torso?” Merylo closed his eyes. “I mean, tomato.”

Lieutenant Zalewski grimaced. “You sure know how to blow the fun out of a picnic.”

“You’re not the first one to tell me.” He took a bite of his Coney. “You sure you want this job?”

“You talkin’ about the picnic? Or workin’ with you?”

“Take your pick.”

“I’m sure I want to be your partner. I’d be crazy to say no. You’re the top homicide detective on the force. I figure this jumps me up five, maybe eight years ahead in my career.”

Merylo didn’t argue. “And the picnic?”

Zalewski shrugged. “I was told I’d have to make sacrifices for my career.”

Merylo smiled. This must take some getting used to for Zalewski, especially given Merylo’s bulldog reputation with the rest of the boys on the force. All work and no play. Nose to the grindstone. Never give a sucker a break. And here they were, on the highest point of Jackass Hill, sitting on a red-and-white-checked tablecloth, having a picnic. On a cold day, no less. Yes, the rest of the boys would think they were insane. Or something worse.

“I noticed you didn’t use mustard,” Merylo commented.

“Never cared for the stuff. Hard on my stomach.”

“It’s not a Coney without mustard.”

“I’m doin’ okay.”

“And sauerkraut-that’s the key to the whole thing. You didn’t take any sauerkraut.”

“What kind of red-blooded American puts sauerkraut on some-thin’ as American as a Coney?”

“The ones who like good food.”

“Hmph. Sounds like a Kraut thing to me. You got a thing for the kaiser? Or that new kid?”

“Adolf Hitler?”

“Yeah, him. I hear he’s really whipping that country into shape.”

“Is that what you hear?”

“Yeah. He got that Saarland back, didn’t he? Made military service mandatory. Got rid of the Versailles Treaty that was slowing him down.”

“And you see that as a good thing?”

“Personally, I think we went too easy on the Krauts after we beat them down in the Great War.”

“The War to End All Wars.”

“Yeah. But with this Hitler guy in charge, maybe they’ll get civilized. Join the rest of the world.”

Merylo addressed his attention to his perfectly constructed Coney. “I hear he burns books.”

“Yeah, well, tell you the truth, I was never that crazy about books myself. So,” Zalewski added, obviously choosing his words carefully, “mind if I ask why we’re out here in the middle of winter having a picnic?”

“I think you’re entitled. Seem strange?”

“Well… it doesn’t match up with the standard Merylo image.”

“When you’re on a case, working the streets, working over some thug, you need a certain authority.”

“I can see that.”

“But I can still appreciate a picnic. And I thought it might give us a chance to get to know each other. Since we’re going to be working together. Right?”

“Right. Right.”

“So what else is bothering you?”

“Who said-?”

“You haven’t taken a bite out of your Coney.”

“Oh! Well…” He picked it up and crammed half of it into his mouth. “Mmm. Good.”

“Glad you approve. There is fancier fare. But it’s hard to beat a good Coney. I practically survive on ’em. Which may explain why I look the way I do,” he added, patting his firm but substantial belly.

“So, okay, we’re having a picnic,” Zalewski said, wiping his mouth, “we’re getting to know each other. But why here? In Kingsbury Run. On a cold day.”

“Now that’s the question. Glad you finally got there, Lieutenant.” Merylo put down his dog and gestured expansively. “Look around you. What do you see?”

Zalewski took in a panoramic view of the countryside. From here on the apex of the Hill, you could see for miles around. “Lotsa scrub. Brush. Dirt. Some kids playing. More kids running all over the gully, probably hopin’ they might find another corpse. Industrial complex to the northeast, pumpin’ more soot and smoke into the air.”

“Keep going.”

“Two trains headed toward the factory. Some decent houses off to the south, some wretched ones off to the north. And Shantytown, of course.”

“Exactly. Spent much time in Shantytown?”

Even as he asked the question, Merylo already knew the answer: Why would he? Why would anyone? A miserable assortment of derelicts and destitutes living in packing boxes or, at best, makeshift sheds. It was the embarrassment of the city.

“Tried my best to avoid it, tell the truth,” Zalewski said, a trifle shamefaced.

“Nothing to be embarrassed about. Perfectly understandable. If a crime hasn’t brought you out there, what would? Got any notion who’s living there?”

Zalewski shrugged. “Bums. Vagrants. Hoboes.”

“That’s true. We get a lot of those. They ride in on the rails and stay, least till they get in some kind of trouble and have to move on. Most cases, there’s no record they were ever there. No one remembers.”

“Sounds like bad news for crime solving.”

“Exactly. Thing is-it’s not just bums.”

“It isn’t?”

Merylo shook his head. “Sure you won’t try some sauerkraut?” Zalewski declined. “There’s some good folk out there, entire families even. Poor joes who lost their jobs when the stock market crashed and work got scarce and haven’t been able to get back on their feet since. Migrants escaping the Dust Bowl. There’s even some poor boys who’ve found some kind of job or other, but it doesn’t pay well enough for them to live anywhere else.”

“Really?”

Merylo nodded while he smeared mustard on a second dog. “Imagine that. You work all day in some damn factory or slaughterhouse, and still your family’s living in a shack. During a Cleveland winter. That,” he said, giving a decisive twist to the lid of the mustard jar, “might drive a guy to do anything.”

Zalewski swallowed. “You mean-even cutting off two men’s heads?”

“That’s not the act of a desperate man. But I think desperation might cause a man to do things he ought not be doing. Ever wonder why the corpses were left here?”