Max Collins - Murder by numbers

"Scalise"

The voice echoing down the stairwell was one he recognized: that fucker Ness. Ange kept running; three steps at a time. Behind him he could hear the sound of somebody hurtling down the stairs, the footsteps on top of each other, applause-like.

That fucker Ness.

He could stop and shoot it out, but better to get outside, where there were nigger babies playing and the cops wouldn't dare shoot. His heart was pounding against his chest when he reached the doorway at the bottom of the stairs. Ness was right behind him, a flight behind him-but if he could get through the lobby, shoot his way through if there were cops there, to the outside, to the truck or even to where he could run between buildings and out to the street, take a hostage if he had to, some little darkie he could haul around like a rag doll, then he was home free…

The lobby was still empty and he ran out into the cool afternoon, a gun in either hand, and something hit him in the chest. He stopped dead in his tracks.

Literally.

Will Garner, dressed like a carpenter, stood over Angelo's corpse, smoke curling out his revolver's barrel.

Ness was out the door a moment later, and knelt over the body, felt for a pulse in the neck. Sighed and stood.

"Right through the pump," Ness said.

"I know," Garner said blandly.

Toussaint Johnson bolted out the door, stopped dead in his tracks-figuratively-and looked down at Angelo's body.

"Who nailed him?" Johnson said, emotionlessly.

Ness nodded toward Garner.

"Nice goin'," Johnson said. To Ness he said, "Sorry it got out of hand up there."

"Not your fault," Ness said, putting his own gun back in its shoulder holster. "They called it, not us."

Johnson gestured upward with a thumb. "Those boys I drilled upstairs-they're the triggers who hit Rufus Murphy, years ago. I recognized the skinny one."

"The Keenan brothers," Ness said, nodding. "Purple Gang. Done a lot of freelance work over the years, including a hand in the St. Valentine's Day job, if rumor's right."

"No shit," Johnson said. He put his silver guns away and yawned. "I could use a meal 'bout now."

Ness just looked at him. Albert Curry, dressed in work clothes, came walking up, had a look at the corpse and smiled tightly.

"Rest for the wicked after all," Curry said, quietly.

"Come on, fellas," Johnson said. He grinned at Ness. "I'm buyin'. Who's for gumbo?"

Eliot Ness spent the morning of the first of May-a beautiful, sunny Monday-cooped up in court. And he didn't mind one bit.

Judge Hurd, presiding in the criminal branch of Common Pleas Court, refused to lower the $50,000-per-man bond under which the policy racketeers were being held at County Jail-except for Willie "the Emperor" Rushing, of course, who rated $150,000. The various attorneys for the various defendants reiterated their mutual contention that the size of the bail was unconstitutional. But Judge Hurd completely backed up Judge Walther, who on Saturday had set the bail when the suspects to a man pleaded not guilty to extorting money by force from numbers-game operators.

All of that was first thing Monday morning; by mid-morning Ness was in another courtroom, watching the arraignment of Frank Hogey, the white policy king whose sleazy smugness had finally evaporated, Hogey, dressed in an expensively tailored suit but nervous, his hands twitching, lips trembling, listened glumly as his lawyer spoke on his behalf.

A less reliable judge than Hurd or Walther had slapped Hogey on the wrist with a fine, when Ness had made that big numbers haul the previous year. Today would be different.

Hogey, who'd been vacationing at Hot Springs, Arkansas, had surrendered himself over the weekend, at Central Jail, where he demanded to see Ness. The safety director, relaxing at his boathouse with Ev MacMillan, declined to drive into the city, but agreed to speak to Hogey on the phone.

"Mr. Ness," Hogey said, his desperation unhidden. "Couldn't we work something out? You said something about immunity, if I testified

…"

"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.