Max Collins - Bullet proff

"Stores that haven't cooperated with Caldwell and McFate," Whitehall said. "Businesses that aren't paying tribute to Caldwell's window washers union."

"So we're talking about windows that are going to get smashed."

"And windows that have already been smashed. Nobody on the blacklist can buy glass in the city of Cleveland- not till they come to terms with Big Jim and Little Jim."

"And Ness says a copy of this list would make his case."

"That's right. Only he doesn't know any legal way to get his hands on a copy."

Which, of course, was where Wild and Whitehall came in.

Wild smiled and sucked his Lucky, his third since he'd parked here. Without even coming out and asking, the safety director had relegated his dirty work to a member of the Fourth Estate and a representative of the local labor movement. Didn't that just about take the fucking cake.

And now here Wild sat, just down the block from the narrow six-story brick building where, on the third floor, Big Jim and Little Jim kept their union headquarters. At first he'd argued against ransacking Caldwell's office for the list.

"It'd be easier to pull one of 'em out of a glass-company office," Wild had said. "Those places are warehouse affairs, in industrial areas with easy access. You could probably walk right in during business hours, find a place to hide, and wait till-"

"No," Whitehall had said flatly. "The list would turn up missing and there'd be a stink. At the union there's gonna be multiple copies. There's got to be, 'cause Caldwell's giving the list to all the glass companies in town, and to whatever goon or goons are doing his window smashing for him. And then he's got to update it, periodically."

"So," Wild said, reluctantly seeing the logic of it, "you figure there's a stack of 'em someplace in Caldwell's office. We could grab one off the stack, and nobody'd be the wiser. It'd never be missed."

"Right."

Their objective, then, was the union headquarters in that nondescript six-story office building, one of many on the fringes of the downtown, the kind of marginal facility that thrived on mail-order companies, low-rent shysters, and abortionists. There would be no night watchman, and should be little trouble breaking in. Your classic lead-pipe cinch.

Only there was one major hitch: the building, on East Seventeenth near Payne, was about a block and a half from the Central Police Station. Cop cars were constantly cutting down Seventeenth from Payne to get to Euclid. An all-night, white-tile, one-arm restaurant in the next building, just across the alley, was frequented by a heavy police clientele. You couldn't find more cops this side of a Saint Paddy Day's parade.

So. In doing the unspoken bidding of the safety director-who, if his two friends were caught in the act, would no doubt profess disappointment in their lack of moral turpitude-Wild was preparing to burglarize a building within spitting distance of half the boys in blue in the city of Cleveland. What a dandy idea.

"Ready?"

Wild damn near dropped his Lucky in his lap, like to burn his nuts off. He hadn't seen or heard Whitehall approach. Now he looked over and the lantern-jawed, sleepy-eyed roughneck was framed in the car's open window on the rider's side. The bastard even seemed faintly amused.

"Sure," Wild said, with a nasty little smirk. "I'm always ready to risk my ass, and my paper's reputation, for the sake of unionism and Eliot fuckin' Ness."

"Come on, then."

Wild slipped out of the car and joined Whitehall on the sidewalk. Whitehall was wearing dark trousers and a dark blue work shirt with the sleeves rolled up on bulging biceps. Wild was wearing dark clothing himself, which was a change for him. But you don't wear white seersucker on burglaries.

The two men, both tall, Wild as lean as Whitehall was brawny, did not exactly make an inconspicuous pair as they walked down the deserted sidewalk along the busy street past the thriving, cop-filled one-arm joint. Several cops exited the restaurant, heading back to the Central Station on foot just as Wild and Whitehall were strolling by, but paid them no notice.

When the cops had rounded the corner, Whitehall and Wild ducked into the alley. From behind a garbage can, Whitehall withdrew a tool belt, which he slung around his waist; he tucked a pair of padded work gloves behind the tool belt. Then, standing fairly near the side of the building where the union headquarters was housed, Whitehall crouched, his feet planted firmly under him, and locked his hands together, palms up, and said, "Here."

"Where?"

Whitehall glowered and looked up sharply.

Above was the fire escape, which ran across the entire side wall of the building, forming black metal mesh Z's, ending a flight above the alley.

"Oh," Wild said, and put a foot in Whitehall's hands and allowed himself to be boosted to where he could pull down the counterbalanced fire escape stairs. As they swung down under Wild's grasp, Whitehall dodged out of the way, but reached out as he did to brace the stairs, so they didn't clang to the alley floor.

The two men paused, glancing out toward the sidewalk and street beyond the mouth of the alley, watching for cops.

Seeing none, Whitehall shrugged at Wild and Wild shrugged at Whitehall and they went on up the fire escape, the Teamster first. The stairs swung up after them as they went on up to the third floor level, where they walked along the catwalk to the window that looked in on Caldwell's office.

Nothing of the office could be seen, however, as the lights were off within and the window was burglar-proof wire glass.

Wild, already damp with sweat, whispered, "Got something on that tool belt to pry it open?"

"That sash is cast iron," Whitehall said. "I'm not sure I could pry it open, and if I did, it'd make a hell of a racket."

"What, then?"

Whitehall took a roll of masking tape from a pouch on the belt. He tore off long strips of the tape and began to cover the window with them. It seemed to Wild to take forever. The reporter could see the mouth of the alley from up here, and he kept glancing back that way. No cops.

When the window was crisscrossed with tape, till it seemed made more of tape than glass, Whitehall pulled his work gloves off the belt.

"How's it look?" Whitehall asked, snugging on the gloves.

Wild kept his eyes fixed on the mouth of the alley. "Fine."

Whitehall drew his fist back, about five inches from the center of the taped-over window; his bicep was tight and round and heavily veined.

Wild gripped Whitehall's shoulder.

Whitehall froze, glanced back. Two cops were standing at the mouth of the alley, talking. Their voices were barely audible, but then one of them laughed. The laughter echoed down the alley. Wild had plastered himself to the side of the building. Whitehall hadn't shifted his position, other than to relax his arm; but he was as motionless as a statue.

Footsteps resonated hollowly.

Wild held his breath, getting religion as the cop walked down the alley.

Whitehall remained inanimate as stone.

The cop stopped near the garbage cans below, where Whitehall had stowed his tool belt.

Wild couldn't see the man, now. The officer was under the fire escape, facing the building, that much Wild knew. He held his breath. Listened. Silence.

Then came the sound of a man pissing against a brick wall.

Tentatively, Wild allowed himself to breathe. The statue on the fire escape next to him began to smile, faintly.

Footsteps clip-clopped back up and out the alley, and the two cops were gone.

"That was some feat that bull pulled off," Whitehall said softly.

"Huh?"

"He emptied the piss out himself," Whitehall said, "and scared the piss out of me."

Wild smiled at that, and relaxed a little, then Whitehall smashed his fist into the taped-up window and Wild damn near fell off the 'scape.