Max Collins - Bullet proff

"This inquiry is a wide-ranging one," Ness said. "I'm already in the process of gathering witnesses from outside the city, specifically businessmen who have been driven from Cleveland because of the tribute these gangsters demand. We will go to the grand jury with an unbeatable case, or we won't go at all. That's my pledge to those of you who are willing to get involved."

Gordon stood again; this time he seemed almost embarrassed. "Eliot, much of what you say makes sense. You're making a convincing case, I admit that. But I have a family. We're many of us, most of us, family men."

"And you're testifying against gangsters," Ness said, nodding. "Your concerns are well-founded. But I promise you we will maintain strict secrecy as to the identities of the witnesses when the case goes to the grand jury. We'll allow no newspaper pictures taken in the courtroom. And we'll post police details at the homes of witnesses, making every effort to provide the maximum of protection."

Gordon sat back down, slowly.

"I don't want any of you to tell me today, at this meeting, what you've decided. In order to maintain secrecy, we'll contact you individually. It was not my intention, today, to gather all of you together to put you on the spot."

That eased the tension in the air, somewhat. And Ness could sense that he'd won, or was winning. He could see it in the faces. In the eyes.

"The Cleveland experience with labor racketeering in recent years," Ness said, "has been costly indeed. Construction has been choked. Building costs have soared. Vandalism has cost businessmen like yourselves, not to mention the public, thousands upon thousands of dollars. It has to stop. You have to stop it, gentlemen."

A man off to the left stood. Ness recognized him as Oscar Reynolds, who ran a men's clothing shop in the Old Arcade.

"No offense, Mr. Ness," Reynolds said, "but aren't you making this out to be something rather larger than it is? This is a small-time extortion racket, not Al Capone."

Ness smiled knowingly. "Al Capone, or what he has come to represent, is exactly what this is. I am convinced that the labor racketeering in this city is tied into the national network of organized crime. The bootlegging gangsters who were orphaned by Repeal, gentlemen, quickly found other things to do with their talents

… and breaking your windows, and charging you for the privilege, is one of them."

He let that sink in for a moment, then he said, "Thank you for your time," and quickly stepped down from the podium and left the room, even as Captain Savage was collecting the copies of the blacklist.

Jack Whitehall took two pork chops off the platter and passed it to dinner guest Sam Wild. Whitehall's wife Sarah, in her blue-and-white print dress and white apron, finally took a seat in the small, blindingly white kitchen. Their two girls-Jane, six, and Dorrie, four-had eaten earlier and were in the living room, playing dolls.

"Delicious, Mrs. Whitehall," Wild said. For a skinny guy, he was putting the food away pretty good.

Both men wore suits and ties and, despite eating in the kitchen, there was an air of formality about the occasion.

"Thank you, Mr. Wild," Sarah said. And she smiled shyly and took a bite of her homemade applesauce.

Whitehall loved his wife very much; she was as attractive as the day he met her, back in Chicago, some ten years before. But her quiet femininity masked a streak of bad temper, as Whitehall well knew. When he stepped out on her, during her first pregnancy, and she found out about it, she had come at him with a rolling pin. Just like Maggie in "Bringing Up Father," only it didn't strike him as funny: it just struck him.

Hell, he wouldn't have her any other way. He liked her quiet manner, but he also liked her passion. He had never stepped out on her since, and swore to himself he never would again. He loved her too goddamn much, and besides, who needed another skull fracture?

"These pork chops are to die for," Wild said, patting his face with a napkin.

Sarah smiled shyly.

"Of course," the reporter said slyly, "I always suspected you were an unrepentant pork-chopper, Jack."

A "pork-chopper" was, of course, a fat-salaried, do nothing union official.

Whitehall smiled thinly. "Nobody ever called me that to my face before, Sam-even jokingly. Nobody ever felt they knew me well enough to."

Wild glanced up from his food, a nervous look flickering across his features. "Hey, I was just kiddin' around."

Then Whitehall laughed and said, "Don't believe everything you hear about me, Sam. My reputation as a roughneck is exaggerated."

Wild raised an eyebrow. "Well, you make the papers often enough."

"Don't believe everything you read in the papers, Sam."

"You're tellin' me?"

"Labor organizers are to a man supposed to be muscle-bound, cigar-smoking slobs who get fat and cocky by stealing hard-earned dues out of the pockets of the overworked proletariat."

Wild glanced at Whitehall's wife, obviously choosing his words carefully so as not to offend her. Then he returned his gaze to his host and said, "Jack, you can't tell me that you haven't… leaned on people, from time to time?"

Whitehall shrugged. "It's a class struggle. And no class struggle is without its"-now Whitehall chose his words carefully-"physical aspects."

Wild began to say something, then glanced at Mrs. Whitehall again, grinned wryly and returned to his pork chops.

After dessert (pecan pie with ice cream), Whitehall and Wild withdrew to the front porch to have a smoke. They sat on the swing. Whitehall was about to roll a Bull Durham, but Wild stopped him, handing him a fat, fancy cigar.

"Don't worry about reinforcing the stereotype, Mr. Whitehall," Wild said with arch formality, lighting a wooden match off a post and helping Whitehall get the cigar going. "I ain't about to write you off as a muscle-bound, cigar-smoking slob."

Whitehall drew in on the cigar, relishing it; it was as rich as the lining of a millionaire's smoking jacket. "I thought you were a Lucky Strike man, Wild."

"Oh I am," Wild said, smirking as he lit up his own fat stogie. "But I thought we oughta enjoy these Havanas together. After all, I got 'em out of Caldwell's office the other night."

Whitehall had a good laugh over that, and Wild joined in some, and the two big men sat on the porch swing, like a courting couple, swinging and smoking, gently, swinging and smoking.

"Are you and Ness really pals?" Wild asked after a while.

"That's putting it a mite strong. We worked side by side in the Pullman plant in Chicago, for about six months. We got along. He was a smart kid. Hard-working little son of a bitch."

"He hasn't changed much. Sometimes I feel like planting a nice fat cream pie in that S.O.B.'s smug puss."

Whitehall laughed. "I thought you two were friends."

"Yeah, we're friends. But I'd still like to hit the bastard with a pie."

"Well, he did con us into doing his work for him." Whitehall sat and enjoyed the warm, gentle breeze for a few moments; it went well with the Havana. Then he said: "We make an unlikely team, Sam, considering the bullshit your paper's been printing about the Teamsters."

Wild shrugged. "You shouldn't have passed that motion barring the press from your meetings."

Whitehall didn't push it; nor did Wild. They sat in silence, listening to the noises of the neighborhood, the muffled sound of radios, the clinking of dishes being washed and dried, the traffic of the nearby main thorough-fare.

"I don't know whether I'm supposed to tell you this or not," Wild said.

"You want me to get some whiskey, to help you decide?"

"Yeah. Why don't you?"

Whitehall went in and got a bottle and two glasses and returned. He poured Wild, and then himself, a drink.