Max Collins - Bullet proff

"The hell you are!" Caldwell said. "This is my private office. If you want an appointment with me, you-"

McFarlin thumped Caldwell in the chest with a finger as thick as the base of a pool cue. "I want nothing from you but your ouster, you son of a bitch."

McFate moved in between them, placed a hand on both their chests. "Joe. We've always gotten along, haven't we? If you have any complaints, there's ways to go about it. Procedures-"

"Fuck procedures," McFarlin said, brushing off McFate's hand like an insect. "The procedure we're going to follow is the one that works best for union guys like us. A sit-down strike."

"A strike?" Caldwell said, incredulous. "How the hell do you strike against your own union?"

"Watch," McFarlin said. And he nodded to one of the men behind him, who exited and within moments came back with more men, pouring in from the hallway through the outer office to invade Caldwell's sanctuary.

Soon, in excess of forty men had squeezed into the modest room, their mortar-splattered shoes scuffing the floor. The air hung with the smell of sweat, strong tobacco (both chewed and smoked), and booze breath. Caldwell's secretary scurried out and nobody tried to stop her, but most watched her go, appreciating the view.

"Make yourself at home," McFarlin told the men.

And all forty-some representatives of the rank and file sat down. On the floor.

"These are the union business offices," Caldwell said, almost yelling, moving through the seated crowd, searching for space and a sympathetic face. "If you want a meeting, go down to the union hall-that's what it's for."

McFarlin, who other than the two Jims was the only man still standing, shouted over the heads of his fellows. "What about meetings you promised to call, Caldwell, that never got called? What about elections that were supposed to be held but were postponed till never?"

Caldwell said, "We can discuss all that, but not like this. This is an illegal meeting, contrary to union rules-"

"We've had our fill of your 'rules' and your 'rule,'" McFarlin said. "You and McFate and your henchmen have been usurping the power of the union long enough. Well, we're going to stage a sit-in campaign between now and three o'clock tomorrow afternoon, at which time we’ve called a rump meeting to elect officers to take your place."

Caldwell laughed. "You'll fall apart in an hour."

McFarlin smiled nastily. "We've got a majority of the two thousand members of the union behind us, Jim. And two hundred volunteers who are going to work in eight-hour shifts."

McFate said, "You're not going to get away with this, lads. Do you think the AFL is going to allow-"

"Sit-downs? Strikes?" McFarlin laughed. "I think they just might be familiar with those measures. I think they'll approve. Particularly if we find anything at all out of order in your records and files, which we intend to seize and give a thorough going over."

Caldwell's face reddened. "Get out! All of you! God-damn it, I'm warning you!"

"Ralph, Anton," McFarlin said to two of the burliest sit-downers, "show the boys out, would you?"

Within minutes, Big Jim Caldwell and Little Jim McFate found themselves in an unceremonious heap on the sidewalk in front of their building. Their overcoats and hats, in light of the winter day, had been tossed on the pile. McFarlin, Ralph, and Anton stood with smiles and folded arms, blocking the entryway.

Neither Jim had quite gotten himself up off the pavement when the sedan with the EN-1 license plates pulled into an empty space not far from where they were sprawled.

Ness, hands in the pockets of his tan camel's hair topcoat, the sun winking off the gold badge on his lapel, approached them with a pleasant expression, his breath smoking in the chill afternoon air. Coming up behind him was Detective Albert Curry, the smug little bastard who'd turned up the heat on the two Jims when they were stuck in the lockup with those bums that time.

"You boys lose something?" Ness asked. "Maybe I could assign a detective to help you find it."

Caldwell got up, brushing himself off, putting on his overcoat, trying to recover his dignity. McFate was rising as well, his long face white with rage.

Caldwell said, "These men assaulted us," and he pointed back to McFarlin and his two cohorts.

"Really?" Ness said. "Were there any witnesses?"

"They stormed our offices," Caldwell said, ignoring the question, "and ejected us from our own premises."

"Who are these fellows?" Ness asked innocently.

"Union members," McFate said, as if that were an obscenity.

Ness shrugged. "Well, that's union headquarters up there, isn't it?"

"They're trespassing, goddamn it!" Caldwell said, shaking his fists, dignity be damned.

"Illegal acts are being committed here," McFate said, just as angry as his partner, but superficially more in control. "You're a policeman. Do something about it."

"Throw the bastards in jail!" Caldwell said. "Earn your goddamn paycheck, Ness!"

"I'm sorry, boys," Ness said, arms folded, smiling placidly. "I can't do that."

"Why in hell not?" Caldwell demanded.

Ness shrugged again, smiled broadly. "Why boys- you know I try never to interfere in union business."

McFarlin and his two cronies hooted with laughter in the background, while Caldwell and McFate burned, and another car pulled in. Plain Dealer reporter Sam Wild, with photographer Shorty Philkins in tow, stepped out onto the sidewalk.

"Just happened to be passing by," Wild said. "Something up?"

"You just happened to be passing by," Caldwell said dryly. "With a photographer."

Wild smiled genially. "Slow news day. Actually, there was a rumor that some rank-and-file fellas might attempt a takeover of your local's HQ today. Any truth to that?"

Caldwell was steaming. He looked at Wild, then Ness. "You bastards are behind this, aren't you?"

"Behind what?" Ness asked. "Oh, I've met a couple of these chaps before. Like Joe McFarlin over there. We met at Jack Whitehall's funeral. Had a nice chat. Joe and Jack were buddies, did you know that?"

Caldwell said nothing to that; he knew better.

But McFate didn't.

"So you're not going to do your job," McFate said. "You're going to let these trespassers get away with it."

"Some people get away with murder," Ness said coldly.

Caldwell touched McFate's arm, hoping to silence him, but his normally taciturn partner continued: "Then you're not going to make an arrest?"

"Oh, I'm going to make an arrest," Ness said. "Two arrests. That's why I'm here. Albert-cuffs, please?"

Curry stepped forward and withdrew two shining pairs of handcuffs from his topcoat pocket.

"Hands behind you, boys," Ness said.

"You're arresting us?" McFate said.

"Grand jury indicted you both this afternoon. Five counts of blackmail and extortion."

Caldwell and McFate exchanged alarmed glances.

Then McFate summoned a sneer and said, "It won't hold up. You got nothing."

"Nothing," Ness said, "except ninety-seven witnesses who have testified to more than one hundred instances of blackmail, extortion, and general conspiracy aimed at Cleveland's business community… of course, my investigation isn't through yet. I may turn something up yet, you never know. Snap 'em on, Detective Curry."

Curry snapped on the cuffs behind the backs of the two Jims.

"Sorry, boys," Curry said. "We don't have the budget for a brass band and silk top hats for you."

As the two were being walked toward the EN-1 sedan, reporter Wild was asking a few questions.

"What's your purpose here today, Mr. McFarlin?"

"Overthrowing a dictatorship," McFarlin said, smiling tightly, arms folded over a massive chest. "We've tried for several months to get a regular election, but we've been blocked by Caldwell, McFate, and their attorney. We expect to keep up our sit-in at least until tomorrow, when we'll hold an election, junk the former constitution, and draft a new one along democratic lines."