Max Collins - The dark city

McAndrew stood staring at the door a while. The door stared back.

He turned to the dozen men below and shrugged. Beyond them was a vast parking lot filled with cars. A lot of people were inside the club. Citizens breaking the law, certainly, but did they deserve getting caught in the midst of something ugly which McAndrew's instincts told him was how things would go, here.

He was about to have his suspicions confirmed.

As McAndrew stood on the edge of the porch, the door behind him swung open and revealed the burly human being who went with the eyes, his several hundred pounds squeezed into a tux. Now McAndrew knew why they called them "monkey suits" (assuming the monkey was an ape). The thug gave McAndrew a shove and sent him tumbling down the half dozen steps to land in a heap on his ass in the cinders.

The deputized private cops and McAndrew's two assistants were momentarily stunned, but a few began moving forward, their hands digging deep in overcoat pockets for their pistols.

But the plug-ugly at the top of the porch stairs produced an automatic from somewhere and pointed it at them. They froze like a bunch of kids in a bad Christmas pageant.

"You got your job to do," the gorilla with the gun said, "and I got mine."

McAndrew picked himself up. "I have a search and seizure warrant for this place."

"You'll get your fuckin' heads shot off, you try comin' in here." He lifted the gun and waggled it, like a professor waving a pointer at his underachieving class. "Word to the wise."

He lowered the gun but did not put it away as he walked casually back inside, slamming the door.

One of the assistants, a guy even younger and more scared than McAndrew, approached. "What now?"

"Hell, I don't know. Bust into the place? It's full of citizens. If there's more like that monkey inside, we'll have a shooting war on our hands."

"Maybe we could wait for Cullitan to show."

McAndrew shook his head, feeling helpless. "He isn't going to like that."

"Why don't you ask to talk to the big boss? Instead of trying to reason with muscle?"

McAndrew nodded. "Good idea." He glanced at the phalanx of men behind him, and said, "No guns out, gentlemen. But be able to fill your hands quickly."

He went up the steps again.

He raised his fist to knock, but the door swung open before he could.

It shut just as quickly, and three men were standing there before him. McAndrew backed up rapidly.

In the rear were two thugs in ill-fitting tuxes, each of whom had a Thompson submachine gun in his two hands. At the fore was a short, stocky man with a moon face and slicked black hair, who stood, arms folded, eyes hooded, cigarette dangling. He, too, wore a tuxedo, but he seemed at home in it. He was James "Shimmy" Patton, described in the warrant McAndrew held as "operator" of the Harvard Club.

McAndrew never really got a good look at either of the men backing Patton up. All he could seem to see was the blue steel of the choppers. His stomach was churning.

"What the hell is this?" Patton said. His voice was a surprisingly pleasant tenor, but this didn't take the edge off his words.

"Exactly what it looks like, Mr. Patton. It's a raid."

"You're not Cullitan."

"I'm his assistant. I have a warrant. Each of my deputies has a copy."

"Who gave it to you?"

"That's none of your business."

Patton was shaking with anger. "Well, why in hell wasn't I tipped off?"

"We aren't here to squeeze you for protection money, Mr. Patton. We're here to shut you down."

"The hell you will. If any of you try to stick your goddamn necks in that door, we'll mow you down with machine guns. As you can see, we've got 'em. And we'll use 'em."

McAndrew patted the air with his hands. "We don't want any bloodshed. Look, this is developing into a state of siege. We can't get in, and you can't get out."

"We don't want out."

"I would imagine your patrons do. They must be starting to be aware of what's going on out here. They'll be getting nervous."

"My patrons are my concern."

"I don't want any bloodshed. I suggest a truce. I'll allow you half an hour to clear your patrons out before I start the raid."

"The hell with that," Patton yelled, liquor on his breath. He poked a stubby finger in McAndrew's chest. "You aren't coming in here. If you do, you'll get killed!"

Patton turned and one of his chopper-wielding body-guards opened the door for him and the three men slipped inside.

McAndrew's assistant approached again. "Now what?"

McAndrew sighed. "Wait for Cullitan. And hope to God his raid is going smoother than mine."

It was. In the nearby suburb of Maple Heights, at Thomas Street and McCracken Road, Sam "Gameboy" Miller's Thomas Club was being well and truly raided by County Prosecutor Frank T. Cullitan himself.

Cullitan was fifty-five years old, a big man with salt-and-pepper hair (mostly salt) and wire-framed glasses. Tonight he wore a dark topcoat with a dark tie showing, and a gray hat, the brim of which was not tucked down in front. His small chin jutted over a softer second one and his slightly bulbous nose softened his otherwise strong features. A quiet man who could turn into a powerhouse-just ask the seven murderers who'd gone to the chair, thanks in no small part to Cullitan's courtroom oratory-he was relishing this night of cops-and-robbers. He was glad Ness had prodded him into it.

The prosecutor, two assistants, and the other ten private-eye "constables" had arrived at five P.M., the time set for the simultaneous raids on the Thomas and Harvard Clubs. Like the other raiding party across town, they had arrived in a moving van and several cars.

Cullitan had inarched up to the front door of the Thomas Club, a big brick affair that lacked the pretentious facade of the Harvard Club, and hammered at the door with the heel of his fist.

The speakeasy slot in the door slid back. Dark, alert eyes filled the space. "What do you want?" the voice that went with them said.

"I'm Cullitan. The county prosecutor."

"You can't come in without a membership card."

Cullitan waved his warrant in front of the eyes in the slot. "Here's my membership card. It's called a warrant for search and seizure."

"What is this, a raid?"

"Exactly right. Open the door and I'll give you your cigar."

The window slid shut.

The door did not open.

Cullitan stepped back, glanced at his men huddled nearby, shrugged, and turned to face the door, folding his arms, waiting for something to happen.

Nothing did. Behind him, Cullitan heard muttering. The boys were chomping at the bit. He was heartened by the enthusiasm these hired hands were showing, but frustrated that he couldn't give them any more leadership than to just stand here and wait to see if his warrant would be honored.

Five minutes crawled by and Cullitan's Irish complexion began turning red.

"Are we the law or not?" somebody behind him said.

"The hell with it," Cullitan muttered, and pointed to a wooden bench near the door. "Would any of you men like to sit down and rest? Or would you prefer to use this little item as a battering ram?"

Several grinning volunteers stepped forward, hoisted the bench and began to slam it into the closed door, splinters and chips of wood flying. The door was solid and didn't give easily, but the men kept at it, with a steady jungle-drum rhythm that, Cullitan thought with a smile, must be playing hell on the nerves of the folks within.

Finally a voice from inside made itself heard above the drumming of the battering ram: "Okay, okay, okay!"

The eager private cops backed off and the door cracked open, revealing the pasty wedge-shaped face that went with the eyes seen in the speakeasy slot.

The guy said, "I'm tryin' to find somebody to talk to you. You'll just have to wait a little."