Nemesis Page 2

  “With the truth.”

  Potts pounded his fists together and swore. “I guess you figure someone back at the office tipped off Frescone.”

  “I think I can narrow the field more than that.”

  “But you told the whole office we were making this raid.”

  “True. But I told everyone else we were going after the gambling parlor in the basement of Hannigan’s Hardware.”

  “You’re saying—you lied?”

  “I still plan to raid the hardware store. The night is young.”

  “But then—what was the point—”

  “Here’s the thing—I only told one person I traced a load of illegal hooch to the Cuyahoga and I was coming out tonight to raid the warehouse before the stuff slipped into the city.” Ness pressed his finger into Potts’s lapel. “You.”

  The expressions on the faces of Frescone and his men were nothing short of astonished.

  Sheriff Potts took a step back, slapping away Ness’s hand. “What are you playing at, Ness? They’re the criminals!”

  “There are many different kinds of criminals, unfortunately, Sheriff.”

  “If you think for one minute that I’m involved in this lowlife moonshine operation—”

  “Oh, you’re a lot more than involved. You and five of your men, including your deputy, John Lavery, have built up a little bootlegging empire over the last five years, haven’t you? It started with holding up moonshiners coming in from Steubenville and demanding payoffs. Pretty soon, you wanted more than a piece of the action. You wanted to run the show.”

  “That’s a filthy lie.”

  Ness didn’t blink. “Your bank records show you’ve been making real estate investments far beyond anything you could afford on your sheriff’s salary.”

  “I came into an inheritance.”

  “I’ve found payoff records that an expert will testify are in your handwriting. But I didn’t have any conclusive proof, and I didn’t think your buddies on either side of the river were likely to help. So I told you about this little raid tonight and waited to see if you’d tell your friends. You did. Now I have my evidence.”

  Frescone spoke hesitantly. “You knew he’d tip us off? You knew—”

  “Yes, I knew you’d send the booze somewhere else.”

  “And you’re not taking us in?”

  “Not tonight. But I will.” Ness slid the cuffs over Potts’s wrists. “Come along, Sheriff. You’ve just been voted out of office.”

  “So you’ll come back to my place?”

  “Sure, mister. I don’t mind.”

  “That’s very obliging of you.”

  “The customer is always right.”

  “A noble attitude.”

  “It works.”

  “And you don’t mind if things get … a trifle unusual?”

  “Believe me, mister. I’ve seen it all before.”

  He smiled. “You never know.”

  Perfection itself. Why kidnap someone when you could persuade them to come with you voluntarily? That made it ever so much simpler to travel through Kingsbury Run unnoticed, to bring her back to the brewery. To do what he wanted to do to her.

  “No one works here?” she asked, as she walked around the abandoned building.

  “Not anymore. Prohibition put it out of business.”

  “Shame. I like a beer every so often. How ’bout you?”

  “I prefer something stronger.”

  “I pegged you for a drinker.”

  “Now and again.”

  “Pardon me for sayin’ so, but you seem a little too classy to be hang-in’ out in Kingsbury Run.”

  “Appearances can be deceiving. Have you seen the Sailors’ Home?”

  “Sure. Oh—I get it. You really do like a drink now and again.”

  “Just as I said.”

  He removed the plank in the floor, took out the ropes, and tied her to the chair.

  “Hey, what’s that about?”

  “Just a harmless ritual. I’m … complicated.”

  “I get it. You like a girl to seem helpless. Like you’re in control.”

  “Something like that.”

  “Hey, can you loosen them knots a little? I’m not sure I can move.”

  “I’m not sure I want you to move.”

  He shoved her and her chair forward across the table. Her hands were tied behind her back; her legs were tied together. Her torso was flattened across the length of the table while her head dangled off the edge.

  “Hey, this is gettin’ weird.” For the first time, her voice contained a trace of apprehension.

  “You said you were ready for anything.”

  “Look, you want to take me that way, just do it.”

  “That isn’t what I had in mind.”

  “You’re not trying to get some action?”

  “Not in the way that you mean.”

  “You’re some kinda customer.”

  “I’m a man of science.”

  “ ’Zat so? What’s this, an experiment?”

  “You could say that.”

  “Hey—what’s with the axe?” Her voice had passed well beyond the point of apprehension. She was scared.

  He took careful aim. If he judged it correctly, one slice would be sufficient to sever the head at the level of the third intervertebral disk …

  He swung. It worked. Severed in a single slice. Superb.

  But what is the point if no one knows? How could there be any pleasure in that?

  He liked swinging the axe. It was a good feeling. He liked using his physical strength. They let him use knives at the hospital, scalpels, but never anything like this. This was better. From now on, he would devote his energies to the endeavors that truly mattered. Not the coddling of the sick and infirm. Something on a grander scale.

  The blood rolled down the slanted floor and into the drainage tunnel. So much could be discarded that way. She had told him she loved the waters. Perhaps she would have chosen it for her final resting place. Perhaps he would choose it for her.

  She had not screamed when the axe touched her neck. That was a disappointment. It happened all too swiftly. There was no time to react, no chance to savor the moment.

  He would learn from his mistakes.

  He pushed open the sliding door and stepped outside, brushing the blood from his apron as he walked. Across the river, the smoke and dirt hovering over the city made a visible cloud that never cleared. He preferred it here, away from the mad traffic, the insane hustling back and forth, the people who thought they were so modern but in fact had no idea what modern was.

  He would show them.

  Something new had come to town.

  DECEMBER 1, 1935

  Cleveland’s city hall was one of the older sandstone buildings in a metropolis where even the newer buildings didn’t look good anymore. There was no money for improvements, not in the middle of the Depression and the most sluggish economy in history. Nonetheless, Mayor Harold Burton reflected, gazing out his office’s wide double window, it wouldn’t matter what they did to the buildings, not so long as that perpetual dark cloud hung over the city, day and night, regardless of the weather. He should be able to see the Terminal Tower rising above the other buildings like an arm stretched to heaven. Not anymore. The Tower was still there. But the dark cloud rendered it invisible.

  He pressed a hand against his back. It still ached. Why had he agreed to those dancing lessons? Of course, he wanted to please his wife. He needed her on his team, especially during the campaign. But that music—what they were now calling “swing”? Hideous. And the rumba. Who thought they needed a new way of dancing? Give him a waltz any day.

  “Mr. Mayor?”

  Burton slowly turned about in his swivel chair. He still hadn’t gotten used to it. Had they stolen this from a barber shop? As soon as he thought no one would notice, he was bringing in a chair from home. A good steady chair that kept four feet on the floor and didn’t move.

  “Wes. Please come
in.”

  Wes Lawrence had earned his right to the mayor’s ear. He had been one of Burton’s leading supporters, contributing both finances and wisdom to the campaign. Burton would’ve listened to Lawrence, though, even if he hadn’t played a role in the campaign. The man was street smart. Savvy, particularly about politics.

  Burton gestured toward the chair on the opposite side of his desk. “What brings you to my office, Wes?”

  Lawrence tugged at his pleated pants before taking the chair. “I wondered if you’ve given any thought to what you’re going to do?”

  “Can you be a little more precise?”

  “You were elected as a Reform mayor, Harold. On a Reform ticket.” His eyebrows rose. “So what are you going to reform first?”

  “Honestly, Wes? I don’t know how much a mayor really can do. Only the legislature—”

  “That kind of thinking will not go down well with the press.”

  “Wes, I handled the Huns during the Great War. I think I can handle a few scribblers.”

  “Unfortunately, being a war hero won’t get you reelected. Only the people can do that.”

  “Isn’t it too early to be thinking about reelection? I just won the first one.”

  “It’s never too early to think about reelection.”

  “Relax already.” He pulled a sizable humidor out of his bottom desk drawer. “Have a cigar. They’re from Havana. Best in the world.”

  “I’m not interested in tobacco. I’m interested in knowing what return I’m getting for my investment. We’ve spent too much time and money to end up with a one-term mayor.”

  Burton folded his hands flat and sighed. “Fine, fine. What societal ill would you like me to tackle first?”

  “You know what’s wrong with this city as well as I do. You talked about it enough during your campaign. The mob is taking over. We may not have an Al Capone but we have a lot of little terrors who might add up to something worse. Racketeers control the unions. Our traffic system is chaotic. The economy stinks. We’ve got a shantytown filled with poor and itinerant unemployed, people who can’t afford to live in anything better than a shed or a cardboard box. Women, children, living in conditions like that, searching through garbage cans for something to eat.”

  “So many choices. Where shall I begin?”

  Lawrence continued. “The police department is thoroughly corrupt. Gambling parlors thrive. Juvenile crime is at an all-time high. Prostitution—”

  “All right, I get the message. But I’m still just the mayor.”

  “You have to do something.”

  “Look, pick the issue you think will play best and I’ll propose a municipal directive—”

  Lawrence shook his head. “You can’t get personally involved.”

  “Excuse me? You just said—”

  “Do you really think you can solve any of those problems? Because I don’t. I don’t think anyone can. If you get personally involved, you’ll sink like you were in quicksand.”

  “So if I understand you, Lawrence, you want me to appear to be working on the city’s problems without actually working on the city’s problems because any effort to solve the city’s problems is doomed to failure. Is that about right?”

  “I knew you’d come to understand politics one day, Harold.”

  Burton leaned forward across his desk. “Then what is it you want me to do?”

  Lawrence paused a few moments before answering. “The position of Safety Director remains vacant.”

  Burton blew air through his teeth. “Lavelle turned that job into a joke.”

  “It doesn’t have to be. The right man, with ample authority, could restore credibility. You need someone with a higher profile.” He opened his briefcase and pulled out a copy of the Plain Dealer. “Read the paper this morning?”

  Burton grimaced. “I saw the piece about the disembodied torso. Think that was a mob rubout?”

  “Probably. But the article I’m interested in is on page three.” Lawrence spread the paper across Burton’s desk and pointed.

  G-MAN NESS CLEANS UP LIQUOR RING.

  Burton shrugged. “So? The city’s got a lot worse problems than illegal booze.”

  “I agree. Almost trivial compared to police corruption and deadly traffic. But—” He stopped, then leaned back into his chair. “How much do you know about Eliot Ness?”

  “Who?”

  “You’re kidding me. You don’t know who Eliot Ness is?”

  “Not that I recall.”

  “Treasury agent. Formerly in Chicago. Provided the testimony that got Capone indicted on Volstead and conspiracy allegations.”

  Burton thought for a moment. “Didn’t they put Capone away for income tax evasion?”

  “Yes. They could never make the other charges stick. But Ness and his so-called Untouchables hounded him for years. And Ness got a lot of favorable coverage in the process. The press loves this man. That baby face and unassuming modesty make for a very appealing image. He can afford to be modest—his accomplishments speak for themselves. Dwight Green, one of the prosecutors in the Capone case, gave him a ringing endorsement. William Clegg, foreman on the Capone grand jury, was also a big booster. I’ve talked to them both. They tell me you couldn’t find a straighter arrow if you searched the world over. They call him an American hero—maybe the last of his kind. Hardworking, honest to a fault. He’s been offered all kinds of bribes and payoffs. Turned them all down.”

  “And you want me to bring him to Cleveland?”

  “Read the article, Harold. He’s already here. Has been for months. The Alcohol Tax Unit posted him here as a special-investigator-in-charge.”

  “Why here?”

  “Because according to the Feds, we have more bootleg liquor passing through our town than anyplace else in the country. And from here it flows into all the major eastern cities.”

  “Then maybe we should let Mr. Ness do the work he’s been assigned.”

  “I hear he’s frustrated. Thinks he can do more. Applied for the FBI. Got turned down.”

  “If your man is so amazing, why would the FBI turn him down?”

  Lawrence inched forward. “This is just between you and me. But what my sources tell me is that J. Edgar Hoover doesn’t like agents who attract more publicity than he does. While Hoover’s made a name for himself catching hick bank robbers, Ness went after organized crime, which according to Hoover doesn’t exist.”

  Burton snipped off the end of a cigar and lit it, puffing till it caught. “I’m not so fond of people who attract better publicity than I do, either.”

  “No need to worry. He may be good with the press, but he’s politically inexperienced. Doesn’t understand the machinery.”

  “And I do.”

  “You have me to advise you.”

  “Still sounds like a potential scene-stealer.”

  “But don’t you see, Harold? If you appoint him, anything good he does is a feather in your cap. You benefit even more than he does. And if he fails, well, it wasn’t your fault. You did everything you could.”

  Burton puffed on his large, long stogie. “I like that part.” He thought a moment. “But I think Safety Director is too high profile. I’d rather have someone safer. Maybe Robert Turkel.”

  “Turkel is a desk man. You need someone more visible. Ness hates to be deskbound. Always goes out on the raids with his men. Been shot at more than half a dozen times.”

  Burton mulled it over, rolling the cigar between his fingers. “Maybe I could just put him in the police department. Make him some kind of special investigator.”

  Lawrence shook his head vigorously. “How can he clean up the police department if they can fire him? Plus, he would be limited to police duties, and they can’t improve the traffic fatalities or the congestion or the exhaust fumes so thick you can’t step outside without getting nauseated. No, he needs to be completely independent. And he needs all the executive authority you can give him. All the powers and support of the mayor’s office.
”

  Burton blew a cloud of smoke into the air. “That’s a lot of power to give an unknown variable.”

  “It takes a lot of power to accomplish a big job. And right now, Cleveland is a big job.”

  Burton leaned across his desk. “Now you’re sounding like you really think this Buster Brown can clean up Cleveland.”

  “Sometimes underdogs prevail.”

  “I don’t see it happening here.”

  “No one thought Braddock could take down Baer, either. But he did.”

  “On points.”

  “No one thought Omaha would win the Triple Crown.”

  “This isn’t sports, Wes, and I’d like a straight answer. Do you think Ness can clean up this town?”

  Lawrence waited a long time before answering. “I think it is important to your political future, Harold, that you be perceived as doing everything you can to clean up Cleveland. That’s what Reform candidates do. Hiring a hero to tidy up the joint can only make you look good. Even if it turns out that taking on a big city hurting bad is a little tougher than putting away Sicilian rumrunners. With him on your team, you can’t be faulted for not trying to make a difference.” He reached down for his briefcase. “He’s your ticket to reelection, Harold.”

  Burton contemplated a moment, then spread his hands expansively across his desk. “All right, then, Wes. You win. Have the junior g-man come and see me.”

  “Can’t you throw any harder than that?”

  “I could, but you couldn’t catch it.”

  “Aw, baloney. You throw like a girl.”

  “No, you catch like a girl.”

  “I ain’t had any trouble catchin’ anythin’ you’ve thrown.”

  “I been holdin’ back. I don’t wanna scare you.” Jimmy Wagner and Peter Kostura had been playing catch for the better part of an hour. Jimmy was glad to have the company, though he would never admit it. Peter was four years younger than he was, a mere twelve, and he knew he’d get ribbed by some of the kids on the street if they knew he was messing around with such a punk. But where were they now? Truth to tell, there wasn’t much to do this time of year in Cleveland. Especially on Kingsbury Run. So they played catch on Jackass Hill. What else was there?