Nemesis: The Final Case of Eliot Ness Page 3

  “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.”

  4

  “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?

  “All right,” Peter screeched. His voice still hadn’t changed, and it tended to break when he got loud. “You asked for it.” He reared back his arm and tossed the baseball with all his might.

  Jimmy caught it without trouble. “Oooh. My hand is stingin’.” He laughed. “The Bambino probably couldn’t hit that one.”

  “He’s a goner.”

  “He’s retired. He ain’t never gonna be a goner.” Jimmy grinned. “But you are.”

  “Yeah? Let’s see what you can do.”

  “Happy to oblige.” With the advantage of four more years of muscles, well-honed by the menial jobs he worked to keep himself fed, Jimmy hurled the ball back.

  Peter caught it. “Hah! See, you ain’t exactly Lou Gehrig yourself.”

  Jimmy grinned. He hadn’t thrown the ball half as hard as he could.

  He liked Peter. Kids were everywhere these days: no work, no one watching the schools, lucky if they even had parents. But friends-not just street trash but actual friends-were hard to come by on Kings-bury Run.

  His father had told him-the last time he saw the man before he disappeared-that there had been a time when Kingsbury Run was a nice neighborhood. The wide, deep gorge stretched all the way from Cleveland ’s industrial area, the Flats, to East 90th Street. Once upon a time, according to his father, people had come here for picnics because the green seemed to stretch forever, and there was a brook and trees that provided shade. Even wildflowers. Folks used to come on dates, his dad had said. It’s where I took your momma, first time we stepped out together.

  Jimmy had to wonder if his father had made the whole thing up, if it was just as false as a lot of the other stuff he said. Ever since the Crash, as long as Jimmy could remember, Kingsbury Run had been dirt and weeds and trash and bums. Over thirty different railroad tracks crisscrossed the Run, feeding supplies to the factories in the Flats and bringing in trash from all over the country. Hobo Jungle, some folks called it. They built the shantytown that housed the poorest and most desperate of the aimless wanderers who came to town looking for work, looking for a better life, and finding nothing.

  Jimmy’s family came from the north side of the Run, where most of the colored families congregated, near Woodland Avenue. The working-class white folk lived on the south side of the Run, most of them with funny names he couldn’t pronounce. His father had said those names could give you a clue to what part of Europe or Asia they came from, but he’d never managed to figure it out. He didn’t spend that much time on the south side of the Run. He knew he wasn’t welcome. Things were more comfortable here, in no-man’s-land-at least during the day, when the bums were either scrounging for work or sleeping it off.

  “Are we playin’ catch or countin’ sheep?”

  “Sorry,” Jimmy mumbled. He lobbed the ball back toward his pal, who caught it with ease. Peter was actually a pretty salty ballplayer, not that he would ever tell the kid that. Course, Peter still saw his dad every now and again. His dad took him to a real-live Indians game at Municipal Stadium. And his mom had a radio, so they could listen to the games and Walter Winchell and The Shadow and all the other swell stuff that came over the airwaves.

  “Are you ready for my fastball?” Peter shouted.

  “I can handle it.”

  “I’m gonna burn a hole right through your hand.”

  “Gosh willikers. I’m a-tremblin’.”

  “You sure you’re ready?”

  Jimmy cracked a smile. “Give me everythin’ you got, champ.”

  Peter did. He threw the baseball as hard as he could-right over Jimmy’s head.

  “Aw geez.”

  He knew they shouldn’t have been playing on Jackass Hill. It was great for sledding, when there was snow, but a stupid place to play catch. The ball sailed over the crest of the hill down a sixty-foot slope and into a gully.

  “No way I’m goin’ down there,” Jimmy said.

  “Well, I’m not goin’.”

  “You threw it.”

  “You missed it!”

  Jimmy sighed. This was a bum deal, but it was his only baseball and he didn’t want to lose it.

  “All right,” Jimmy shouted. “You’re probably too puny to make it down there and back up again.”

  “Am not!”

  “Prove it.”

  “Why should both of us go?”

  “Because it’s a race. Whoever’s toughest gets the ball first. Go!”

  Both boys tore into action, barreling down the hill as if their shoes were on fire. Jimmy was closest, so he took an early lead, which only got wider as the race proceeded. He still had the advantage of age, not to mention at least fifteen pounds. Despite the fact that it was a cold day, sweat dripped down the side of his face as he ran at his very best speed. He was panting and short of breath, but that didn’t matter. His manhood was at stake. He couldn’t be beaten by a kid four years younger. Couldn’t even let him come close.

  Jimmy blazed his way through the bushes and tall grass and weeds till he hit the gully, well ahead of Peter.

  “No fair!” Peter cried. “You had a head start!”

  Jimmy cackled. “Wimpy!” He adopted a fake, high-pitched British voice. “I’d gladly pay you Tuesday for a hamburger today!”

  He scanned the gully, searching for the baseball. The weeds and bushes were mostly stomped down, but it could still be a chore to find something as small as a baseball, particularly one that had already lost most of its cover and was more brown than white.

  He started toward the north, tracing the length of the gully, hoping that no matter where the ball went it would eventually roll back to the lowest point. He pushed aside some weeds and something caught his eye-

  Jimmy froze, chilled to the bone. His lips parted, but no words came out. He wanted to make a noise, a really loud noise, but he couldn’t do it.

  Couldn’t move, either. And he really truly desperately wanted to move.

  Finally, a toe at a time, he managed to get his body working again. He raced back up the hill, twice as fast as he had come down, his eyes wide and his face wild.

  He practically collided with Peter. “Don’t go down there!”

  Peter stared at him, confused. “What? Did you find the ball?”

  Jimmy slowly shook his head. “Something else.”

  “Like what?”

  Jimmy grabbed Peter’s arm. His hands were ice cold. “Like, a man.”

  “A man? What kinda man?”

  Jimmy could barely form the words. “A man with no head.”

  5

  From the front page of the December 12, 1935, Cleveland Plain Dealer:

  “… when this reporter learned that Eliot Ness, formerly an agent for the Treasury Department, has been appointed by Mayor Burton to be the new Safety Director, filling the position vacated by the unpopular Martin J. Lavelle. Apparently Ness had a brief meeting with the mayor yesterday morning, then less than an hour later was sworn in to office. Ness will receive an annual salary of seven thousand five hundred dollars and will have authority over the entire police, fire and traffic control departments…”

  – -

  Ness stepped outside the Central Police Station at 21st and Payne on Cleveland ’s East side, a four-story sandstone edifice with an imposing façade. He was carrying a large stack of files.

  Six reporters were waiting for him on the front steps.

  With his free hand, he buttoned his tan camel-hair topcoat, bracing himself against the December chill.

  One of the reporters stepped forward. “I’m Jim Crawford of the Courier. Are you Eliot Ness?”

  Ness nodded. “Guess I’m not as famous as some of the people inside seem to think.”

  “We heard you were here. It’s just-well, you don’t look much like a copper.”

  “Why not?”

  “ ’Cause you’re…” He hemmed and hawed, searching for the word.

  “Good lookin’?” one of reporters suggested. “Not just another mug?
”

  “Well, yeah. I mean, not that I care what men look like-”

  “Of course not,” Ness said.

  “But you’re dressed nice and you got a soft voice and you look…” He scratched his head. “Exactly how old are you?”

  “Older than I look.”

  “And that is?”

  Ness grinned. “You members of the fourth estate are relentless. I’m a little past thirty.”

  The reporter whistled. “Youngest safety director this city has ever had.”

  “Sometimes youth can be a good thing.”

  “Is it true you brought down Al Capone?”

  Ness shrugged. “My department did its part, sure. But the tax investigators were the ones who put Capone in prison. My work just got more press, that’s all. A midnight raid is a good deal more sensational than an accounting ledger.”

  “Are you going to start an Untouchables squad here in Cleveland?”

  Another big grin. “We’ll see.”

  “What was the first thing you did after the mayor appointed you safety director?”

  “I told my wife, naturally.”

  “What was her reaction?”

  For the first time, Ness hesitated before answering. “Edna has always been very supportive of me and my career. She’s a fine woman.”

  Another reporter, with a press pass stuck in the band of his boater and a Brownie camera dangling from his neck, thrust himself forward. “Bill Dowling of the Cleveland News. Can you tell us what you were doing here at the police station?”

  “Getting to know the people I’m going to be working with. I met the chief of police, George Matowitz.”

  “What did you think of him?”

  “I thought he was tall.” The reporters laughed. True, Matowitz was six feet, but then, so was Ness.

  What Ness really thought was that Matowitz was lazy and uninspired. He might not be corrupt himself, but he was negligent enough to allow corruption to fester. He would never be of any real use, but Ness was careful not to make an enemy. He would need the support of the chief once he started demanding resignations.

  “Do you anticipate any problems working with Chief Matowitz?”

  “Of course not. Why would there be? We both want the same thing. A clean police department and a safe city.”

  “The previous safety director never stepped out of his office. Some people see it as a political appointment that never does anyone any good.”

  “Those days are over,” Ness said firmly, his jaw set. “I’m not the supervisor type. I’ll be right on the front lines. But first I need to become a little more familiar with the police force and the local crime scene. I need to know this city, inside out.” He glanced at the materials he was carrying. “That’s what all this is. Homework. City charter. Crime statistics. Maps. You name it.”

  “That’s a lot to bite off.”

  “I’ve always been a good student. I’ll know more tomorrow and a lot more than that the next day. Goodbye, gentlemen.”

  Ness started down the stone steps toward his black Ford, but the reporter held out a hand to stop him.

  “Here’s the thing I don’t get, Mr. Ness. Why would a Fed like you want to get involved in a city’s dirty problems? Mobsters, murder, prostitution-seems like it never ends. You can’t win. This city never runs out of criminals.”

  “I think you’re wrong about that.” He moved on down the steps and tossed his study materials into the backseat of his car. “This is the best time ever to be in law enforcement. Science is on our side. The FBI has developed the greatest crime lab in the world, and they’re showing the rest of us how it can be done. Cleveland has a first-rate Bertillon department. Top-notch forensic coroner. We’re learning more every day about blood types and fingerprints and bodily fluids. It won’t be long until we see an end to these problems that have plagued society since its inception. I think it will happen in our lifetime. Crime will become a thing of the past.”

  6

  First night on the job, and Ness was already enjoying the luxuries of his new position. He’d been appointed a driver! He didn’t have to motor himself, not even to take his wife out to dinner. Not that he minded driving-in fact, he rather enjoyed it. But that beat-up Ford, though it might be all he could afford on a Treasury agent’s salary, was starting to look a little shabby. Didn’t really fit the image of the dynamic new safety director.

  When they’d arrived at one of Cleveland ’s swankiest downtown restaurants, the maître d’ recognized Ness and gave him the best seat in the joint. This was a great job. Absolutely great.

  “I tell you, Edna-they were eating out of my hands.”

  “I’m sure they were.”

  “This safety director business could be something terrific. Might lead to something really special.”

  “I would’ve thought it was already something special.”

  “You know what I mean, Edna. The FBI.”

  “Eliot-why would you want to be some podunk FBI agent, working under Hoover ’s thumb, watching him take all the glory?”

  “It’s what I’ve always wanted, Edna. You know that. Ever since I was a kid.”

  “I think you’ve done all right for yourself without J. Edgar Hoover’s help.”

  He leaned a little closer to her. “So you’re happy for me? For us? Doesn’t this job sound terrific?”

  Her lips pursed. “I think it sounds like a good excuse to stay away from home all day long.”

  Ness stopped. The smile faded from his face. “Can’t you be happy for me?”

  “I can’t change how I feel, Eliot. I would’ve told you that when the job was offered. If you’d asked me. Before you accepted.” She made a minute adjustment to the lie of her hat, a black felt pillbox pinned to her brunette hair. “You did it anyway.”

  “It’s a great job.”

  “It’s a loser. For losers.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve asked around. No one who ever held this job came out looking good. No matter what you do, there will always be people complaining that you haven’t done enough.”

  “Just give me a chance.”

  “Isn’t that what I’ve been doing? All these years?” Edna’s voice was thin and strained. She was a pretty woman, had been, since they’d first met as children. They’d gone to the same elementary school, though they didn’t see each other for many years afterward, until Ness spotted her working as a secretary for Alexander Jamie. He thought she was beautiful, with her dark hair cut short in the current fashion, light blue eyes, delicate heart-shaped face. Somehow he had summoned up the courage to ask her out to dinner, something that turned out to be harder than facing down Capone. But it was worth the effort. They’d been together ever since. “And what has it gotten me? A lonely lake house and an absentee husband.”

  “I put a lot of money into that house. Money I couldn’t really afford to spend. Because I wanted to make you happy.”

  “Or was it because you wanted to hide me away, far from everyone and everything?”

  “That’s nonsense. You’re just trying to spoil my-”

  “Are you listening to me at all, Eliot? I’m lonely!” Her blue eyes fairly bulged and her voice hit such a volume that she instinctively looked around to see if any of the diners at other tables had noticed. “I’m stuck out there all day with no one to talk to. Nothing to do. A husband who comes home around midnight-if I’m lucky. If he comes home at all.”

  Ness twisted his neck, trying to work out the kinks. He hated these conversations. Spats. And they seemed to be coming more frequently. “I don’t know why you have to be so harsh.” He paused, fidgeting with his napkin. “I can’t-I can’t help but think things would be different if-you know. If we had children.”

  “But we don’t,” Edna said, with a finality that terrified him. “We can’t.”

  “Honey.” He stretched his hand out toward hers, but she did not reciprocate. “We don’t know that.”

  “I know I can’t do it alone.”

  The waiter brought their food: a beefsteak with hash brown potatoes for him, and grilled salmon for her. It was good-Mayor Burton’s recommendation was dead on target. Perhaps the food would brighten her spirits, Ness mused. But he saw no indication. They ate in silence.

  “I-I could try… to come home earlier,” he said, so quietly even he could barely hear it.