They were waiting for me the next morning in Captain Neal Burgess’ office. When I didn’t look surprised to see them, poised and ready to pounce, we had a quorum. We all knew why we were there.
Neal Burgess was Captain of Detectives, and next to me, low man on the totem pole. He was the only man in the room who looked sick. Chief Clyde Waylin looked troubled, but there was no illness in his face. Commissioner Stewart Mitchell sat at Neal’s desk, a thick briefcase across his short, fat legs, his face pink under his white hair.
When we had all acknowledged it was a good morning, Mitchell was the one to raise the hammer and drop it on the nail.
“Ballard, I thought you’d learned your lesson four years ago.”
“What lesson was that, sir?”
“Four years ago, you were a tool of Luxtro’s in this department. A disgrace to the honest men in police uniform. A paid cop. A crooked cop. Delinquent in your office, taking graft, and bribes. I felt then that you should have been dismissed, prosecuted.”
“I remember, sir. You told me.”
Mitchell leaned forward, his face burning. He, too, remembered. We had had quite an interview. I had known four years ago that he, too, was playing footsie with Luxtro. He had tried to call my bluff because he doubted I could prove my facts—and had backed down when I showed him I could. We had agreed on a compromise. He reminded me of the terms now.
“We were lenient with you, Ballard. We allowed you to stay on the force. You were disciplined at my orders by being dropped to lowest rank in the detective bureau. We felt that you had paid, perhaps learned a lesson, and even your bitterest enemies admitted you could be a good officer, and a credit to the department. However, for four years, you’ve earned no advancement, no commendations. You’ve done nothing. Are you trying to make fools of us?”
Burgess leaned forward. “What are your specific charges against Detective Ballard, Commissioner?”
Chief Waylin said softly, “Never mind, Neal.”
Neal’s voice was sharp. “Nobody gets at my men except through me. On that I insist. It’s always been that way, and it will continue that way as long as I hold my job.”
“A commendable attitude, Captain.” This from Mitchell, who smiled a little, sickly, but continued to grapple with the bull while making his passes on a powderkeg. “Commendable as long as you protect the honest men in your command. But do not involve yourself with a man like Ballard—”
“I still want to know, Commissioner, what he has done.”
Mitchell’s hands moved on the brief case. “We’re not sure of what he might be doing, Captain. He hasn’t been working for a promotion in the department. This is strictly my way of being fair to him, as I try to be to all you men. He knows what he has been doing. I had better warn you, Ballard, if you are accepting outside gratuities again, this time there will be no leniency shown you. I want this man on probation, Captain Burgess.”
“Where did the complaints come from?” Burgess said.
“I’ll tell you this much. I had a call at my home last night from Mr. Fred Carmichael, and later from Mayor Bibb. The activities of Detective Ballard seem once again to have attracted unfavorable attention—enough so that two civic leaders have been moved to complain. We’re not going to tolerate it this time, Ballard. That’s all I need to say to you. Behave yourself, or you’re in desperate trouble. Do I make myself clear?”
He had made himself clear—at least to me.
There was more discussion. Burgess continued on my side—it was also his side. I answered questions, volunteered nothing. The questions were unspecific and I sensed they were fishing. What was I after, if anything? I wished I had the answer to that one.
In the end it was decided that, despite some evidence that Ballard, the bad cop, was stirring again, my probation would not become effective immediately.
I got up to leave when Mitchell and Waylin were going, but Neal shook his head. “I want to talk to you, Mike.”
I shrugged, slumped back in the chair. The other two men went out. Waylin closed the door behind him.
Burgess said, “What are you pulling, Mike? What’s the gimmick?”
“You tell me.”
“All right I will. I’ve heard that you have been questioning people around Halsey and Twenty-third about who shot young Hogan.”
“Shouldn’t I? He was killed. I am a homicide man.”
Burgess shook his head. “We made a thorough investigation, Mike. Hogan was mixed up in some small-time racket on the side—that was why he was killed. None of us believe it would be to the best interest of the police department to have all that brought out in the open.”
I stared at him without speaking. I needed no words. He knew what I was thinking. The investigation had been ordered pigeon-holed. After Ed Clemmons’ death had been called an accident—which occurred while Ed had been cleaning his guns at 3:00 A.M.
“Do you believe that about Hogan, Neal?”
His face went white. His voice was very low. “If I didn’t you know damned well I’d order men kept on the case.”
“And you believe Tom Flynn committed suicide while drunk?”
He moved in his chair. “That’s enough, Mike. Flynn’s death was a suicide.”
‘And Ed Clemmons’ death was accidental?”
“Yes.”
‘And Carl Hogan was a crooked cop that got what was coming to him?”
He leaned forward. “For God’s sake! Yes. Why don’t you do your job— stay out of trouble with the commissioner, and stop asking questions? We’ve all got a job to do. You’ve got your own woes, now the commissioner is after you.”
‘And you don’t think there’s any connection?”
“Good lord, Mike. What kind of accusations are you making? Against me. Against Waylin. Against Mitchell.”
“You mean I have to take it, but I can’t dish it out?”
“Listen to me. Whatever it is you’re doing that’s got Mitchell upset, cut it out. Do your job. That’s all we ask.”
There was agony in his eyes, and his face muscles were rigid.
Somebody knocked on the door. Before he could control himself, Burgess yelled, “All right, come in! Who is it? What the hell do you want?”
Ernie Gault came in with a slip of paper in his hand. I hadn’t seen him in three days. He looked as if he had aged ten years.
“What is it, Ernie?”
Burgess calmed down when he saw Ernie. Here was a guy everyone respected. He had given his life to the department.
“Protection racket, Neal,” Ernie said. “What else?” He glanced at me, and looked sicker than before. But I knew it was not because he was troubled about me. Ernie had his own woes and since the death of Tom Flynn, the dishonesty in the department had been poisoning him like his ulcer. He knew Tom Flynn had been murdered, that Clemmons’ death was no accident and that there had been no honesty in the Hogan murder investigation, and he also knew he had to keep his mouth shut. It was all inside him. Like some terrible disease.
“What now?” Neal said.
“We had a call this morning, few minutes ago. Spyrous Papolous has been threatened.”
The name rang a faint bell. I had to dig around in my mind to realize it was the name of the Greek. I had forgotten he had a real name.
“What about Papolous?” I said.
“He’s been threatened a couple times before, but has laughed it off. But now he thinks they mean business and he’s worried. He wants police protection.”
Neal shrugged. “Can you stake him out?”
Ernie’s face was rigid. “I need more men. Like I told you and Clyde. We need some special assignments.”
Neal said, “We told you, Ernie. You’ll have to get by on the men you have.”
“You mean you’re not going to give Papolous protection?” I leaned against the desk.
“Never mind, Mike,” Ernie said, troubled.
“Of course we’ll give him every protection we can,” Burgess said. “But we can’t hire extra detail men. If we get somebody we can put over there, we’ll do it.”
“The Greek would never call you if he weren’t in bad trouble.” I was sitting on the edge of my chair.
“I’ll run this department, Mike,” Burgess said. “You got your own woes.”
“We’ll do what we can, Mike,” Ernie said.
Burgess tried to laugh. “I know the Greek serves your favorite booze, Mike, but we have a department to run. We’ll run it our way.”
I glanced at Ernie. He was staring at the floor.
I left the building without even checking the assignments on my desk and walked over to the Greek’s. It was only ten in the morning, but Doc Yerrgsted was in his favorite booth in the rear.
He stared up at me over his glass. “Well. Ten A.M. When a man drinks before noon, Ballard, his problem has become bigger than he is.”
“Hell, I’m taking the day off.”
“Are you? You can do that when it pleases you, can you?”
“Why not? You do.”
“I’m farther down the road than you are, my boy. You come in for a drink at ten, but I must have my first drink before I can bear to put my poor, sore feet down on the floor. You have a career left to you but I have only this booth in the Greek’s bar.”
The Greek came over. He looked as if he had not slept. His hand on the tray trembled. He put a drink before me. “On the house, Mike.”
“How are things, Greek?”
“Who can complain? This is a fine country. The finest in the world.”
I gestured toward him with my drink. “Sure it is.”
“Sure it is,” he said. His face was cold. He turned and walked away.
“Poor Greek,” Doc said.
“What’s eating him?”
“Never ask, Ballard. Remember what I once told you about Moses. He let things trouble him and wound up with forty years in the desert. He asked questions to which there was only one answer—and never found the promised land.”
“Booze is the only answer,” I said. “And the hell with you, Doc.”
I had lunch at the Greek’s. He insisted on making me a filet mignon. I told him I never ate that heavily in the middle of the day, but he said a man who drinks a lot should eat a lot.
“You can get beriberi, heart damage from drinking and never eating,” Doc said. “This is a medical fact. Beriberi doesn’t occur only among the underfed Chinese, Ballard. It happens right here among people who drink all the time and never eat.”
“Always take the advice of a fool,” I told him.
He nodded. “It’s starting. That wisdom. It must have been like this for Moses—the slow sure beginning of wisdom.”
“Oh, for hell’s sake.”
The Greek pulled up a chair. “Mike. I got a small worry. You mind I trouble you?”
“No. Go ahead. You can’t hurt this steak after what you did to it in the kitchen.”
“The steak is on the house, my friend. My trouble is that I have been threatened twice. I must pay off for protection of my business—or my life is endangered.”
“Hell. Why don’t you pay?”
The Greek shook his head. “Twenty-four years I have been here in this country. I don’t believe I must pay anything.”
“It’s your life.”
“I got to live with myself. I should snivel and beg from these punks the right to stay in my own business?”
I glanced at Doc Yerrgsted. “You ought to start on the Greek, Doc. It’s taking him longer than it ever took Moses to get even a little bit smart.”
“This man is right. You know he’s right,” Doc said. He sat up straighten “And you are a cop.”
“The police,” the Greek said. “I asked for protection. Twice. They promised. But nothing.”
“You want me to try to jack them up?”
The Greek stared at me, then smiled, nodding. He snapped his fingers and a waiter came running with a telephone, plugged it in.
“Use my phone,” he said.
“On the house, of course?” I said. I dialed police headquarter, asked for Neal Burgess. “Neal, I dropped in at the Greek’s.”
“I’ll bet you did.”
“Put it in my folder. But in the meantime, he says he’s asked for police protection and hasn’t got it. There’s no stake-out here.”
“We’re rushed, Ballard. You know that. We’re doing the best we can.”
‘Aren’t you going to send a stake-out?”
His voice was rasping. He was a man pushed. “Dammit, Mike—are you telling me my job?”
“No, sir. Simply confirming a report”
“Of course we’re sending protection. As soon as we can. We have a schedule, Ballard.”
“I hope these hoods are on the same schedule—”
“Damn it, Ballard. I’ll take care of it. Now, why don’t you get back to work?”
“I think I’ll just stay here until your stake-out shows up, Neal. Okay?”
He didn’t speak. He just slammed down the receiver. I hung up, too.
“You’re going to stay?” The Greek leaned forward, showing a little color in his face.
“Why not? As long as your liquor holds out, I couldn’t do better.”
“Them punks swore they’d be here today. They warned me not to call the police. If I don’t pay, they wreck my place.” His fearful gaze moved across his huge, framed paintings, the deep, tinted mirrors, the expensive white gleam of his tables, the glowing polish of his bar. “How can this happen, Ballard?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe we’ll find out.”
He offered to furnish me with more bourbon, but I told him I could exist on coffee. “After all, Greek” I told him, “I’m on duty. A cop shouldn’t drink on duty.”
At four the telephone rang. It was for Yerrgsted. His office was calling. He had not reported in today and several matters required his attention and signature.
He laughed into the phone. “The hell with you. I’m with Moses and the Greek, and about to witness the parting of the Red Sea, and I wouldn’t miss this for a million kronen.” He let the receiver strike its cradle loudly.
It had never occurred to me before that a bar quieted down so completely between four and five o’clock. The afternoon breaks are over, and the before dinner drinking has yet to begin. The bartender was alone, polishing glasses. Only one waiter was on duty and he was reading a newspaper near the kitchen doors.
We three—Doc, The Greek and I—sat in the booth, none of us saying much.
I was on my second pot of coffee. I had put sugar in my cup and was reaching for the cream when the Greek coughed. There was nothing spectacular or new about this signal, but it was effective. He got up, pushing back in his chair, staring toward the front door.
The boys had arrived for their protection money.
I sat there, waiting, until they’d had plenty of time to get well inside the thick doors. I found myself sweating.
I glanced at Doc. He took a deep, long pull at his whiskey, the ice clinking in his glass. I had never seen him look calmer.
I put the cream pitcher on the tabletop, slid my hand under my coat to ease the Police Positive from its shoulder holster.
The gun was in my hand when I stepped out of the booth.
There were two of them, both with hands covering guns in jacket pockets. The Greek was trembling and looked as if he were about to fall.
I saw the faces of the hoods. They were wild, desperate, as if they were either hopped up, or expected resistance. Their consciences were on their faces. I could have stopped the show by pressing the trigger of the Police Positive—I wanted to do it for the Greek and found my finger frozen.
There were only two of them, but one was Jerry Marlowe.