"That's deuce," said Eliot Ness, in tennis whites, racket in hand, about to serve in the final set of a long game of doubles. Next to him was Mayor Burton, his sturdy frame leaning forward in anticipation of the return, and across the net from Burton was trim, bald, intense Frank Darby, president of the Chamber of Commerce and general manager of the May Company. Across the net from Ness was white-haired, wiry Cyril Easton, richest financier in the city. Of the four men on this grass court at Lake Shore Country Club, only Ness wore short pants; and of the four men on this court, from which Lake Erie could be shimmeringly seen, only Ness was not in his early fifties.
Nonetheless, the match had been hard fought. Ness played tennis well, though he was better at badminton and handball; the latter sports were part of a daily ritual at Dewey Mitchell's Health Club, whereas this complimentary membership to classily suburban Bratenahl's Lake Shore Country Club, with its golf-green-like tennis courts, was something new. He'd played on hard clay in Chicago and was just getting used to the faster play of grass.
Cleveland's safety director was physically in top shape, but these three older men were every bit as fit as he was: all of them worked out on a daily basis (Burton with Ness at Dewey Mitchell's), and the retailer and financier played with single-minded stamina that thirty-four-year-old Ness could only envy. Under a hot afternoon sun Ness and Burton had won the first set 6–2, lost the second 4–6, won the third 6–4, and lost the fourth 1–6.
And now Ness fired his fastest serve, and Darby's return flew out of bounds.
Burton smiled at Ness; Ness smiled back.
Ness served again, another fast one, but Darby was ready and lobbed it behind Burton, who scrambled back and managed a weak but sufficient backhand return, while Easton moved in for the kill with a slashing forehand cross-court.
Ness tore after it, lunging, catching a piece of it, tumbling to the grass, skidding, as the ball sailed over the net, whizzed down the baseline, and just caught the inside corner, for match point.
Minutes later, the four men were sitting at a white wooden table under a yellow-and-white umbrella on the terrace bar overlooking the courts, the lake providing a blue backdrop and gentle breeze. They had toweled off but their whites were moist with the game. They drank martinis.
"You play an interesting game, Mr. Ness," Easton said. He had a warm white smile and cold blue eyes. His face was deeply grooved, his features sharp; his flesh was a golden brown nearly as rich as he was.
"So do you, Mr. Easton," Ness said.
"Yours is a thoughtful, almost scientific approach," Easton said reflectively. "But you aren't afraid to take risks-to put yourself on the line."
"Or my wardrobe," Ness said wryly, gesturing to the stripe of green he'd added to his white short pants when he'd slid across the court going after that last point.
Mayor Burton sipped his martini. "It's nice to get away from the office for a few hours. I appreciate the invitation, gentlemen."
"So do I," Ness said, smiling, but behind the smile was apprehension. He knew that in some way this silver cloud had to have a gray lining. Tennis or not, this was a business meeting, a meeting called by one of the most important men in the city. In the state.
In the nation.
Cyril Easton had arrived in Cleveland from Canada with his Baptist minister father back in 1901; the intelligent teenager had favorably impressed one of the elder Easton's congregation in the Euclid Avenue Baptist church: a certain John D. Rockefeller. Under that wealthy wing, young Easton flourished, supervising and expanding Rockefeller's utilities interests; later, when Rockefeller associates formed a syndicate to send Easton on a Canadian utilities venture, only to pull out in the panic of '07, Easton found Canadian backers and began building a personal fortune.
By the late twenties Easton's utilities holdings rivaled Samuel Insull's; he controlled Goodyear Tire and Rubber, and merged and purchased his way into control of Republic Steel. He was said to be worth one hundred million in 1929.
Before the crash, that is-after which he was left with a mere one hundred grand. Unlike Samuel Insull, however, whose fall included disgrace and imprisonment, Easton had slowly but shrewdly built his investment banking firm into the front ranks of international investment speculators. Among his many successes was financing the giant Fisher Body works here, providing thousands of jobs for Clevelanders.
While he no longer controlled Republic Steel, Easton remained on the board of directors. Which meant that the shadow of the Corrigan-McKinney strike fell across this white table on this sunny day.
No less significant was the presence of Frank Darby, who'd been general manager of the May Company since 1905, after making a success of the store's first shoe department. It had been Darby who convinced David May to live up to the company slogan "Watch Us Grow" by constructing a $2.5 million facility. That eight-story structure seemed less imposing today, in 1937, but the May Company, with its many locations nationwide, was flourishing even in this depression.
"I understand things are quiet out at Corrigan-McKinney today," Darby said.
"Knock on wood," Ness said. He had a drink of the cool martini. Sailboats dotted the lake, swaying lazily.
"You were in a difficult position," Darby said. "I for one think you handled yourself well."
"Neither the unions nor Republic had kind words for me in the press," Ness said. "But I can live with that."
Easton smiled thinly. "That's an interesting political view."
Burton laughed shortly. "I'm afraid none of Eliot's views are particularly political."
"Do you agree with his approach?" Easton asked the mayor.
The mayor hesitated, but his answer was what Ness had hoped it would be: "Yes. It's not the city's job to take sides in these matters. My director of public safety has taken steps to preserve the safety of the public-the very definition of his job."
Easton swirled his martini, the olive in which stared up at Easton like a single green-and-red eye. "There are those who think Mr. Ness takes too soft a position where the labor problem is concerned. There are those who feel that strikes are criminal activities and should be handled accordingly."
"Mr. Easton," Ness said softly, but with an edge, "the law of the land backs the rights of these workers to organize, and to go on strike."
"The New Deal," Easton said, with a faint tone of derision. "Unmitigated, unconstitutional horseshit."
"Perhaps," Ness said. "But as of now, collective bargaining is something that Republic Steel and industry in general are going to have to live with. And company goons, hired to beat, maim, and kill strikers, are engaging in some 'unmitigated, unconstitutional horseshit' themselves, wouldn't you say, sir?"
Easton smiled briefly, plucked the olive from the drink and popped it in his mouth. He chewed, swallowed, and said, "Mr. Ness, you do have a point. And this 'peace zone' you've established has unquestionably cooled the situation down. It's just that… well. There are those who think a firmer hand would have a longer lasting effect."
Burton winced.
"Mr. Easton," Ness said, "with all due respect, those who were shot down in the Memorial Day Massacre and at Massillon are enjoying the lasting effect of being dead."
Easton's face was a humorless mask. "Mr. Ness, communism is a serious problem. It's not a problem a man in your chair ought to ignore."
Ness sat up straight. "Mr. Easton, the first thing a company like yours does when organized labor rears its head is brand any and all strikes, any and all unions, a communist plot. Next, they fund armed vigilante and citizens' committees as part of 'back-to-work' movements to break strikes."
Easton was frowning; Burton fidgeting; Darby listening.
"I won't be manipulated or intimidated or paid off into using my department as a goon squad for some steel company. Nor will I be shamed by unions into being their bodyguards."
"Eliot," Darby said, gesturing with an open hand, "I sympathize with your views, but the reality is that individuals in this city who have supported Mayor Burton-and have supported you-expect certain considerations."
Burton winced again.
"They won't get them," Ness said flatly. "I'm prepared to turn over the key to my boathouse, and resign from both country clubs where I've been given memberships, and resign from the various associations, and-"
"Eliot," Burton said, putting a hand on Ness's arm. "Please. No one is suggesting anything untoward here."
Easton motioned to a waiter for another martini and said, "Hal is right, Mr. Ness. I'm merely passing certain sentiments along to you.. for your information. For your consideration. Your well-known conscience and integrity I would never compromise. They're your stock-in-trade, after all."
The sarcasm of that, gentle and lingering as the breeze off the lake, was not lost on Ness. But he said nothing. He drank his martini; ordered another.
"I felt you should be aware," Easton said, "that there are those who feel that the strikers are keeping the plant closed via violence and intimidation… and, perhaps, violence in retaliation is the only logical response. For the good of the community."
Clouds were sliding across the sun; the afternoon was suddenly darker, cooler, at least for the moment.
Ness shook his head wearily and said, "Mr. Easton. Sir. Provoking violence-escalating the violence that's already there-will not scare the workers into line. In reality, every beating administered in the name of the company wins converts to unionism. You can get a great education from a nightstick or tear gas."
"Frankly, Mr. Ness," Easton said sadly, "I'm surprised to find you taking the side of the unionists."
"That's just it: I'm not taking their side. Or yours."
"What side are you taking, then?"
"Cleveland's."
Darby smiled tentatively. "Cyril-I don't think that's such a bad side for the Director of Public Safety to take."
Easton toasted Ness with a martini glass. "Match point, Mr. Ness."
"Eliot," Darby said, "speaking for the Chamber of Commerce, we aren't interested in seeing the Department of Public Safety used as a vehicle for 'union-busting.'"
"Nor am I," Easton said, not entirely convincingly.
"But," Darby went on, "we do expect you to pursue criminal labor activity."
Easton nodded vigorously. "There are gangster-dominated unions operating in this city that demand your attention."
"We refer specifically," Darby said, "to the situation as regards the glass workers and carpenters."
Ness shrugged and nodded. "Caldwell and McFate," he said.
James "Big Jim" Caldwell, vice-president of the Carpenters District Council and bargaining agent for the Glass Workers Union, and James "Little Jim" McFate, president of the Builders District Council, held sway over thousands of Cleveland laborers.
"Those two are racketeers, plain and simple," Ness said. "No question of that, gentleman. No argument from me on that point."
"Anyone wishing to build in Cleveland," Darby said, leaning over, speaking in hushed tones, "has to pay tribute to those two racketeers, as you accurately describe them. It's extortion; a protection racket like something out of… out of…"
"Chicago," Ness offered, with a smile.
"Exactly," Darby said.
Easton leaned forward, his eyes tightening. "I'm concerned about these small-time hoodlums for one reason: they are costing our city dearly. We are the sixth largest city in these United States, Mr. Ness
… but we're ranked sixtieth in building starts."
"The word has spread, nationwide," said Darby. "Cleveland is too expensive a place to build-in terms of the blackmail these 'union' representatives will inevitably demand."
Burton lifted an eyebrow and said, "Several major chain stores, in just the last six months, have abandoned plans to build here."
"Scared off," Darby said glumly, shaking his head. "And not just because of the money involved. These are violent men. Gangsters."
"Gentlemen," Ness said. "None of this is news to me…"
"Then why," Easton asked tersely, "haven't you done anything about it?"
Ness looked at the financier coldly, saying, "I have been in office roughly a year and a half. During that time I have been engaged, primarily, in launching and personally supervising perhaps the largest investigation into police corruption in the history of this country. The number of successful prosecutions my office has-"
"My apologies," Easton said, raising a hand. "Your record is nothing if not impressive. And, too, I know you've been engaged, of late, in investigating these awful 'butcher' slayings."
Ness nodded and said, "The so-called Mad Butcher of Kingsbury Run is thought by some to be dead and by others merely to be… on hiatus. But I've been instructed, by Mayor Burton, to put my energies elsewhere. Right now, gentlemen, you should be relieved to know, I'm directing an undercover investigation into a labor racketeering case, which we're on the brink of cracking."
"Good," Darby said, pleased. "Good." The sun was out again, reflecting off Darby's pink skull.
Ness took a sip of martini, casually. "And our next target will be Big Jim and Little Jim. I can promise you that."
Easton smiled and nodded. "Very good." He, too, seemed pleased; placated, even.
"But I must tell you," Ness said firmly, looking directly at the Chamber of Commerce president, "that until one of your own steps forward to testify against Caldwell and McFate, I'm fighting an uphill battle."
Darby's eyes narrowed; part of it was the sun, part of it wasn't. "Eliot, these men are unscrupulous… they're dangerous."
"Yes they are. But you can't ask me to stop them, on the one hand, while on the other continuing to give into their various shakedown demands for the sake of expedience."
"That's not fair," Darby said. "The May Company has never-"
"I didn't mean you specifically, Frank. But the victimized members of the Chamber who are complaining to you, privately, need to complain to me, publicly."
Darby was sobered by that; he nodded, saying, "I'll see what I can do."
"I realize what I'm asking," Ness said. "Both Caldwell and McFate are entrenched in the community. Hell, Caldwell lives right here in Bratenahl! Moved to an expensive house out here couple years back. He's a neighbor of the very people he's exploiting. Some of them accept him as a necessary evil. He's a friendly enough fellow, when he isn't threatening you or busting up you or your property."
"He is at that," Darby said, with quiet frustration.
"I understand your problem," Ness said. "Behind the smiles and hail-fellows-well-met, these men are thugs, no doubt of it. They use violent vandalism as their lever."
"The sound of breaking glass," said Easton dryly, "has become a common one in this city,"
"And when glass breaks," the mayor said, just as dryly, "it has to be replaced."
Which was where Big Jim Caldwell's Glass Workers Union came in.
"In the past eighteen months, gentlemen," Ness said darkly, "ten thousand plate-glass windows in Cleveland have been shattered-some by bricks… others by gunfire."
Leaving them with that statistic to ponder, Ness rose, declining another martini. He had work to do. An undercover investigation to look after. The McKinney-Corrigan stalemate to check up on.
Burton seemed relieved the meeting was over. Darby seemed pleased with Ness's anti-labor rackets pledge. Easton, Ness couldn't read. Shaking hands all around, racket tucked under his arm, Ness headed across the terrace lawn for the dressing room. As he did, he made note of another Lake Shore club member.
Sitting at a table, playing cards with several local businessmen, was a stocky, jovial man wearing a pastel yellow sport shirt and a smug expression.
Laying his cards down, the smug, jovial man said, "Gin."
And the others threw their cards in, smiling, shaking their heads, muttering about what a lucky bastard their friend was.
Like Eliot Ness, Big Jim Caldwell had won a game this afternoon.