But he'd made one mistake. After he handed over the graft report to Cullitan, he took a week's vacation at a lodge in the woods on the lake, courtesy of one of his slush-fund angels. And during that week, he left his assistant, John Flynt, in charge.
Since Heller's phone taps hadn't come up with anything against Flynt, and since Flynt had been minding the store effectively while Ness was away conducting field investigations, the young safety director had thought he could get away with leaving the department in Flynt's hands. In that week, however, Flynt leapt like a hungry dog on the job's patronage opportunities and began appointing fire wardens left and right, with the apparent guidance of councilmen like Fink, and without seeking the approval of, or even informing, Chief Grainger.
What had really torn it, though, were Flynt's efforts in Cooper's favor. The acting safety director had immediately put through the paperwork on Cooper's retirement.
Ness, who'd been without a phone during his vacation, immediately put the brakes on the retirement upon his return, and called Flynt into his office.
Flynt stood like a man waiting for the firing squad to have at him, and proud of it.
Ness took aim. "What in the hell was the idea of putting Cooper's retirement through? You're well aware I turned him down."
"I believe you're wasting the taxpayers' money. I object to Cooper being brought to trial."
"On what grounds, for God's sake?"
"On the grounds that the evidence is such that he won't be convicted, and this office will be embarrassed."
"I see. You figure any jury is bound to take a cop's word over that of bootleggers."
"Yes, I do."
"Well, I tell you what, Mr. Flynt. I realize gambling in this city is more or less illegal, but as two gentlemen of the old school, what say we have a little wager?"
"A wager?"
"If Cooper is found guilty, you'll resign."
Flynt's smile under the twitchy little mustache was smug. "And if he's found innocent, you will resign?"
"No," Ness said, smiling blandly. "You just won't have to."
Flynt lifted an eyebrow. "And if I don't care to wager?"
"Then I'll fire you right now. I'd like to see you go to the Civil Service Commission for help, after all the shit you've given them."
Flynt swallowed dryly. "I accept the wager."
"We needn't shake on it. I promise that if the outcome of the trial is such that you must resign, I won't embarrass you in front of the press. You've contributed to the department's efficiency and morale. I'll say so publicly."
"Then why do you want my resignation?"
"We just don't think alike, Mr. Flynt. You're too damn political."
Flynt smiled. "And you're not? The next weekend you spend at some industrialist's lodge, or some quiet evening at Alexander Wynston's boathouse, why don't you ponder your own political debts?"
And John Flynt had left, in a fleeting moment of victory.
Fleeting, because now, as Ness sat in the courtroom of the Criminal Court Building, the foreman of the jury was pronouncing John S. Cooper guilty on seven counts of bribery.
The courtroom sat in stunned silence, briefly, then a murmuring moved like a tide across the gallery, until the judge had to bang his gavel to stem it.
Judge Day announced he would sentence Cooper on Saturday. Each of the counts of bribery carried a penitentiary term of one to ten years. Ness figured some of them would be served concurrently, however; he estimated this particular judge, an honest one, would hit Cooper with a good twenty years.
As the packed courtroom slowly emptied, Ness went forward to shake hands and trade smiles with Cullitan and his assistant McAndrew.
"That little tome you dropped on my desk," Cullitan said, referring to the graft report, "is going to keep me looking at the inside of this courtroom for a long, long time. Thanks for a fine piece of work, Eliot."
"Thanks for putting Cooper away. He has a little place in history, now-the first cop in Cleveland ever to be tried on bribery charges."
"Hardly the last," McAndrew said.
"That's right," Ness said. "I think, with your help, gentlemen, we're going to have a police department in Cleveland again."
He thanked the prosecutor, whose hand he shook a second time, and moved up the aisle, feeling good, smiling, but his smile froze as he saw the attractive woman in the simple blue dress with a white collar, her blonde hair brushing her shoulders. She had lingered, keeping her seat, and only now stood, moving out into the aisle to block his way.
"Thank you, Eliot," Gwen said, through her pretty teeth. "Thanks for nothing."
"Is that what we had? Nothing?"
"Nothing. We had nothing."
"I'd like to think we had something. I'd like to think you were more to me than just your father's daughter."
Her upper lip curled. Her dark blue eyes were hard and cold and wet. "How would you like our little affair to go public? I don't think even your newspaper pals could resist gossip this juicy-the safety director's dalliance with the daughter of the convicted crooked cop. It has a sweet ring, doesn't it?"
"It's a little late for blackmail, isn't it?"
"It's never too late for revenge."
"Revenge isn't my style, Gwen. Only time will tell if it's yours."
He walked around her and away from her, on up the aisle, his smile gone.
Sam Wild was waiting for him in the hall outside.
"I see the captain's daughter waited to have a word with you," Wild said.
"If you'd wanted a juicy story, you could've hung around and eavesdropped."
They walked.
"Can you still see," Wild asked, "after having your eyes scratched out?"
"I don't blame her for being bitter."
"Don't give me that! After what she did to you-"
"What did she do to me?"
"Well. That's between you and her, I guess."
"Right."
Their footsteps echoed.
"Don't you figure her father put her up to getting next to you?"
"I don't honestly know."
"Don't you care, Eliot?"
"I care. But I don't know. And Gwen's one mystery I'm not about to investigate any further." "I care. But I don't know. And Gwen's one mystery I'm not about to investigate any further."
The sun was shining on the skyline of Cleveland this May afternoon in 1936, as Eliot Ness and Sam Wild walked to Mickey's, a hole-in-the-wall bar on Short Vincent Avenue. The safety director drank straight Scotch, and the reporter drank bourbon. By the time a wobbly Wild escorted a quite drunk director of public safety to a room in the Hollenden to sleep it off, darkness had once again fallen.