Every Man for Himself. Mark J. Hannon

exclaimed. “He takes a swing at me, he’s in. Period.”

      “Joe,” Vicigliano whispered, “This guy’s the judge’s cousin, and his favorite bartender besides. He’s just gonna turn him loose.”

      “I don’t give a rat’s knuckle who this son of a bitch thinks he is, he’s goin’ in. And if I gotta stay in court after the end of watch, and miss going to Broderick’s, all these bastards can keep me company, no matter who they know,” McAvoy said, at which his cooler partner shook his head.

      “Okay, I’ll call the wives and tell them the bad news,” Vicigliano said.

      CHAPTER 29

      DOWNTOWN, 1951

      After the midget acrobat was taken to the hospital, and as the paddy wagons loaded up the gamblers and thugs, the owner of the bar arrived and stood screaming on the sidewalk at the shift lieutenant from the Third Precinct, the deputy commissioner, and Inspector Wachter, all of whom had gotten phone calls from both the commissioner and the mayor “to find out what the hell was going on down there on Pearl Street.” They all listened to the business owner’s complaints, politely for awhile, for he was a known financial supporter of the mayor, then, quieted him down when Inspector Wachter started asking about gambling going on in the basement, mentioning that such things could cause trouble with the liquor board, and that newspapers would have a field day hearing about a police raid on the business of a prominent local businessman. In the end, the bar owner went inside to tally up the damages and get his people to clean up, vowing over his shoulder that “the city would pay for everything, down to the last busted shot glass.”

      Pulling up his two raiders, Wachter said, “You guys and the D and D boys get the people in the fight booked properly, sweat the card players for a couple of hours and see what you can get out of them, then, cut them loose. Then, when that’s all done, I want to talk to you in my office.”

      Brogan and Constantino got in the car and headed downtown in silence, but after they turned on Pearl, both men burst out laughing so hard, Lou had to pull the car over.

      “What the hell made you think of tossing the midget?” Constantino roared, gasping.

      “Seemed . . . seemed like a good idea to get patrol’s attention, at the time,” Brogan laughed back. “Those two guys with the knives couldn’t move when they saw that . . . And you should’ve seen the stripper . . . She froze up like a statue,” he bellowed, “And hey,

      where’s your friggin’ hat, Beau Brummel?”

      “Well maybe,” Lou panted, “Maybe I should check their lost and found tomorrow for a new one,” he said, laughing harder.

      The two of them, trying to catch their breath, looked at each other and cracked up again.

      “Great plan boss,” Brogan chuckled, “Ought to teach it at the academy,” he said, going into another laugh spasm. “Write it up and send it to Quantico, so the F.B.I. can learn it . . .”

      “What . . . what the hell are you supposed to do if they don’t have a midget handy?” Lou added, sending them back into fits of laughter.

      When they finally caught their breath and wiped their eyes with their handkerchiefs, Lou pulled back out into traffic, and they continued downtown.

      Brogan gave a low chuckle, and muttered,

      “Zahar.”

      “Huh?”

      “Lieutenant Zahar. I was trying to think of his name a while ago.”

      “Who the hell is he, a midget?”

      They cracked up again, but Pat calmed sooner, remembering the lieutenant who couldn’t get the words out in combat and was blasted by artillery that showered his men with clothes, blood, and entrails.

      “Wachter’s,” Constantino said, still laughing a little, “Gonna kick our asses.”

      “Not for a while. We still gotta get all those bums booked.

      Maybe the brass’ll calm down by then.”

      “Hey, speaking of which, you gotta do a favor for me.”

      “Oh, no, I ain’t getting your uncle out of this one . . .”

      “Nah, I know we can’t do that. But how about this: you call my cousin, Pete; tell him what happened, and he’ll come and get his dad out when we’re done with them. Just leave my name out of it. I’m still gonna have to pay hell with my family, but I can buy a little time this way, at least until he gets out and tells his sister what a no good ratfink cop her son is. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, I’m gonna have to go into hiding after this.”

      XYZ

      After the card players were parked in the drunk tank, the two thugs, the doormen, the guys from the alley, and the bartender were booked; and the knives and a bottle (any one would do) were put in evidence; Lou and Pat went up to the inspector’s office; the only one with lights burning. The smell of coffee came through the door. They both took a deep breath as Lou knocked.

      “Come in.”

      Entering, they saw the inspector reading a report, tie still neatly knotted. Two paper cups of coffee were on his desk and a chair beside it, for someone who had just left. He looked at them over his wire-rimmed glasses. “Sit down.”

      When they had, Wachter stood up and leaned on his desk.

      “No more Wild West stuff, do you understand?” he demanded. “You could’ve gotten killed there, you pair of hot dogs! You need help, wait for the rest of the squad! Got that?”

      In unison, they answered, “Yessir,” both standing at attention.

      “The midget’s boss at the Palace is going nuts. He’s got some cuts and bruises, but they say he’s going to file assault charges, or, his boss is for him, anyway. What are we going to do about that?”

      “He wouldn’t let go of the chair, Inspector,” Pat said, and both detectives covered their mouths to stifle the laughter.

      Wachter stared until they calmed down.

      “No machines found, and that was the point of the whole raid, was it not? Were you smart enough to get the warrant to read

      ‘gambling paraphernalia’ there, Lieutenant?”

      “Yessir,” Constantino replied. “I mentioned verbally to the judge about slots and oneballs, but we put ‘gambling devices and paraphernalia’ in the warrant to cover all the bases.”

      “Good. Score one for Gott’s boy,” Wachter said, referring to Constantino’s old principal at Lafayette High School. “All right. Here’s what we’re going to do now. Get one of these cups of coffee and get out to your desks and write the reports. I’m going to check them before you turn them in. One thing that’s on our side is that you didn’t shoot anybody. Make sure you put in the reports that it was crowded, and you didn’t think it was safe, even though the perpetrators who assaulted you had knives and menaced you with bottles, were engaged in criminal behavior, and out-numbered you. It shows restraint. Got that?”

      “Yessir,” they both said together.

      “All right. I’d heard that bozo had a game going in that joint for years, and you crushed it. No machines, but gambling’s gambling, and that’s what we’re after. It may not have worked as planned, but Constantino, Brogan, good job. Now, get your coffee and get out of here. I’ve got to do some thinking.”

      When they’d closed the door, Lou put a finger to his lips and motioned Pat over to his desk. There, he hurriedly wrote down Fillmore 0717, and the name Peter Lalle.

      Whispering, he said, “Quick, call this number and get hold of this guy. He’s my cousin, my Uncle George’s son. Tell him what happened and to go and get his dad out. He knows his dad likes to play cards, so he’ll keep it quiet, too. Maybe they won’t find out I did it. Whatever you do, keep me