The Big Heat

Chapter 5

Bannion sat at his desk for an hour writing his report on Lucy Carroway, trying to calm himself with routine. This wasn’t the first time he’d been jerked off a case; but it never happened in so raw and naked a fashion. Lucy Carroway’s death had caused a rumble in the city. The heat was on, the fix was in, call it what you like. Bannion had been nosing around something safe and protected, ignoring the No Trespassing signs, and so to hell with honest police work, to hell with a murdered girl, keep away from it, Bannion. He couldn’t guess why; but he knew who had to clout to stop an investigation cold. Stone, maybe Lagana, himself. They were the big boys, the men with the big fists. But why? Why, in God’s name? Why were they tightening the grip on behalf of Biggie Burrows, a two-bit mug from Detroit?

Bannion finished the report and put it in an envelope marked for Wilks. He knew it was a waste of time. This report was going to get so badly lost it would take bloodhounds to find it. He told Neely he’d be upstairs in Inspector Cranston’s office if anyone wanted him, and started for the door. Carmody and Katz were playing cards, Burke was looking at a paper, and the room was quiet. Their faces were overly casual as they watched Bannion leave, and they said nothing when he had gone. They knew their big sergeant had been butting in where he wasn’t wanted and had got his hand slapped. The news travelled by what might seem like telepathy to an outsider; no one talked about it or discussed it, but the word seeped and spread through the department. Everyone knew Bannion had been looking for Biggie Burrows; and they knew, again telepathically, that at this particular moment there was a mile-high No Trespassing sign around Biggie Burrows. They didn’t talk about these signs, they walked around them, ignored them, saved their energy for other jobs.

Bannion took one of the slow, bird-cage elevators up to the fifth floor, and walked along the wide high corridor past the Press Room, the now-empty Center-City Magistrate’s court, and turned into Cranston’s office.

Cranston was nominally in charge of all police functions in the Hall, responsible for records, filing-systems, radio and communications. It was a do-nothing job, a sunshine detail, a good spot for a drone or a trouble-maker. Cranston was no drone. He was all cop, in the’ best sense of the word, a tough, erect old man with hard, wind-roughened features, thick white hair, and very clear, very direct blue eyes. Cranston was in the Hall, on a sunshine detail, because he caused too much trouble when he was out in the city. As a beat cop he had become a legend by breaking up gambling parties in the Republican and Democratic ward clubs, and on one occasion had hauled in a top political boss and two Magistrates who had told him to go away and mind his own business. At the hearing, a joke of an affair since no Magistrate was going to commit a political leader and two brother Magistrates on a gambling charge, Cranston was treated as if he were on trial. His testimony, his eyewitness evidence was smiled at, and his stupidity frowned on; but he hadn’t been intimidated. Asked why he had arrested the men, a silly question since the charge was on paper at the Magistrate’s elbow, Cranston had snapped: “They were breaking the law!” The papers had liked that reply and played up Cranston as a curiosity, if not as a hero, who rather surprisingly arrested law-breakers regardless of their political connections. Successive administrations hadn’t been able to ignore Cranston. He was too tough, too smart, too respected. He forced his way up, never compromising his own rigid standards. As a Captain he ran a clean district, as an Inspector, in West, he had chased Max Stone back to Center City, and as Acting Superintendent, a job he’d held only two weeks, he closed every gambling joint in the city, prepared indictments against Stone, and Lagana himself, and ran practically every gambler, pool-seller, and numbers writer across the river into Jersey. This was a little strong so Cranston went back to Inspector, and was assigned the sunshine detail in the Hall, where all he could do was ride herd on the paper work of the department.

He was at his clean, uncluttered desk, glancing through a police manual, when Bannion came in. “Hello, Dave,” he said, smiling his brief, warm smile. “Don’t tell me Homicide needs an old man’s advice.”

“Homicide’s okay, but I’m not,” Bannion said.

“What’s the trouble?”

Bannion told him of the leads he had on Burrows, all of it, and that Wilks had jerked him off the case. “So, I’m mad,” he said. “I’d like to turn in my badge and tell them inelegantly what they can do with it.”

“So?” Cranston said. He fired up his pipe carefully. Then he said, “That’s a decision a man must make for himself, Dave. Personally, I’ve stuck it out because a good cop can help the city. If things should change, I might be able to help still more. That’s my choice. You’ve got to make your own. But I’ll tell you one thing; if the situation in this town changes lots of people may have their eye on you.” He smiled slightly. “They’re willing to forget that you went to Notre Dame instead of Penn, Dave. Eventually, in fifty or sixty years, they may even forget that you made All-America there by knocking the daylights out of Eastern teams.” He nodded, not smiling any more, and his old face was tough and hard. “They forget a lot in favor of an honest man, remember that.”

Bannion shrugged. “I don’t like working with the hope that someday things may change,” he said. “That doesn’t help me now. I don’t like compromising, I don’t like—”

“Hold on a minute. I’ve never compromised. I’ve done the job until they made me stop. Then I waited until I could tackle it again. Someday they won’t stop me, they won’t be able to, and that’s the day I’m praying for.”

“That’s the future again,” Bannion said.

“Okay, let’s forget the future. Let’s look at the present. This deal of yours is sour. Deery kills himself. Start there. His wife says he was in bad health, the late Lucy Carroway says the opposite. Now if that’s all there was, I’d be inclined to trust the wife. I’d write Lucy off as mistaken, over-emotional, or a liar. But she got killed after talking to you, and possibly by a mug working for Max Stone. That brings the thieves into it, and the picture changes.” He smiled without humor. “I enjoy calling ‘em thieves, you know. That’s all they are. They’d rather think of themselves as racketmen, gangsters, mobsters, but they’re just thieves to me. Well, anyway. You get a lead on Burrows, and then get taken off the job. Maybe somebody goosed Wilks. Maybe he did it on his own. So why are they worried about Biggie Burrows and Lucy Carroway? Why was she killed? Was it because she came to you with a story about Deery’s health?”

Bannion shrugged. “I’ve got no answers.”

“Well, we’re back to Deery. Was that on the level? No chance he might have been bumped off?”

“No, that was on the level.”

“And that is where things get screwy,” Cranston said, shaking the stem of his pipe at Bannion. “Well, what are you going to do now?”

“I’ll stick along,” Bannion said. “I want to see the end of this business.”

Cranston came to the door with him and patted his shoulder. “Remember this, Dave. Like they say about the British, or used to anyway, the people lose all the battles but the last one. Believe me, it works that way.”

“Let’s hope so,” Bannion said. “Thanks, Inspector.”

“Drop in anytime.”

He met Jerry Furnham in the corridor. The reporter walked along with him toward the elevators.

“Everything quiet?” Furnham said.

“Nothing doing at all.”

“Good. How about the Carroway girl?”

“That’s a county job, Jerry.”

“Yeah, but she voted locally,” Furnham said. He smiled and looked sideways at Bannion. “That’s why we’re interested. The Express feels awful when a reader gets killed. We don’t have that many to spare, you know.” They stopped at the elevators and stood there a few seconds in silence. Furnham was no longer smiling. It was raining again, the water sluicing down the dirty windows of the Hall, blackening the gray walls of the building.

“I thought you were working on this end of it,” Furnham said. “You off it?”

“Yes, I’m off it.”

“Who’s working on it?”

“You might ask Wilks.”

Furnham pursed his lips. “That’s an idea,” he said mildly. There was now a hard but patient line around his mouth. He took out his cigarettes. “Smoke, Dave?”

“No thanks.”

“Dave, the sex-fiend theory looks to me like a cover-up,” he said.

“You’re going to play detective now, eh?”

“What the hell are you sore about?” Furnham said. “I’ve played ball with you, Dave. Now something stinks. I want to know about it. I know the start. I know about Biggie Burrows, for one thing. But I’m still curious, and I don’t like being treated like a dummy.”

“You don’t, eh?” Bannion said. He stared at Furnham, suddenly transferring to him the anger he felt for Wilks. “Then why don’t you stop acting like one, Jerry? This is work for the police department, not newsboys.”

Furnham looked at him for a moment, and his face was white under the blue smudge of his whiskers. “Okay, Dave, if that’s the way you want it,” he said. He turned and walked back along the corridor to the Press Room, his heels striking the floor angrily.

Bannion felt sick of himself, sick of the lying and fencing. He took a deep breath. “Jerry,” he said.

Furnham stopped, turned around. Bannion walked to meet him, rubbing his forehead slowly with one big hand. “I wish you’d forget that, Jerry,” he said.

“Oh, sure, just like that,” Furnham said. He snapped his fingers. “Nothing to it, Bannion.”

“I mean it. I’ve got no right talking to you that way. Forget it, will you?”

“Okay, consider it forgotten, Dave,” he said, in a different voice. “Is that all you wanted to tell me?”

Bannion hesitated. “No, there’s a little more. I had a good lead on Biggie Burrows. I think he’s the man who picked up Lucy Carroway and murdered her. However, I just got that far before the case was taken out of my hands. Wilks has it now, and is going to give it to someone on Heineman’s shift. That answer your questions?”

“Like hell he’s giving it to Heineman’s shift,” Furnham said. He was smiling now, an odd little smile. “I talked to Wilks twenty minutes ago, Dave. This may interest you, by the way. Lieutenant Wilks said there was nothing to the angle you were working on that—” Furnham looked upwards expressively. “That, in short, it had gone up in the air. The stories don’t fit together, do they?”

“Well, they’re a little off at the edges,” Bannion said dryly.

Furnham rubbed his hands. “Were you talking to me off the record?”

“Hell, no.” Bannion snapped the words before he realized what he was saying. He was sick of cop-politics, of flinching when the big fists tightened their grip. “Do what you want with it, Jerry. You asked some questions, I answered them.”

“You know, you sound a little like—” Furnham stopped and shrugged. “Well, be that as it may. Thanks, Dave. I’ll see you around.” He turned and walked quickly toward the Press Room.

Bannion went back and rang again for the elevator. He had missed a car by talking to Furnham, he realized. Too bad, too bad. It always cost you something to be honest, he thought, smiling faintly...

Furnham didn’t use it as a news story because it wasn’t one. He turned it over to the paper’s political columnist, and it ran the next day, a sharp sarcastic item about certain differences of opinions in the Homicide Bureau. The difference stemmed, the writer hinted, from a clash over the amount of deference that should be extended to the city’s hoodlums. They should be deferred to, of course; the argument was one of degree rather than kind. The Carroway murder was mentioned, and it was broadly suggested that a very likely suspect, a Detroit specimen, had practically been given a police escort out of town. The solution of the Carroway murder was held to be a highly dubious prospect so long as police investigations were hindered by political and hoodlum pressure.

It was a very strong piece of writing, stronger than the facts actually deserved, and it caused an uneasy rumble from top to bottom in the police department. Reformers come and go and are seldom noticed or missed. They shout their do-gooding strictures at women’s clubs, at Boy Scout meetings, and once, in a very great while, they succeed in having a pool room closed, an extra traffic officer assigned to a school crossing, a known gambler arrested.

But a newspaper on a reform-binge is an altogether different matter. Papers know how to fight. They have seasoned men covering water boards, courts, police and fire departments, men who know all the nasty little secrets, who are, in short, an alert, intelligent, spy ring strategically circling the city. And the papers have a voice far louder than the do-gooder speaking at the women’s clubs. It was the fear that those two things would be joined up, that the Express’s blast indicated a reform drive, that caused the rumble in the department.

Wilks raised hell about it, striding up and down his office, opening all the stops on his parade ground voice, but to Bannion the performance lacked the ring of honest anger. Underneath the bluster, the desk-pounding, the well-practised glare, there was something hollow and anxious, something very much like fear.

“What business did you have giving him the story?” Wilks demanded for about the fifth time.

“Well, that was a mistake,” Bannion said easily. “But what’s everyone so excited for?”

“We don’t want police problems aired in the papers,” Wilks said. He paced the floor, glaring at Bannion. “You know that, for God’s sake.”

“Yes, but there’s no problem really,” Bannion said, in the same mild voice. “I wrote a report on what I’d learned on a case and passed it along to you. You said you were going to give it to someone on Heineman’s shift.” Bannion shrugged. “That’s what I told Furnham. But he said you’d told him I was on a bum lead, that there was nothing to it. That’s the point of confusion. Did you tell him that?”

“He misunderstood me, goddamnit,” Wilks said. He smiled quickly and the effort put a white ring around his lips. “Dave, did you ever know one of those newsboys to get two consecutive facts down accurately?”

“They make a lot of mistakes, sure,” Bannion said. He knew Wilks was lying, and it depressed him; the whole business was a stupid farce.

“But we’re off the point,” Wilks said. “You gave him the idea we’re trying to cover up something here.”

“Well, are we?” Bannion said. He was angry and disgusted, ready to force a moment of truth from Wilks. It would be better if they cut out this charade and spoke their minds.

“Of course not,” Wilks said, slapping the desk with his hand. “What excuse do you have for letting him think we do?”

“Maybe I was just mad,” Bannion said.

“You say ‘maybe.’ Were you, or not?”

“Yes, I was damn mad,” Bannion said. “I was mad because I was getting closer to who killed Lucy Carroway, and that seemed to annoy someone.”

Wilks looked steadily at Bannion. The silence between them lengthened, became oppressive. Finally, he said, “Let’s don’t be childish, Dave. You’ve got your orders, I’ve got mine. We do what we’re told, and to hell with being mad, happy, bored or anything else. Let’s don’t have any more confusion on that point.”

“I wasn’t confused,” Bannion said. “I was mad.”

“Okay, okay, be mad,” Wilks said in a fast, hard voice. “Be as mad as you want. Be mad at home, or in some pool room, but not around here. Things are run certain ways in this world, remember that. And they’re run by certain people. You’ve always been above practical politics, haven’t you? Well, that’s a nice, high and mighty attitude, but it’s unrealistic as hell.” Wilks was pacing the floor, pounding one hand into the other with savage emphasis, and there was something in his face that surprised Bannion; it was a curious blend of envy and hate. “You read books about what life is like,” he said, looking down at Bannion. “Well, get smart and throw them away. Look around you and you can see what it’s like. It’s not wrong or right, it’s just the way things are. You’ll learn that someday, Bannion. You see that you have to play ball, make compromises.”

“Well, that’s possible,” Bannion said, after a slight pause.

“Damn it, we’re not in Kindergarten any more,” Wilks said, in a more reasonable voice. He sat down at his desk and studied Bannion with a small smile. “Remember what I told you: we both have our orders. Do you understand that?”

“Sure, I understand it.”

“Well—” Wilks hesitated, and his face softened. “Well, that’s all, I guess.”

“I’ll get back to work, then.”

Outside Neely and Carmody were discussing the Express story, but they stopped talking when Bannion came out of Wilks’ office. There was a strange little silence, a drawn-out interval of tension, and then Neely cleared his throat and said, “Well, we’re getting famous here in Homicide, Dave. Who snooped out the story, do you know?”

“It was Furnham,” Bannion said.

“Well, I’m damned.”

“You can’t trust any of them,” Carmody said.

Burke came in around the counter smiling, smelling of whiskey and cloves, his face flushed with the cold. “I’m glad my talents were overlooked and I stayed a simple old detective,” he said, winking at Bannion. “That way you keep out of the papers.”

“It was Furnham’s story,” Neely said.

“Damn them, they’re always at some keyhole,” Carmody said. “Why in hell do we let ‘em in here, anyway? What good do newspapers do? They just print stuff to cause trouble?”

“They shouldn’t cover police at all, if you ask me,” Neely said.

Bannion listened to the talk, frowning slightly. He didn’t know where Burke stood; he suspected Burke had brains. But Neely and Carmody, and too many other cops, would stand solidly against Furnham, and in back of Wilks. The names didn’t matter; it was the principle of sticking together, of rejecting criticism, of presenting a solid front to reports, to do-gooders, to any probing of sore spots in the department. The sore spot might be a cancer, but that made no difference. But a No Trespassing sign around it; that was the way to handle cancer. Cops leaned to the strength, whether they were part of it or not, leaned toward men like Lagana and Stone, who could apply the big pressure. Most cops weren’t crooks, but they had to keep a respectful eye on certain big crooks. That’s the way things were.

Bannion grinned slightly. “I gave Furnham the story,” he said. “He just passed it along.”

There was another little silence. Neely and Carmody looked at him, digesting this, and then they both shrugged. Carmody picked up a paper and Neely turned back to his desk. Bannion could almost feel the wall of indifference they put up to him; they wanted no part of this, thanks all to hell. He was acting queerly, ignoring some basic cop-rules, and they wanted no part of it, thanks again.

Burke came over and sat on Bannion’s desk. He grinned, his eyes thoughtful. “You know, Dave, I thought it was a nice little story. Had good suspense. Makes you wonder what’s going to happen next.”

“Yes, I guess it did,” Bannion said, slowly. He drummed his fingers on the desk. “Let’s get a cup of coffee, okay?”

“Sure, Dave.”

Brigid, his four-year-old, dark-haired daughter, was playing blocks on the living-room floor when Bannion got home late that afternoon. She wanted no hug or kiss or stalls, just some help in finishing her castle. “Okay, okay, Bossy,” Bannion said, and dropped his hat and coat on the sofa. He tried to add a block to the archway, but she pushed his hand aside, and said firmly, “No, you just watch, Daddy.”

Kate came in smiling. “There’s my big man,” she said, kissing him on top of the head. She wore a fancy apron over one of her good dresses. “Company?” he said, patting her on the ankle.

“Yes, Al and Marg are coming over for dinner. You’d better take a shower and get a drink ready.”

“Okay,” Bannion said. He didn’t feel very much like company. Even Al and Marg. Marg was Kate’s sister, Al her brother-in-law. They were nice people, but he didn’t feel like seeing any kind of people.

“What’s the matter with you?” Kate said.

“Nothing, I guess. I’ll be okay.”

“No, no, talk to me, not Mommy,” Brigid said.

“All right,” Bannion said, ruffling her hair.

“Dave, is anything wrong?” Kate said. “You’ve seemed down the last few days.”

“Oh, it’s nothing serious.”

“Is it a case?”

“I told you it’s nothing.”

“Well, you’d better use another tone if you expect me to believe you,” Kate said.

“Okay, I’ll bring home an affidavit tomorrow night,” Bannion said, with an edge to his voice. He stared at the castle Brigid was building. It looked like City Hall, he thought. He sighed and glanced at Kate. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“That’s okay. I wish you’d tell me, though, if something is worrying you.”

“It’s just a general let-down. That’s an occupational disease with cops, I guess. This is one of the bad moments. Something came up this past week, and I feel like—” He hesitated, forgetting what he meant to say, but feeling a strong sudden anger flowing through him as he thought of Lucy Carroway. Slowly, unaware of what he was doing, he raised his big fist and smashed it down on Brigid’s castle, on the tiny jumble of blocks that had reminded him of City Hall. “That’s what I feel like doing,” he said bitterly.

Brigid began to weep. She scrambled to her feet and ran to her mother. “It was a mistake, Daddy made a mistake,” Kate said, patting her gently. She raised her eyebrows at Bannion.

“I’m sorry, Bidge,” Bannion said. He rubbed his forehead, feeling silly. “There was a fly on the castle and I tried to hit it.”

“There was not a fly,” Brigid sobbed.

Fortunately the phone rang. Kate scooped the baby up, and said, “Oh, let’s see who’s calling us.” Brigid stopped crying. “Can I talk?” she said.

“Sure, of course,” Kate said, and hurried out of the room.

Bannion got up and loosened his tie. He was thinking about making himself a drink when Kate came back to the room.

“It’s for you.” She still carried Brigid.

“Who is it?”

“—I don’t know.”

Bannion glanced at her, puzzled by her tone. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing at all,” she said, but her face was white.

Bannion walked back to the living room and picked up the phone. “This is Dave Bannion,” he said.

“Bannion, the big man from Homicide, eh?” The voice was low, smooth, amused.

“Okay, what is it?”

“You’re off the Carroway job, I understand,” the voice went on, smooth, liquid, a current of amusement running under it. “Is that the right dope?”

There was no point in asking who was calling. Bannion said, “Keep talking.”

“Sure, sure, big man. Well, since you’re off the case it might be a good idea to keep your big, large mouth shut about it. Understand? It’s a simple word. Shut. Remember it. If you forget—”

Bannion slammed the phone down. In the living room Kate was on her knees gathering Brigid’s blocks.

“What did he say to you?” Bannion said.

“He asked for you, and then he said—” Kate looked up at him and shrugged. “You can fill in the four-letter words, I guess.”

Bannion pounded his big fist into the palm of his hand and walked up and down the room, his anger growing swiftly, dangerously. Finally he stopped and scooped up his hat and coat.

“I’ll try to be back for dinner, baby,” he said.

Kate looked at him and knew better than to ask questions. “Don’t be late, if you can help it, Dave. Don’t spoil our party.”

“It won’t be our party that’s spoiled, baby,” he said, and walked out.