The Big Heat

Chapter 9

Larry Smith stood on Market Street at the corner of Twelfth, smoking a cigarette and smiling at the noise and color and excitement of the Saturday night crowd. He was a solidly built, well-dressed young man of twenty-six, with curly black hair, and a tough, knowing, handsome face.

A stocky seaman in a pea jacket came up alongside him, and said, “Hello, Mr. Smith. Didn’t keep you waiting, I hope.”

“No, I’ve been here just a few minutes,” Larry said, smiling and flipping his cigarette out into the street.

The seaman needed a shave, and looked shaky and hung-over. “I wish you could of seen me last night. Saved me a lousy head, I think.”

“I was busy. Did you have any trouble?”

“Naw, it was simple. I got the stuff from a guy in Livorno who brought it down from Milan. I sailed from Genoa, landed here in Philly night before last. I brought it ashore in a cigar box, with my sewing kit and some letters on top of it. Three pounds of it, Mr. Smith. And now I need dough.”

“I can’t say for sure until I talk to the boss,” Larry said.

“Hell, you told me to get it. Is this a stall? I can sell it to someone else, you know.”

“No, you can’t,” Larry said, still smiling. “You got one customer in town. That’s us. Remember that.”

The seaman shrugged, his face sullen. “Okay, okay,” he said. “You’ll get in touch with me tomorrow?”

“Yeah, I’ll know by then for sure. Where you staying?”

The seaman gave him the name of a hotel on Market Street near the river. He said goodbye and walked off with a rolling gate, hands stuck disconsolately in his pockets.

Larry went briskly down the block to his car, a blue Buick convertible, which was parked under a No Parking sign. He climbed in, grinning at the cop on the corner. The cop grinned back and tossed him a cheerful salute. Lam’ was late, so he stepped on it; the date with Stone was for eight and it was damn near that now. He was picking up Stone at his automobile agency, and then they were going to Stone’s apartment to meet Lagana. Lagana was boiling about something, Stone had said. The Bannion deal, probably. Well, there were always slip-ups. There wouldn’t be another though, by God.

He headed for West Philadelphia, forgetting Bannion, thinking about his new deal. Lagana was against dope, he knew. The old man was worried about the loud-mouth reformers. Larry wasn’t; you always have them around, do-gooders, busy-bodies, their pants in an uproar about slums, garbage collections, colored people being kept out of polling stations, gambling, all the rest of it. They were griped because they were on the outside. Give them a cigar with a bill under the tinfoil and they’d tip their hat and forget the reform stuff pretty fast. Now, he had the dope deal all set. Lagana would have to let him go ahead; the stuff was here, the buyers were lined up, and a steady supply was assured for the future. There was money in it, beautiful permanent money. Guys quit playing the horses if their wives griped enough, but they never quit the dope. The Horse, the boys called it. Larry smiled through the windshield, seeing and liking the reflection of his twelve dollar shirt, his strong teeth, his tough, handsome face. That was one horse they never quit playing, he thought, still smiling.

Max Stone was waiting for him on the sidewalk before his neon-shining, block-long automobile agency, a huge, red-faced man with small, irritable eyes. He was wrapped up in two hundred dollars’ worth of camel’s hair coat, and there was a soft gray fedora on his large, round, balding head. Larry opened the front door and Stone got in beside him, puffing with the effort, and twisted himself into a comfortable position in the leather-covered seat.

“You’re late,” he said. “What the hell kept you?”

“I had to see a guy,” Larry said, releasing the clutch and starting down Walnut Street under a rush of power.

“All right, all right, this ain’t the Indianapolis Speedway,” Stone said. He took out a cigar and fumbled at the wrapper.

“We’re in a hurry, I thought,” Larry said, grinning.

Stone grunted. He lit his cigar with a gold lighter and blew smoke at the windshield. It didn’t taste right, he thought. Stone was a direct, blunt man who liked things he could taste, smell, feel. He liked eating, drinking, wenching, good cars, the track, poker games. He liked Jewish food, especially. Lox and cream cheese, big Kosher pickles, mozza ball soup, sour red cabbage, pastrami, cheese cake. He gave that to the Jews; they knew how to feed themselves. But his stomach was going back on him: food like that burned him up, and a night of drinking left him feeling like holy hell for a couple of days. He’d be on toast and milk pretty soon, he thought, watching the store fronts flash past, and a pedestrian leap back to the curb, his face disappearing behind them in an angry frightened blur.

“Damn it, slow up,” he said. His temper, always near the breaking point lately, suddenly snapped. “Do what I tell you,” he shouted.

“Okay, okay,” Larry said.

“Well, that’s better,” Stone said.

“What’s Lagana want?” Larry asked, as he slowed down in the traffic approaching the Schuylkill river.

“He’s bitched-off about the Bannion business,” Stone said. “You’d better let me do the talking tonight.”

“I can do my own talking,” Larry said. “What’d he want me to do? Knock him off with a fly swatter?”

“Damned if I know,” Stone said. “The thing is, you didn’t do the job, with or without a fly swatter. Let’s wait until we talk to him.” He put the cigar back in his mouth, frowning. Stone wasn’t used to reflection; he preferred action. But he knew there was something wrong, something queer in the city. There was a feeling, a groundswell, and he didn’t like it, didn’t understand it, and it made him mad. Things were out of line; a cop or two, a few magistrates, even some of the big boys at the Hall. Stone thought it was time to slap down, and hard; but Lagana said no, and he meant it. Maybe the boss knew what he was doing, and maybe he was just getting old.

Larry parked on Walnut Street before Stone’s tall, gray apartment building. He left the keys in the ignition and told the doorman to park the car. Stone walked into the quiet, carpeted lobby, moving characteristically, fast, staring straight ahead, his head and shoulders inclined forward as if he were advancing to meet an enemy. He had the top two apartments in the building, the seven-room penthouse for business and entertaining, the space below for living quarters. The management was pleased with the arrangement; Stone’s parties in the penthouse were insulated from the rest of the building. He was a valuable tenant; the management realized that when they got their tax bills from the city.

Stone and Larry took the elevator to the penthouse. Alex, Stone’s cook-valet, a middle aged man with a nervous smile, let them in and took their coats and hats.

“I’m having a poker game tonight,” Stone told him, smoothing down his thinning hair. “We got plenty to drink?”

“Yes, there’s plenty.”

“Well, see that there’s French Cognac. Judge McGraw is coming and he won’t drink nothing else. You got money?”

Alex said no, smiling nervously.

Stone swore and gave him a bill. “You’d think I was feeding an army the way I pour dough into this joint,” he said to Larry. He strolled into the big living room, annoyed with himself, and pointlessly angry at everything else. He wore a tan gabardine suit, with a white shirt and a red tie. The clothes were expensive, but their effect was ruined by his pot belly, and hulky, rounded shoulders. He looked hot, rumpled and irritable. “Well, let’s have a drink,” he said. He glanced at his watch, and his eyes, imbedded in pouches of flesh, glinted with annoyance. “Mike’s late. We break our tails getting here, so he’s late.”

“What’ll it be?” Larry said.

“Scotch and plain water. Make it a double. I guess I need a lift.” Stone walked to the French windows that opened on a terrace and stared down at the curving, shining river, and at the lines of traffic on Chestnut and Walnut streets. This was his city, he thought moodily. He could close his fist and make it squirm. What the hell was wrong? It must be this lousy cigar, he thought, turning away from the window. The room was large, warm, softly lighted. It was expensively furnished, with the best rugs, chairs, sofas, and tables on the market; but there wasn’t a personal touch in it. Stone liked it that way. His idea of class was a suite in a good hotel. The decorator had wanted to put in monk’s cloth drapes, low, round coffee tables, modem furniture, and even wall murals. One of the murals was to have been a city skyline with a top-hatted chorus line kicking their legs in front of it. Stone rubbed his balding head and looked around the room. Once a guy got money everybody tried to take him for a chump, he thought.

Larry brought him the drink. Stone took a long, appreciative swallow. That was more like it. He needed to relax, have some fun. To hell with worrying. What was there to worry about, anyway?

“That you, Max?” a high voice called from the other end of the apartment.

“Yeah, Larry’s with me,” he said.

A girl came in from the dining room, smiled at Larry, and kissed Max on the cheek. He put an arm around her waist. “What’ve you been doing all day?” he said.

“I shopped a little. Bought some shoes.”

Stone put a hand to his forehead in mock alarm. “A little shopping! I know what that means, Debby.”

“What a man,” Debby said. She grinned at Larry, who shook his head sympathetically. “How about a drink?” she said, patting Stone’s cheek. “Can you afford that?”

“Sure. Fix her a drink, Larry.”

Debby was a strikingly attractive blonde of twenty-seven or twenty-eight, with a healthy, blooming complexion, the softly rounded forehead of a baby, and serene blue eyes. She owned and took excellent care of a tall, spectacular body; her waistline was almost tiny enough for Stone to encircle with his big hands, and her legs were those of a dancer, long, slim, beautifully muscled.

Stone sipped his drink and watched her with a small, unguarded smile. Something about her got to him, made him feel oddly unsure of himself and shaky. She was wearing a gold lame hostess gown that matched her hair perfectly, and high-heeled golden sandals on her feet.

“Thanks, pal,” she said, smiling, and taking the drink from Larry. Debby’s disposition was one of her major charms. She was always in good spirits, happy and pleased with life, and, as she put it, without the time to be tired or moody. Debby was no fool; she had worked for ten years before meeting Stone, as a maid, a waitress, a bar hostess, a dancer and model. Those jobs were tough and demanding. You got up early, earned your money, and it wasn’t much, and went to bed dead-tired. It was a never-won battle against room rents, runs in stockings, making old clothes last and scrimping for a good hat twice a year. It was being nice to guys, but not too nice, and still getting in trouble in spite of your promises to yourself, and then having the bastards run out on you. Stack that up against living with Stone, and it was small wonder that she was happy. She had him right where she wanted him too. He thought he was a big man when he was with her, and that was a feeling he couldn’t buy anywhere else for all his money. Stone was an old man who still had to think he was about nineteen in bed. He didn’t understand himself or know what he needed, and she wouldn’t tell him; but the knowledge put her in the saddle.

The buzzer sounded and Stone went to the door. Lagana came in, neatly dressed as always, and behind him his shadow, the big man called Gordon. Lagana unbuttoned his black, Chesterfield coat and rubbed his hands together briskly. He glanced around, smiling at Debby and Larry. “Well, how’s everyone tonight?” he said. “Rather cold, isn’t it?” He wore a banker’s gray suit, and a conservative tie. His shoes were polished but not to a high gloss and the handkerchief in his breast pocket had been folded in a square so that no points showed, except for his eyes, he might have been taken for a prosperous druggist. Gordon drifted over to the fireplace and stood there, nodding to Larry. He was a big, awkward man who gave the impression he could move fast, if it became necessary.

“I’m sorry to be late,” Lagana said. He smiled, his teeth white under the narrow black mustache. “My daughter was going out formal, if you can believe it, and she wanted me to wait and put the final okay on her dress. I told her it didn’t matter what I thought — just impress that young football player who’s paying for the corsage and dance bid.” He smiled at Debby. “Was that good advice, would you say?”

“Sometimes the old man means more than these football players,” Debby said. She knew Lagana was a sucker for his kids. “They come and go but the old man is there for keeps.”

Lagana smiled, looking pleased.

Stone finished his drink and gave Larry the glass. “Fix me another, will you?” he said. Lagana’s talk about his family made him irritable for some reason. The boss sounded like a damn queer, he thought. “Take off your coat,” he said to him. “How about a drink?”

“No thanks, Max. I can only stay a minute. Some friends are coming over tonight, and I have to be home. Just people in the block, but I’m stuck as host.”

God, are we respectable, Stone thought, taking his drink from Larry. “Well, let’s get this wound up then,” he said. “Debby, go downstairs and see there’s plenty of food in. Some characters are coming in for poker.” He nodded at her to get going. “Some hot corned beef would be a good idea.”

“Okay, I’ll tell Alex to send out for some,” she said. She smiled and sauntered from the room.

Lagana put his hands in his suitcoat pockets and turned to Larry. “Well, you messed up that Bannion job nicely,” he said, in a tone that matched his eyes. “Got it smeared all over the papers, and didn’t get your man. Nice work, Larry.”

Color came into Larry’s face. “There won’t be any more slipups,” he said. “I thought the first arrangement was sure-fire. We cased it for a week, and Bannion put the car away every night. I—”

“It was stupidly handled from the start,” Lagana said. “You should begin to use your head. A bomb in a car points right at us, gives the papers a perfect excuse to squawk. Hell, maybe you should get in the advertising business ”

“Next time it will be nice and quiet,” Larry said, trying to keep the anger from his voice.

“No, you’re out of it,” Lagana said. “Max, did you get a man?”

“Yeah, a guy from Chicago. He’s flying in, gets here tonight. I understand he’s good,” Stone said, looking at his drink.

“What do you mean I’m out of it?” Larry said.

“Well, what do you think I mean?” Lagana said, glancing at him sharply. “You’re out of it, that’s all. You leave Bannion alone. Max has got an out-of-town man to handle it.”

Larry glanced at Stone, feeling cheaply used. “You might’ve told me, Max,” he said.

Stone laughed at Larry’s sullen expression. He liked Larry, and knew he was smart and tough; but he was cocky and it wouldn’t hurt to knock him down a peg. “Bannion is out of your class, I guess,” he said. “We need an old-timer to handle him.”

“He’s just another stupid cop,” Larry said.

“You’ve got things to learn,” Lagana said. “Bannion’s not stupid. He was on our neck fast enough on that job Big Burrows did.” He glanced at Stone. “And that’s another thing. That was a stupid job, too. I gave you these two things to handle because the boys in Central and Northeast have got real trouble. And you loused them both up. This isn’t Nineteen Twenty. Tossing that babe out on the pike was just another bit of unwelcome advertising.” He turned to Larry. “You know what Bannion’s been doing, I suppose? He’s checking to find out who made that bomb.”

Larry smiled slightly. “Sure I know about it,” he said. “He’s tramping all over the city, wearing out his big, flat feet. And it won’t do him one damn bit of good.”

“You’re sure?”

“The guy who made it is dead. He was a lunger. I called him to tell him to get out of town when I heard what Bannion was doing, but the people he stayed with told me he was sick, was on his way to the hospital.” Larry grinned. “So I crossed my fingers and called the hospital a couple of hours later. They told me he’d died.”

“Well, that’s one break,” Lagana said. “I want you both to understand this; everything has to be quiet until elections. I don’t want one damn thing in the papers. The Bannion deal is the only exception. Got that, Max?”

Stone nodded and sipped his drink.

Lagana buttoned his overcoat and glanced at his watch. “Well, I’ve got to get going,” he said.

“By the way, there’s something I wanted to talk to you about,” Larry said.

“Yes?”

Larry told him about the seaman he’d met, and of the man’s contacts in Italy, and that he had been able to bring in three pounds of heroin. “It’s first rate stuff, all set to distribute,” he said, unable to keep the excitement from his voice.

Lagana stared at him in silence, his eyes cold and expressionless. Then he said: “Okay, you buy it from him, Larry. With your money. Then you wrap it up with a brick and throw it in the river. Tomorrow! Got that?”

“But, hell—”

“Goddamnit, you seem to be getting dumber instead of smarter,” Lagana cut in angrily. “There isn’t going to be even one ounce of dope in this town. Get that through your thick head.” He paced the floor, his thin face white with rage. “I don’t like discussions, I don’t like having to tell you things twice. I tell you once, and that’s all. Do you understand?”

“Sure, sure, I understand,” Larry said, swallowing hard.

Stone nodded and sipped his drink. This was more like it, like the old days. The boss was tough enough and smart enough to handle anything.

Lagana frowned slightly and looked from Larry to Stone. “Things are changing in this country,” he said, in a quieter voice. “A man who doesn’t see that hasn’t got eyes. Kefauver didn’t do us any good. But it’s been building before that. The people are sick of us. We ran things the way we wanted to for a good long time. Dope, prostitution, gambling, political machines in our back pocket, we had the money, with strength to laugh at anyone in our way. But it’s changed, I tell you. And if these coming elections go against our friends, we may not be able to make friends with the new crowd. With an honest ticket, which they’ve got, I’m sorry to say, we’ll have Cranston to worry about the day after the elections.”

“Cranston?” Larry shrugged. “The old snow-top in the Hall? What’s special about him?”

“That old man is trouble,” Lagana said. “Remember that. You’ll stay out of jail longer if you do.” He looked at Larry speculatively shaking his head. “You’re not getting this, I see,” he said. “Well, like they do with kids in school, I’m going to tell you a little story. Try to get the point. Once upon a time,” Lagana said dryly, “there was a guy in New York w-ho ran the toughest union in the city. He was a friend of mine. This was in twenty-five. And then, being president of a big union in New York was like being the Democratic Candidate in Alabama. You were in. My friend Pete was a big man in local politics. His men made up the toughest union this country ever saw, and they breathed when Pete told ‘em to. Pete was a king of the speaks. He had a manager and five waiters at his table, and nobody else in the joint got served until Pete was happy. He lapped it up like a thirsty cat.”

Lagana put a cigarette in his mouth, and turned his head to find the match Gordon struck for him. “Thanks. Well, one night Pete had a big party and he saw a man across the room getting just as much attention as he was getting. This burned Pete up; he yelled for the manager to find out who it was. The manager told him it was Legs Diamond. You’ve heard the name?” Lagana said to Larry.

“Yeah, sure,” Larry said, annoyed at the sarcasm. “So what happened?”

“Well, Pete stamped over to Diamond’s table. They tell me you’re ‘Legs Diamond,’ he says. Diamond looked up at him and said, ‘So what if I am?’ Well, Pete was a fancy dresser and he wore diamond clips on his garters. So he put a foot on Diamond’s table, rolled up his trousers and then, being a jerk, said to Diamond, ‘If you’re such a rough one, try and shoot one of them clips off!’ Diamond took a thirty-eight from under his arm and shot a hole through Pete’s leg. Then he said, ‘Get away from my table, lush, or I’ll put the next one in your head.’ ” Lagana smiled. “That’s all there was to it.”

“Well, what happened next?” Larry said.

“Nothing happened, not one damn thing,” Lagana said softly. “And that, if you’ve got the brains to see it, is the point of the story. Pete was carried out, and Legs Diamond went on with his dinner. Legs was a bigger man in New York than the boss of New York’s biggest and toughest union. The cops heard about it, and looked the other way. That was the kind of weight we used to have; but it’s gone, gone forever, Larry. Now we try to look as respectable as possible, and keep out of the papers. Do you get what I’m telling you, Larry.”

“I get the point,” Larry said, casually.

“Okay, buy that dope from your friend, with your money, and throw it into the river. Got that? And don’t ever touch that racket again in this town.” He studied Larry, frowning slightly, his eyes as expressionless as cold little globes of glass. “You should be grateful the old days are gone,” he said. “Then you wouldn’t have got off with a little bed-time story about Legs Diamond. Keep that in mind. Come on, Gordon, we’re late.”

Lagana nodded to Stone and walked out the door.

When he was gone, when they heard the elevator whining in descent, Larry shrugged and made himself a drink. He glanced at Stone. “Well, what do you think of that?” he said.

“I think you’d better throw that dope in the river,” Stone said, rubbing his bald head. Suddenly, he felt in excellent spirits. “Damn, I’m hungry,” he said.