“If you didn’t do anything, Eddie, you’ve got nothing to be afraid of, and you’ll be back out in time to make your shift tonight.”
“Pat, what the hell is this?” Sullivan demanded.
“Police business, Mr. Sullivan. If he’s okay, he’ll get back out soon. I’ll see to that.”
They went out quickly with the handcuffed man, to the mutters and stares of the barroom and Sullivan, who went right to the telephone as they left.
They marched up the street to their car, and Sanderson started to cry, saying, “The bosses better not see me, I can’t lose this job.”
In the car, roaring back down Main Street to the station, Constantino asked Sanderson about three different men whose names Pat recognized from gambling circles downtown.
Sanderson spoke about one, then another, but only where he had seen them, not what they were doing.
Looking in the rearview mirror, Constantino glanced at Brogan, then focused on Sanderson. “You could be in for a while, Eddie. Might miss your shift tonight if you’re not telling the truth.”
“Look, Lou . . . Lieutenant, I been staying away from those guys . . . Look, I heard about a couple of guys stashing stolen stuff with a guy. I can find out about that. Would that help?”
“Who?”
“Some guy who works at the zoo, that’s all I know, now.”
“How soon will you know?”
“Tomorrow, next day at the latest.”
“We’ll have to see, Eddie. Got to check and see if you’ve been a good boy while you’re out. Call your parole officer, see if you’ve been seeing him regular. Probably wouldn’t be good if I told him you were drunk at . . . hmmmm,” he said, glancing at his watch, “a little before ten in the morning.”
“I’ll find out, I promise. If I lose this job . . .”
“It all depends on you, Eddie,” said Constantino, as they pulled into the basement of the headquarters building.
As they led Eddie up the stairs, Constantino said to Pat, “Put him in a holding cell, tell the turnkey we’re holding him for a possible parole violation, and I’ll meet you upstairs in the office.” He went out of the stairwell, leaving Pat to get the frightened parolee to a holding cell. While Brogan took Eddie to the cages, the lieutenant went to the inspector’s office.
“Well?” the commander inquired.
“He did it. I don’t think he liked it much, but he did it, right
in front of his dad’s buddy. We picked up a guy there, Eddie Sanderson. Small time burglar a ways back. He might have something. I figure we’ll let him sit a couple of hours, then let him out to see what he can turn up. He’s plenty scared, boss.”
“A little bonus there, good. Keep Brogan working hard, show him the ropes. If you think we can trust him after a couple of weeks, we’ll use him.”
CHAPTER 26
THE EAST SIDE, 1950
Johnny had the glass top off, one of the bumpers replaced and the rubber bands back on, but couldn’t get the pinball machine bumper to respond. “Shit,” he muttered, thinking he was going to have to find the broken connection and solder it. There were about seven people at the bar, and five of them were watching him at the table as he tried to get the pinball to work. Every minute he took to fix the damn thing was costing him money.
Johnny stopped, lit a cigarette, and took a moment to regroup. “I’ll have it goin’ pronto, guys, don’t worry,” he assured the players.
One of the two guys not watching him was an old fella looking out the window, and the other was a big guy with a beard, talking to the bartender in a foreign accent. The bartender kept wiping down glasses, saying, “Uh, huh,” every so often while the foreign guy emphasized his points by jabbing his finger on the bar.
Hmm, Johnny thought, sounds kind of like a Polish accent, but it’s not. Russian, maybe. Then, taking a deep drag of his cigarette, he flicked the ashes into the ashtray, tucked the cigarette in the corner of his mouth, where the smoke wouldn’t drift into his eyes, and went back to work, looking for the short with his voltmeter.
The bartender picked up the tray of glasses, said a final “Uh, huh” to the foreigner, and walked down the bar to put them away. His audience lost, the bearded man turned towards the old fella at the window, but found himself looking at his back. Spinning on his stool, he looked down the bar and saw everyone else watching Johnny work on the pinball machine. Getting up, he put his hands in his pockets and walked the length of the bar, looking down at Johnny and smiling.
Oh, no, thought Johnny, another know-it-all sidewalk supervisor.
“American electronics are the second best in the world,” the big man said, raising his index finger.
“I suppose they make it better in Moscow there, eh, Ivan?”
The beard shook firmly in disagreement. “No. Certainly not. The Russians make garbage. But the Germans, now, they make the best . . .”
“Hey,” Johnny said to the bar, “Am I mistaken or didn’t we just kick the Nazis’ ass?”
Nods of assent and muttered confirmations came from the bar.
Looking up at the big man, Johnny continued, “Now, you’re gonna tell me how to find the short in this machine, right, Ivan?”
The big man removed his glasses and leaned over to peer closely at the opened pinball machine. “Hmmm, this is very interesting,” he said, looking it over. “I would check there first,” pointing where the wires were attached to the thumper bumper coil where Johnny was about to apply the tester’s prong.
He did, and it was bad. Taking out the iron and a roll of solder, Johnny put a couple of drops on the end of the iron when it got hot, then put more on the wires, fusing it to the coil. That got the bumper working again, and the big guy was practically dancing with joy.
“Whaddya, playing pocket pool, there, Ivan?” Johnny said, sliding the glass into place and watching the foreigner bounce on his toes with his hands in his pockets.
“I know about electricity and machines,” he replied, then spreading his hands out wide, “I can fix radios. Sometimes I even fix Mr. Ciminelli’s jukebox here.”
Johnny looked over at the bartender, who shrugged and nodded. “Yeah, one time it broke, we couldn’t find you, so Mickey gave him the keys. He opened it up and had it runnin’ in no time,” the bartender said.
“Huh,” Johnny said. “Where’d you learn all this, Ivan?”
In a low voice, he replied, “In the army.”
“Whose army? Joe Stalin’s?”
Quieter still, “Yes, 138th Signal Battalion. I was a radioman. The Russian radios were shit, and I had to fix them every day.”
Looking
