Night Extra

He was a living Alger story; a hard-fisted old man who had begun life in the slums of Belfast, and was now one of the most important men in his adopted community. He had sent four sons to college, and a daughter to Europe to study music at world famous conservatories. He gave impressive sums to local charities, and his name was on the letterheads of a dozen prominent institutions in the city. He had come a long way, but he had fought for every foot of it, Terrell knew. He was a rugged old man, who asked no quarter, and gave none; he had made enemies on his way to power, but he was fond of saying he wouldn’t give a damn for a man without enemies.

“Yes? Who’s this?” It was Bridewell’s voice, high, sharp and irritable. “Terrell? With the paper?”

“That’s right, Mr. Bridewell. Sam Terrell. I’m doing a piece on the Parking Authority, and I’ve come across a point or two I’d like to check with you.”

“I’ll save you some time, Terrell. The Parking Authority won’t give me a contract — they prefer dealing with fly-by-nights. I use the wrong kind of bath soap, or I don’t vote right. I’ve said all this a dozen times, and it’s all on the record.”

“I want to ask you about Bell Wreckers and Acme Construction — the firms who do the Authority jobs.”

“Well, they’re not my outfits, so all I know is what I read in the papers. They get the jobs, we don’t.”

“Do you know the men who own these companies?”

“You’d better go down to the Hall and ask that question, son, They must know. But they never told me. I’ve got work to do now. Good-bye.” The receiver clicked in Terrell’s ear.

Terrell smiled and put his phone back in place. For another fifteen minutes he sat at his desk, staring out at the activity and tension that radiated from the city desk and the copy wheel. There was only one way to get the information he wanted; he had to make a deal. In time he might smoke it out by patient, dogged leg work. But there wasn’t that time. He had to gamble now. He was the only person Paddy Coglan had told the full truth to. That should be something to bargain with. He picked up the phone and called Superintendent Duggan’s office. When he got through to Duggan, he said, “This is Terrell. I’ve got something you might be able to use and I need some help. Can we make a trade?”

Duggan hesitated a few seconds; Terrell could hear his soft, heavy breathing. Then he said, “What do you want?”

“Supposing you meet me at the north annex to the Hall?” Terrell said. “We can talk it over.”

“In about five minutes?”

“Fine.”

Terrell collected his notes on the Authority and put them into his pocket. Then he put on his hat and coat and went to meet Duggan.

The Superintendent was waiting for him at the north annex, his face ruddy but rather anxious under the gold-embossed peak of his cap. They fell into step and walked toward Seventeenth Street, moving at a leisurely pace through the crowded mall.

“Do we trade even?” Terrell said. “I help you, then you help me?”

“Let’s try it.”

Terrell put a cigarette in his mouth, hesitating; Karsh’s words had come back to him: “You know about that gorilla... if that gets around you’ll become a lousy insurance risk.” Could he trust Duggan? That was the gamble. He said, “I talked to Paddy Coglan over in Beach City.”

Duggan stared at him. “The day he shot himself?”

“That’s right. He described the man he saw running out of Caldwell’s house. That’s the description I used in my column. The man I described was in town huddling with Ike Cellars a few days before he murdered Eden Myles.”

They walked along in silence for a block or so, and Terrell saw that the frown on Duggan’s face was growing deeper by the second. “Okay, Sam,” he said at last. “That puts it up to me, doesn’t it? I either act like a cop or an ostrich now.”

“What’s it going to be?”

“I don’t know... I don’t know.” Duggan’s voice was weary and dispirited. “I’ll tell you something. Fighting for what’s right has got to be a habit with me. You know what I mean? You can’t stop and check all the angles before you start swinging. You do or you don’t — that’s all. Maybe I’ve been checking the angles too long.”

“You’re going to find out at least,” Terrell said. “Now it’s my turn. Who owns Bell Wreckers and Acme Construction Company?”

“That should be on record some place.”

“The owners of the records are dummies,” Terrell said. “I want to know who they’re fronting for.”

“I can put some pressure on,” Duggan said. “Some of them probably have records going back to the Volstead Act. I’ll get the information.”

“I need it by tonight. Can I call you at home?”

“That soon, eh? Well, I’ll do my best. Around eight?”

“Eight o’clock it is. So long now.”