“No, sir.”
“Good. Go out there and see Lieutenant Constantino. He’s your new boss; he’ll break you in right. I run a tight ship, Brogan, and we’re crushing them out there. If you work hard, got smarts, and stay as clean as a hound’s tooth, you stay. Got it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now get to work and do what the lieutenant tells you.”
Pat spun on his heel military fashion, and left the room. Closing the door quietly, he looked around the room for Constantino. A beefy, short man, he was sitting at his desk, looking at Brogan, his brown eyes boring holes into him. The plate on his desk read, Detective Lieutenant Louis Constantino in smaller-than-usual letters, so it would all fit.
Constantino half-rose from his chair and shook hands with Brogan, then sat back down and pointed to a corner over Brogan’s shoulder. “That’s your desk, over there, Brogan, but you won’t get much of a chance to sit at it. Those two desks belong to Dudek and Dowd, the other two guys on this squad. They were out working last night, raided a crap game going on in a hotel room on Michigan. Nabbed ten players, money, dice, the whole bit. By themselves.
“This morning, we’re gonna pay a visit to see if a bar owner is still following the law like he said he would. You know the Golden Dollar, down by the Courier? Well, that’s where we’re going, see if he’s rigged his pinball machines.” The lieutenant quickly pulled on a black suit coat and fixed a buff-colored fedora with a black band on his head, shaping the brim, back up, front down over one eye, with a quick motion of both hands.
For a short guy, Constantino moved pretty quickly, like a bowling ball picking up speed going down the alley, always moving forward, even when he had to turn his broad shoulders to get past people. Brogan followed him down to the basement garage, where they hopped into an old Ford that had been painted from a patrol car. The marks where the decals had been still showed through the maroon paint. He waved to the guard at the door and accelerated up Franklin.
“Not using Main?” Pat asked, wondering why they weren’t taking the most direct route.
“Nah, old habit. Everybody spots this car a mile away. We’ll park it on Edward and walk up. Good drill for both of us. You know Sullivan, guy who owns this joint?”
“My pop does pretty good. He helped get my brother a job at the Courier. I met him a few times,” Pat said, remembering the kitchen conferences between his dad and others, including an old friend named Sullivan, to find a place for Tim when he’d gotten out of the sanitarium.
Out of the car, Constantino picked up even more speed so that even the much taller Brogan had a hard time keeping up. He pushed through the silver metal art deco door, and Pat recognized several of Timmy’s co-workers at the bar—printers, ink stained men, some with paper hats still on, who went to the bar for breakfast and booze at the end of their night shift. Constantino went right to the back room and spotted the machines—a jukebox, a cigarette machine, and two pinball games, the latter with players on them, and a couple of others watching and waiting to get on, too.
“Police inspection. Lemme see these games, boys,” Constantino said, loud enough for everyone in the place to hear. Pushing past the pinball players, Lou flexed his knees slightly and pulled the solid wood and metal machine away from the wall. Taking a screwdriver out of his pocket, he removed the wooden back to the pinball game and placed it against the wall. He then pulled out a flashlight and looked into the inner mechanism of the game, inside the backboard.
“Good,” he said, as Sullivan, an older man in a brown, buttoned sweater and glasses came up. “Nothing in this game to rig it, Mr. Sullivan. Now, let’s check the other one,” Constantino said. He went on to repeat what he did to the first machine, leaving the first one disassembled, as Brogan stood back where he could watch everyone in the place.
“Lou,” Sullivan said quietly, “Why are you doing this? You know I don’t go for that gambling horseshit,” he pleaded, looking from one policeman to the next, showing surprise at seeing Joe Brogan’s son there.
“If you’ve got nothing to hide, Sullivan, then you shouldn’t mind me checking. Okay, this one looks okay, too,” he said, putting the screwdriver back in his pocket and leaving the machines taken apart.
The old man stood there, hands in his pockets, and watched the detectives go back into the barroom, where Constantino looked over the men at the bar, all but one of whom were watching him. His eyes narrowing, he walked up to the man hunched over his shot and draft beer and said, “Eddie Sanderson, out on parole. You supposed to be drinking when you’re on parole, Eddie?”
“Yeah, it’s okay. As long as I don’t get drunk, my parole officer says I can drink.”
“Well, you look drunk to me Eddie,” pulling him off the stool and shoving him towards Brogan, who grabbed the printer and spun him around, holding him tightly by the biceps.
“I didn’t do nothing, Louie,” Eddie pleaded while everyone muttered and started to shift in place.
“Well, we’ll find out about that, Eddie, and it’s Lieutenant Constantino to you, shitbird.”
Sullivan watched, gritting his teeth. Before he could say anything to protest, Constantino ordered, “Put the cuffs on him, Brogan. He might think he’s a tough guy.”
Brogan hesitated, but thinking about the inspector’s words, and seeing a nod from Constantino, he pulled out his cuffs and put them on Sanderson’s wrists.
“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