Every Man for Himself. Mark J. Hannon

the dealer’s, he pays off everyone’s bet, and the house backs him. No matches, bet again, and keep dealing. Gets real expensive sometimes. Once it gets started, it can go on for days, and once you’re in, you don’t want to leave. Hopefully, Uncle George wasn’t making money, will keep his mouth shut, and I’ll still have a family.”

      During breakfast, they regaled each other by recapping the barroom battle, and glowed when someone recognized them. Someone gave them the final edition of the morning paper, but when they found the article, Lou’s face fell.

      “Police raid gambling den in downtown nightclub,” Pat read. When he saw the picture, he knew why Lou was frowning, for it showed Uncle George being shoved into the paddy wagon and Lou in the background.

      “I’m doomed,” he said, dropping his fork on his plate.

      CHAPTER 30

      THE WEST SIDE, 1951

      The car stopped half a block from the bar on the corner, and the passenger and driver watched the street, and the adjoining parking lot. The passenger was just about to get out of the car’s back seat when the bar’s front door opened, and the light and noise of the revelers poured out into the winter night. The couple closed the door, checked the weather for snow, tugged on their gloves, and walked towards Elmwood. When the sound of their feet crunching in the snow faded from the idling Cadillac, the man in the back seat waited a few moments; then, stepped out of the car.

      “Plan on coming back around three, Stormy, I’m feeling lucky tonight, but call around two on official business anyway, in case I’m not,” the mayor said, winking at the plainclothes officer behind the wheel.

      Pulling out a key, Mayor Joseph Jezerowski walked quickly to a side door of the bar, went inside, and then relocked it behind him. He slowly went up the narrow staircase to the second floor, careful to make as little noise as possible. At the top of the steps, he stopped and listened just before the door. Along with the clinking chips and glasses sounding from within, there were several men’s voices.

      Hmm, he thought, Ed’s here, talking about walking a beat years ago in the snow, means he’s probably losing . . . Ah, Richard’s here; I heard his judicial throat clearing, perhaps to place a bet on a bluff like he always does. There’s Ocky, always keeping track of the cards. Seems happy, everything must be okay in there. The fourth voice he didn’t recognize right off: a younger one. Of course, the young lawyer, Verrone, what is it? Begins with a C. Carl, that’s it. New to the DA’s office; ambitious. Well, kid, let’s see how you play your cards . . .

      Opening the door abruptly, the mayor’s best electoral smile beamed on the four men around the card table. His large, brown eyes lit up as he went around, smiling at each, gripping their hands firmly, welcoming young Carl to the game, and telling him to keep his seat as they shook. He whisked off his black wool overcoat and gray scarf, carefully hanging them in a closet, and came back to sit down at the large round table covered in green felt with poker chips, cards, and tumbler glasses stationed at each man’s place. A tall, broad-shouldered man, with his dark brown hair in a side part, just going gray at the sides, Mayor Joseph “Jazz” Jezerowski took off his double-breasted, blue, pinstriped suit coat, and hung it over a chair set aside for himself, then shot his hands forward out of the French cuffs of his laundered, white shirt as he sat down.

      “Well, boys, how are we doing tonight?” the mayor inquired, grinning around the table. “Ah, I see Ocky seems to have a lot of chips. Don’t let his incessant patter distract you, Carl, he may talk a lot, but his mind is always on the cards. That’s why he’s my right hand man in politics. Your Honor, how about you give me twenty dollars’ worth of chips? I plan to be here for awhile tonight and enjoy myself with you good friends, unless duty calls.”