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  Jimbo Bracken dug up his contact file, picked up the phone and rang the Flood agency’s number. Agnes Wilkins, who had nothing much to do when both father and son were out of the office, put down her copy of Silver Screen magazine, deposited her gum on the blotter and answered.

  She was only mildly discomfited when Bracken grated that this was the police calling and he wanted to see both Floods right away. Pronto. “All our operatives are out on assignment,” she said. “May I take a message?”

  Bracken spat out a thin laugh composed of equal parts frustration and sarcasm. “Operatives! You’ve only got two of them, missy. Tell your Mr. Sam and your young Thomas that their presence will be required here at the Hall if I don’t have a palaver with them toot de sweet.” Jimbo Bracken enjoyed harassing the hired help. When he hung up, he felt better.

  Agnes Wilkins was used to being barked at, but the fact the police were interested in both father and son awakened a mild sense of foreboding. She made sure she copied down the gist of Lieutenant Bracken’s message so she could leave memos if either Flood came in after she went home. Then she retrieved her gum and returned to the gossipy article about Mae West and her boyfriends.

  *

  After more than a week on the Bridges assignment, Sam and T.J. held a powwow to sift through the significant progress they had made. The meeting was in Sam’s office early in the evening.

  They had arrived from separate directions just in time to be alerted by a homeward-bound Agnes about Jimbo Bracken’s renewed interest in Flood and Flood. Her last chore before heading out the office door was to phone the Hall of Justice and leave a message for the lieutenant that Mr. Sam Flood and his partner would be pleased to submit to an interview at eight o’clock that night.

  “Gives us about two hours before Bracken arrives,” Sam said, reaching for his pipe. T.J., who thought it would have been nice to have this discussion over dinner, stilled his hunger pangs by lighting an Old Gold.

  “I’ve got a fairly solid connection, but let’s start at the beginning,” Sam said. “Just to make sure we don’t overlook anything.”

  So they went over the background first. According to the cable the agency had received from Down Under, Bridges was indeed an Australian. He was born in Melbourne on July 28, 1901, and his real name was Alfred Renton Bridges. His father was a slum landlord and Alfie as a lad was forced to collect rents from the poor. This he disliked intensely and gravitated in time toward the socialist philosophy expressed by two of his uncles.

  “That’s about it from Australia,” Sam said. “Not much to pin a revolutionary label on. The newspaper morgue didn’t help much. Some clips about him trying to form an independent union back in the twenties, and that waterfront showdown last year. He’s apparently in the country legally, having paid the head tax of eight dollars here in San Francisco in 1920, I’m informed.” Sam looked up at T.J. “You told me on the phone he was married?”

  “Yep. It was all in the Western Worker. My new pal, Pete McNully, wrote what they call a feature on him a few months back.” T.J. flipped through his notes. “Sailed up and down the coast for a couple of years. Started being called ‘Harry’ about this time, God knows why. Arrested briefly in New Orleans during a labor dispute there. Went into longshoring here in town in ‘22. Married in 1925. Lots of labor agitation. Hooked up with the Marine Workers’ Industrial Union in ‘32.”

  “That’s the primary Communist connection,” Sam said, “and it obviously predates the nonsense going on at the docks right now.”

  “McNully admits to carrying a Party card. He says Bridges’ two enforcers, Spelts and Ring, are Communists, too. But not ol’ Harry, he says.”

  “There’s another one of the union’s brain trust who’s a Red, too,” Sam said. “Name’s Hank Schmidt. In fact, I’m convinced he runs the local cell.” Sam then described his visits to the Party’s Jackson Street address and the two trips he’d made to the Workers’ School at 121 Haight. Sam wasn’t quite sure what the school taught. Revolutionary theory, perhaps, or How To Be An Effective Radical. More practically, he said, the school was the main distribution center for Communist literature. He’d even helped out, loading cartons of pamphlets onto the back of a small truck. Got a thirty-cent meal voucher as a reward for an afternoon of honest socialist toil.

  “Did you use it?” T.J. asked, thinking of his growling stomach.

  “Indeed I did. Went to a café on Market with that albino fellow, Eric. Had Yankee pot roast, apple pie and a glass of buttermilk. Eric was pressing me pretty hard to take out a card, which is why I’m going to have to back away. They’re sure to smell a rat pretty soon.”

  “Did you see Bridges there, or on Jackson?” T.J. asked.

  “I did better than that. I saw the four of them — Bridges, Ring, Schmidt and Spelts — having a meeting at the Haight Street building. And guess what I heard Harry Bridges say.”

  T.J. drew on his cigarette and waited. He knew this was what his old man had hinted at when their meeting started, and that the question was rhetorical.

  “‘We Communists have to stick together.’ His exact words.”

  “Not as good as a picture of Harry with his arm around Joe Stalin, but not bad, not bad,” T.J. said.

  ‘Yes, we have the quote, we have proximity, we have him consorting, at the least, with known Communists. It’s enough to take to our client, I think.”

  “Give me a couple of more days,” T.J. suggested. “I want to work on McNully a bit more. The kid looks up to me for some reason. If I can get him to talk Bridges into giving me an interview, maybe I can get him to admit something.”

  Sam nodded. “Two days, then, before I go back to Twait. Anything else?”

  “Yes. You can save this one for Mr. Humbert Twait. My sources say the Industrial Association secretly offered Bridges a fifty-thousand-dollar bribe to drop his demand for control of the hiring hall. He turned them down flat.”

  Chapter 9

  T.J. Flood spread the night’s repast on the desk in front of him. He had corned beef on pumpernickel, a container of potato salad and a kosher dill pickle. They were all obtained from the deli around the corner. T.J. had even promoted a bottle of two-per-cent beer to go with his impromptu meal.

  His father had refused to order anything, when T.J. had suggested he nip downstairs while they were waiting for the law to arrive. And when T.J. returned, Sam banished him to his own office.

  T.J. was just finishing up and regretting he had not included a slab of cheesecake when he heard sounds of entry from the corridor door. These were followed by the distinctive voice of James T. Bracken. “Well, well, a quiet night at Flood and Flood, by the looks of it. No bodies on the floor this time, I see. Where are you, Mr. Sam Flood? We’ve gotta get a few things straightened out.”

  By the time T.J. had swept the remains of his meal into the waste basket, jammed his cloth cap on his head and repaired to his father’s office, the lieutenant was planted in one of the chairs and lighting the stub of a cigar. T.J. took the other chair and pulled out his Old Golds. Sam navigated his own chair backwards and made sure the window was open several inches. He didn’t mind overloading his office with cigarette and pipe smoke, but Bracken’s cigars were nasty things.

  “If you pardon me, gents, you both look like Flood and Flood has fallen on hard times,” Bracken said. “Especially you, Samuel. If I had come across you on a street corner in that getup, I’d have you arrested for vagrancy.”

  “Private business. Private detective business,” Sam said. He started filling his pipe. “We’re on a case that requires me to look a little, ah, impecunious.”

  “Well, let’s forget about your private business and start jawing about the public business. The boys found The Greek floating face-down in China Basin this morning. He was as dead as Benny the Bundle.”

  Sam and T.J. exchanged glances of genuine surprise. Although not entirely unexpected, this was news to them. Unwelcome news, too, when one stopped to think about it.

&
nbsp; “Hadn’t heard, eh?” Bracken continued. “Well, it’s probably in the bulldog editions tonight. Unless the pair of you had something to do with it and are playing dumb.”

  “C’mon, lieutenant, we don’t even know The Greek,” T.J. said. Which was close enough to the truth that the younger Flood’s indignation was more natural than faked. “Just because Benny worked for him, that doesn’t mean you can bust in here, trying to pin something on us.”

  “I’ll bust in wherever I want, laddie, when there’s a homicide involved,” Bracken snarled.

  “Thomas, calm down,” Sam said. “You, too, lieutenant. I assume from your remarks that The Greek has been murdered.”

  “Oh yes, indeed, murdered in the extreme. Not only that, but The Greek — his real name was Vassilis Gatopoulis, did you know that? — was dispatched via two .22 slugs in the back of the head. Popped, iced, rubbed out, whatever, exactly the same way as Benny the Bundle.”

  “So whoever clipped Benny also clipped The Greek, is your suggestion,” T.J. said. “Do you know this for a fact, or are we just tossing theories around here?”

  “Unfortunately, the bullets that did The Greek kept right on going to the great beyond somewhere,” Bracken admitted. “So we can’t get a match for the two slugs carelessly left in Benny’s skull, even if this newfangled ballistics gizmo the department’s got really works.”

  “So you have an underworld crime boss and one of his minions presumably killed by the same hand, and this agency is — surely you’re not serious — suspects?” Sam said. To emphasize his air of detachment, he took off his eyeglasses, held them up for scrutiny against the overhead light, then began polishing them with the fat end of his tattered tie.

  “Minion, yes. Such fancy language. But fancy or not, your Benny was done in just on the other side of that door, minion or no minion. That makes you connected, at least.” Bracken took his cigar out of his mouth and frowned at it. The cigar had gone out.

  “Doesn’t this look like some turf war hit, or some vice thing?” T.J. suggested. “Maybe you should go talk to those two oversized pals of yours, Pat and Mike.”

  “Be reasonable, Jimbo,” Sam added. By now his spectacles were perched firmly on his sharp nose again. “Benny the Bundle was killed in our office, yes, and by someone who presumably was stalking him. He could easily have died on the sidewalk outside the Hall of Justice. When and where did The Greek get killed, lieutenant?”

  Bracken squirmed a little. “The coroner said he’d been in the harbor about twelve hours. We ain’t figured out yet where he was shot before they dumped him.”

  “Maybe right outside there, like Benny,” T.J. suggested with an edge in his voice and nodding his head toward the outer office. “Better get out there and check for bloodstains. Maybe that’s why we’ve got these old clothes on, so we wouldn’t get our regular duds messed up when we dragged The Greek down to the Basin. Maybe Flood and Flood...”

  “That’s enough, Thomas!” Sam barked.

  “The truth of the matter is, the way I look at it, you two outstanding citizens ain’t telling me all you know,” Bracken said. “I think you’re hiding something, or somebody. Maybe The Greek was this mysterious client of yours.”

  Sam Flood laughed softly. “You’re way off base there, James, and you know it. But the truth remains, we can’t divulge any details about our clients — past or present — unless they authorize it.”

  “Tell me, Samuel, did you even know The Greek?”

  “I’ve never met the gentleman. I don’t even know what he looks like.”

  Bracken pointed his dead cigar at T.J. “What about you?”

  “I’ve never met The Greek either.” T.J. let the half-truth roll smoothly off his tongue. Technically, had never actually met the late Mr. Gatopoulis, although he was almost as close to him, not long ago, as he was right now to the homicide lieutenant.

  “Aw, what a load of shinola all this is,” Bracken wailed in disgust. He tossed his soggy butt into the wastebasket and got up to leave. “The fact of the matter is, The Greek is no great loss, but we like to keep things tidy over at homicide. Don’t leave town, either one of ya’. I’m going home to bed.”

  As Bracken straightened his fedora and made his exit, Sam and T.J. carefully refrained from looking at each other. However, the inference that their former client, Packy Shannon of the Turk Street Social Club, was a double murderer hung in the smoky air between them. Out in the reception area, homicide Lieutenant James T. Bracken involuntarily paused to inspect the shiny, pristine hardwood floor.

  *

  Margaret was asleep in the wheelchair, her head resting comfortably against a plump pillow. Amy sat in the overstuffed chair, keeping a careful watch on her cousin as Sam escorted Dr. Funt to the front door. Their consultation about his wife’s senile dementia had not raised any false hopes. The condition was irreversible and progressive. Occasional remissions — brief periods of normalcy — might be expected, but that was all. Sam knew Meg would have to receive professional care eventually, but he had agonized over when to make the decision.

  “When she becomes incontinent,” Dr. Funt had suggested. “When she can’t control her own bodily functions.” Perversely, Sam had felt a little better. At least there was a timetable, a set of conditions they could work to. A lot of the uncertainty would be gone. As long as his wife adhered to a discernible norm, she could stay at home.

  After the doctor left, Sam sat alone in the growing dusk. There was another problem he had to wrestle with, Sam told himself, and there was no use pushing this one aside, either. He and T.J. had had a sharp debate the previous evening about Packy Shannon. Sam thought they should tell Bracken about Shannon’s urgent desire to find The Greek. T.J. had disagreed.

  “We’d be blowing the whistle on him,” he’d said. “You don’t feed a client to the police just because somebody he knows gets dragged out of the drink.”

  “Former client.”

  “Don’t split hairs, Pop. It makes no difference. Nobody will trust us anymore if we rat on Shannon.”

  Sam had tried to get his point across that Shannon was a legitimate suspect in a homicide case, and it was Flood and Flood’s duty to assist the law if they could. T.J. had just snorted and declared he was going out for a few drinks.

  Now, sitting in the gloom, Sam reluctantly came to the conclusion his son was right, even though they could be accused of harboring a killer. So far, they had successfully deflected Bracken away from the Turf Street Social Club, and they could continue to do so for the time being. “You’re innocent until proven guilty, Mr. Packy Shannon,” Sam said aloud in the dark. “Flood and Flood won’t get involved unless there’s a good reason for doing so.”

  Samuel Adams Flood had no inkling how soon the situation would change.

  *

  The premises of the Western Worker were located in a drab brick structure at 37 Grove Street, not far from City Hall. Pete McNully had given T.J. a brief tour of the gloomy interior, and the younger Flood was not impressed. Even with his minimal experience, he knew the Communist organ barely qualified as a newspaper.

  Of more importance, however, was McNully’s promise to have Harry Bridges outside the Worker for an exclusive interview with ‘Tommy Jefferson.’ T.J. didn’t know how McNully did it, and didn’t care. He rather suspected young Peter had endowed him with journalistic qualities he didn’t possess. It was obvious McNully was sufficiently besotted by the romance of the newspaper game that just the mention of a well-known daily like the Sacramento Bee had turned T.J. into a hero.

  And here came the strike leadership now. The Model A, with George Spelts driving, pulled up just short of 37 Grove. Nobody got out. T.J. realized he was once more under scrutiny by the top brass of the ILA. Finally, Spelts leaned out of the window. “Jefferson, get over here,” he ordered.

  T.J. complied. Strolling toward the Ford, he knew Jo-Jo Ring and Spelts were in the front. In the rear was a shadowy figure he could only assume was his target. “In the
back,” Spelts said curtly, with a jerk of his head. The door swung open and Harry Bridges said, “Have a seat, Mr. Jefferson.”

  Chapter 10

  Harry Bridges had taken his hat off, and T.J. noted the Australian needed a haircut. He also had a budding widow’s peak. “Go get those bundles, boys,” Bridges said to the pair in front. When they had departed, Bridges took another long, calculating assessment of T.J.

  “Georgie and Jo-Jo don’t think much of the press,” he said, “except for our own little rag here. They don’t understand that the message has to be spread around.”

  “What kind of message is that, Mr. Bridges?”

  “Call me Harry. The message of unity of action, of solidarity, of democracy. Eastern magazines can reach people that we can’t here on the docks.” To T.J. it sounded like Bridges had bought his con job about researching an article on capitalism versus labor.

  “What are the issues as you see them, Harry?”

  “It is quite simply the class struggle all over again. Class is aligned against class, employer against worker, and there is no room for compromise. The main issue on the waterfront is the right of labor to organize. This is the significance of the issue in the fight for control of our own hiring halls. It is the only guarantee against discrimination and the blacklist, and destruction of unionism by ship owners.” While T.J. took hasty notes, Bridges rolled the sentences out as if repeating a rehearsed speech.