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  “Speaking of hiring halls, why did you turn down the fifty grand offered you by the owners to let them do the hiring?” T.J. asked bluntly. It was time to cut through the rhetoric.

  “What fifty thousand? Who told you that? Where’d you hear that?” Harry’s Cockney twang had sharpened and he regarded T.J. now with suspicion rather than forbearance.

  “I heard it from impeccable sources. A fifty-thousand-dollar bribe just to walk away. I also hear you have a hundred grand stashed away under a mattress somewhere.”

  Bridges’s laugh was bitter. “Wouldn’t that be nice, mate. The truth is, I make the same kind of pay as any longshoreman — if the owners don’t blacklist him.”

  “What about the fifty thousand?”

  “Do I look like a guy with that kind of dough in his pocket? You’ve been hearing some pretty tall tales, Tommy.”

  It wasn’t exactly a denial, but nevertheless T.J. decided to move on. After all, he was here to get a confession about membership of the Communist party. What Harry Bridges had in his back pocket was beside the point. “They say the Communists are dominating this strike,” he said. “Is that true, Harry?”

  “No one’s dominating this strike. Every policy has to be voted on by the membership. That way, we select the most logical and efficient methods. The ILA is a democracy.”

  “But there are Communists in it, or weren’t you aware of that?”

  “Don’t worry, mate, I know who’s in my union. There are Communists, yes, and sometimes they give the best advice. Then the rank and file vote on it.”

  “Are you a card-carrying Communist, Harry?” There, the question was out, suspended between them in the stuffy interior of the Model A.

  “As I’ve said before, I neither affirm nor deny I’m a Communist,” Bridges responded with the glib evasion of a politician answering an often-asked question. “The Communist Party essentially rejects the capitalist system. I reject the capitalist system. Does that make me a Communist? You decide.”

  Another non-answer, T.J. told himself as he spotted Ring and Spelts heading toward the car. Each had a stack of newsprint in his arms. He had time for one last question: “Are you an American citizen yet, Harry?”

  “I haven’t got time to bother about citizenship,” Bridges answered with another sharp laugh. “There are more important things to take care of. The men must be handled properly.” He clapped his hat on his head and opened the door. “Jo-Jo and George will be needing the back seat to stack all those papers,” Bridge said. “I’m going to take a trolley up to the school. Why don’t you hang around and help the boys with this little chore? Then they can drop you off wherever you want.” Bridges said a few low words to Ring, then headed for Market Street.

  T.J. suspected he had been set up. Nevertheless, he spent the next twenty minutes helping cram stacks of papers into the back of the Ford. Finally, the loading was done and T.J. had just enough room to wedge himself into the rear seat.

  “We’re taking these down to Jackson Street for the workers,” Spelts said. “You can help us unload, then we’ll drop you off. Where do you live?” The last question was asked casually, but T.J. knew it was loaded. These boyos would just love to know where I kipped, he told himself. No way.

  “My sister’s away over in the Sunset district, but I want to go down to the docks anyway. Get a few more interviews, maybe.”

  As they headed down Market, T.J. decided to wave the Communism flag one more time. “Harry won’t come right out and tell me if he’s a Red or not,” he said. “What about you boys? Ever been to Russia?”

  “We’d love to go, Mr. Jefferson, but we’re too busy fomenting revolution here to make the trip,” Ring said. He and Spelts laughed loudly. There was a chill in Ring’s voice, however, when he continued. “Are you writing an article about the class struggle, or about rotten Commies?” he asked pointedly. “There’s been enough smear jobs in the press already.”

  When they reached Jackson, T.J. had barely disentangled himself from the load in the back when Hank Schmidt put a restraining arm around his shoulder. “Don’t worry about the unloading, Mr. Jefferson,” he said. “My name is Schmidt and I just want to have a few words with you.”

  Flood found himself being steered into the alley alongside the building. He and Schmidt were about the same size and weight, but the union activist seemed to loom menacingly over him.

  “You’ve been asking a lot of funny questions on the docks, Mr. Jefferson,” he said. “And you know what I think? I think your name isn’t Tommy Jefferson at all. I also doubt you’re some reporter from Sacramento. I think you’re a company spy or maybe a government agent.”

  “Wait a minute, there, Mr. Schmidt. I’m a reporter, not a spy, believe me. And I sure ain’t working for the government.” Even to his own ears, T.J.’s rebuttal seemed a little strained.

  “There’s been a lot of questions the last couple of weeks about what Harry’s doing in America. You’re not the only one. A lot of people want to deport Harry, but you can never do that. He is too valuable to his people and he is too smart for any of you fellows.”

  Schmidt took a handful of T.J.’s shirt and pulled him in close. Their faces were almost touching. Well, well, well, T.J. thought. I think he’s trying to scare me. He shifted his weight slightly. Schmidt tightened his grip on T.J.’s shirt. “So you tell me who you really are, or else I’ll...” T.J. responded by kicking Schmidt sharply in one shin. Schmidt staggered back a step with a grunt of pain and T.J. steadied him with one hand while preparing to throw a roundhouse right with his other fist.

  A shadow fell across them from the open mouth of the alley. “Well, as I live and breathe, it’s my old pal, Thomas!” Mike said. The vice cop towered over both men. “Whatcha doing in this neck of the woods, Thomas? Not getting into more mischief, are you?” Gently, Mike propelled T.J. out of the alley and onto the street.

  *

  “Harry Bridges, in his capacity as leader of the International Longshoremen’s Association, has knowingly associated with known Communists.” Sam Flood read aloud the opening sentence of his agency’s report as it lay on the desk before him. “After ten days of inquiry and analysis, that is the conclusion of Flood and Flood.”

  He reached over and handed the report to Humbert Twait. Once again, they were seated in Sam’s office. This time, Twait stayed perched on the edge of his chair, perhaps remembering his discomfort during the last visit. He frowned as he accepted the manila envelope. “That is not a ringing denunciation, if I may say so,” he said. “I must confess I expected more.”

  “We warned you this might happen when you hired us, Mr. Twait,” Sam said. “Harry Bridges is a very careful individual, very mindful about what he says.”

  “He’s not so careful about who he hangs out with, and that is the basis of our report,” T.J. added. “He did not flash his Party card around, but wherever he went, the Reds were sure to gather.”

  “He made one overt admission of his Party status, while in the company of other Communists,” Sam said. “‘We Communists have to stick together.’ I overheard this direct quotation myself. It’s in the report. It’s anecdotal, I know, but strong enough I think that you can use it as a basis for any, ah, campaign against him.”

  Twait let out an audible gasp of exasperation and disappointment, and began to struggle out of his chair.

  “There are a couple more items, Mr. Twait,” Sam said. “We’ll be billing you for some expenses in due course. You’ll recall we discussed this at our earlier meeting.”

  “Expenses? What expenses could you have? Ridiculous!”

  “There are cable expenses and an accounting yet to arrive from Melbourne, Australia, where a private agent made some inquiries on behalf of Flood and Flood. I’m sure the amount will be reasonable.” Sam exchanged a glance with T.J.

  “One thing that’s not in the report is the fifty-thousand-dollar bribe the Industrial Association offered Bridges if he’d back away from his hiring hall demands,” T.J
. said. “Why didn’t you tell us about that at our first meeting?”

  Twait’s fleshy face darkened perceptibly. “That’s nonsense,” he spluttered. “That’s calumny. That’s actionable.”

  “Mr. Twait, our source is impeccable,” T.J. said. His source was the reporter, Pete McNully, but the younger Flood kept that to himself. “He said your Association made a secret cash offer to Bridges in order to get him to settle and he told you to stuff it.”

  “Which means you came to Flood and Flood under false pretenses,” Sam added. “This was no high-flown desire to keep America safe from the Bolsheviks. Harry Bridges gave you the bird and you decided to blacken his name. Revenge, pure and simple. This Communist scare of yours was all a smokescreen.”

  “You had better keep this to yourself, do you hear?” Twait said. His color seemed to have improved. “It wasn’t the Industrial Association, it was the Shipping Association. They’re the ones who made the actual offer. Personally, I was against it, but we all felt we needed peace on the docks.”

  Twait was on his feet now. “The fact remains, this Bridges fellow is a menace to America, Communist or not.” He waved the envelope as if brandishing a trophy. “Perhaps this is enough to run him out of town.”

  When Twait had lumbered out, T.J. lit a cigarette and turned to Sam. “I guess we won’t be getting many more jobs from the Industrial Association,” he said.

  “I wouldn’t worry about it,” Sam said. “It was a secret bribe and the secret is still in this room, as far as Twait is concerned. I’m sure he’s not going to tell anybody that we know what we know.”

  Chapter 11

  Sam and T.J. Flood had one of their rare lunches together at an oak-paneled watering hole on Montgomery Street. Once a blind pig, it went legit with the repeal of Prohibition and now catered to the business crowd of the lower city. At this noon hour, the long mahogany bar was doing a steady business, although many of the tables were unoccupied.

  The Floods had no trouble getting seating near the window looking out on Montgomery. While waiting for their orders, they watched the crowds and the traffic pass by, and thought their own thoughts. This was not a celebration, because the outcome of the Bridges case was not something to slap each other’s back over. Rather, it had left a mild taste of dissatisfaction in their mouths, so they had decided to get away from the office and surround themselves with people leading more or less normal lives.

  “Too many loose ends,” T.J. said abruptly.

  Sam put down his glass of white wine and darted an unspoken question at his son with his raised eyebrows.

  “Where did Petey McNully get the info about the bribe? He’s not exactly an ace reporter. Someone fed it to him for a reason. And why did Bridges really turn it down? His background says he’s an opportunist, and fifty gees tossed in his lap is one hell of an opportunity.”

  “It appears to me he’s as much an idealist as an opportunist,” Sam said. “Some people are, you know. Perhaps he really believes in the working class and democracy.”

  T.J. snorted. “And he was too damn coy about his Party membership. A little bit of amateur burglaring would have done wonders for this caper. When I was inside the Western Worker, it didn’t look too hard to crack. There has to be a list of Party members somewhere, either on Grove Street or at their other hangouts.”

  “You’re advocating an illegal act, Thomas,” Sam said. “That’s not our way of doing business, you know that. Besides, a break-in is not feasible, when you think it through. Managing that strike is a twenty-four-hour operation. None of those buildings would ever be empty. What we needed was an insider — a real insider — who wanted to do Bridges harm.”

  “There’s going to be more than one illegal act before this strike business is done, believe me,” T.J. rasped. “So spare me the kid gloves lecture.”

  Their lunches arrived. Sam had the lamb curry, while T.J. went with the corned beef and cabbage. He ordered another beer.

  “And where did Man Mountain Mike come from?” T.J. asked through a mouthful of cabbage. “Why was he hanging around the docks? That’s not his beat anymore. And labor unrest is not exactly part of a vice cop’s repertoire.” T.J. had filled Sam in on the confrontation with Hank Schmidt; naturally, it didn’t go into their report to Twait.

  “Maybe he was checking out the address because it was one of Benny’s stops, or else he could be following Spelts or Jo-Jo Ring,” Sam said. “That Workers’ School is a shadowy enough place. The Lord knows what really goes on in there. At any rate, the International Longshoremen’s Association is not our problem anymore.”

  T.J. grunted and reached for his beer.

  *

  The long, black Packard waited until the two Floods had crossed Pine Street before easing alongside them. Then a rear window rolled down and a voice called out: “Mr. Flood!”

  Both Sam and T.J. turned, but it was the elder Flood who recognized the voice. Packy Shannon. Shannon pushed open the door and addressed himself directly to Sam. “I think you know who I am. If you’d care to share the back seat with me, Mr. Flood, I’d like to have a little talk with you. The boy can get in the front.”

  T.J. bristled at the diminutive, but wordlessly slid in beside the driver, whose face bore ample evidence of past pugilistic encounters. He had very big hands and wore a bowler hat. T.J. took this in with a glance, then turned halfway in his seat to inspect Packy Shannon.

  Shannon was born and raised on New York’s Lower East Side, but close to fifty years on, he betrayed little of his Irish immigrant background. His round face was smooth and shiny with health. His dark hair was slicked back and trimmed neatly around his small ears. He had a small, neat moustache. His eyes were gun-metal gray. Comparing Shannon’s relative height seated next to his father, T.J. reckoned the crime boss was about five-nine.

  Sam also studied Shannon intently. Although he had been Flood and Flood’s client, they had never met. All negotiations had been conducted via an underling or on the telephone. For a moment, Shannon ignored his two passengers. He watched while the Packard turned north on Stockton and headed for the tunnel, then turned to Sam.

  “We’re taking you for a little ride, boys,” he said, then chuckled as both Floods stiffened at the underworld phrase. “Relax, it’s not that kind of a ride,” he said. “Why would I be mad at you fellows? You did me a big favor.” He watched the buildings glide by, then added: “Enjoy your meal at Mulroney’s?”

  “Quite pleasant,” Sam said, “and quite reasonable.”

  “Big portions, too,” T.J. added.

  “Good, glad to hear that.” Shannon produced a calling card from an inner pocket and offered it to Sam. “Next time you’re in there, show them this. Everything will be on the house.”

  The card was embossed simply with the legend, ‘Turk Street Social Club,’ along with a telephone number. Sam slid it into a vest pocket. So Packy Shannon was involved in a legitimate service industry as well, he thought, as an illegitimate one.

  T.J. appeared to read his father’s thoughts. “Didn’t see any dolls around, though,” he said. “At Mulroney’s, I mean. They upstairs?”

  Shannon’s upper lip twitched. “Don’t be cheeky, Mr. Flood,” he said. “I’m a businessman. I’m not a racketeer, or a gangster, or — as some people put it — a pimp. People have needs and I supply them. You want a girl, you want a meal. I’m glad to help.”

  Presently, the Packard drew to a halt near the Palace of Fine Arts. The huge, squat remnant of the 1915 Exhibition was looking a little time-worn, Sam thought. Just like me. “Let’s go for a stroll, and have a little talk,” Shannon said. However, they didn’t walk far. Shannon sank onto a bench close to the pond and facing the circular Palace structure. He gestured for the two Floods to join him. T.J. noticed that the driver had taken up a surveillance position.

  “I want to hire Flood and Flood again,” Shannon said bluntly. “I like your methods. The way you do business. And you did a swell job finding The Greek for me. A firs
t-class effort. Now I want you to find out who rubbed him out.”

  “Well, we were betting you might have,” T.J. said, “along with, maybe, Benny the Bundle.” His dark eyes glittered with something more than mischief. Sitting next to a dangerous racketeer had obviously got the younger Flood’s juices flowing.

  “Thomas, don’t be so crude,” Sam snapped, although the Benny connection had definitely crossed his mind, too.

  “That’s all right,” Shannon said. “Don’t blame you. That’s what the cops would be thinking, if they knew about me and The Greek.” The warning in the last sentence was not lost on the two Floods. They were being told to keep their mouths shut.

  “We quite understand your protestations of innocence,” Sam said. “Quite natural, under the circumstances. However, if we accepted this assignment, we’d have to know rather more than we know now.”

  Pop always did get a little pompous when under stress, T.J. thought. “In other words, spill the beans about your hookup with The Greek,” he told Shannon.

  “Okay, it’s like this,” Shannon said. “We were supposed to be partners, not competitors. Sure, we sort of shoved each other around during Prohibition, but that’s all over now. I know the cops ain’t going to see it that way, though. Someone did The Greek and it’s not causing any crocodile tears over on Kearny Street, but if they can pin this bum rap on me, they’ll all be heroes.”

  “Why were you so anxious to find The Greek?” T.J. asked.

  Shannon paused for a long time before answering. He’s hating this, Sam told himself. What he’s doing is contrary to his very code. In the underworld, one doesn’t blab. Self-preservation put him in this park with two outsiders. Is it worth it, he’s asking himself?

  Self-preservation won out. “The Greek and I had a deal,” he said finally. “We didn’t get along all that well, but I ran the girls and he ran the gambling — outside Chinatown — and we stayed out of each other’s way. We dropped booze because it wasn’t profitable to run it into the country anymore. Then we discovered that a new, ah, source of revenue was opening up.”