Free The Burning Day by Timothy C. Phillips Page A

when I was a uniformed patrol officer I had saved Lonnie’s life. At the time, he had been a numbers runner. Back in those days, he had done no more harm to the world than keeping a little book out at the Greyhound Track in East Birmingham. But later on, Lonnie had expanded his rackets to the North Side, and had run afoul of Don Ganato’s boys, because that was traditionally Ganato territory, and he had eventually ended up getting too big a piece of their pie at that venue. There had, therefore, been a reaction.  
    I had been on the job for about three years, when I had first met Lonnie O’Malley in person. Back before I was a gumshoe and he was a mob boss, I was a patrol cop and he was a two-bit crook. I had heard his name around the Ensley neighborhood that I patrolled. I knew he was a bookie, and I knew that he was trying to muscle in on the Ganato family numbers racket in Birmingham’s North Side. He was of no consequence to me, just one more hood in a part of town full of petty criminals, each with their own plan, their own angle. In time, though, Lonnie would stand out.
    About two-thirty one morning, fate brought Lonnie and me together. I spotted a brand new Lincoln cruising near the projects, going slow, trying a little too hard to obey the speed limit. I lit it up and asked the two occupants what they were doing skulking around Ensley at that time of the morning, Those occupants were two well-dressed thugs from Don Ganatos family, and while they were trying to give me contradictory stories in explanation, I heard muffled cries coming from the trunk.  
    I called for backup and got the two guys in handcuffs, and disarmed them. They didn’t resist. They seemed to think all of it was a big joke. As it turned out, they were back on the streets in eight hours. The driver’s name was Francis, but that’s another story. When we finally got the person out of the trunk, it had turned out to be a much disheveled young Lonnie O’Malley. The Longshot moniker came along sometime after that, although his getting rescued that night had been a long shot, indeed. The guys in the Lincoln had caught him making book in Ensley projects on their turf, he confessed, and so had decided to take him for a little ride. As I gave him a ride to the station, he had given me his good luck charm, a silver poker chip pierced by a bullet hole.  
    “This good luck charm,” he told me, “saved my uncle Big Thom O’Hearn’s life, and he made a gift of it to me when I came to the States. I have to pass it on to you, to keep the luck going.” Lonnie apparently reasoned on that night that the charm, and not me, had saved his life. By passing it on to me, he was passing the luck on to me, too. I started to give him the usual song and dance about police officers accepting gratuities, but in the end, I took the thing because it was important to this scared kid, whom I hoped would see the light and stay away from crime. I took his statement and later dropped him off at home, never dreaming who and what he would later become.
    I had often, since that night, had cause to regret pulling over that Lincoln. I sometimes wonder what the city would be like if those two Ganato hoods, Francis and his buddy, had gone on to whatever dark alley that awaited them and ridded the city, once and for all, of the strange creature that was Lonnie O’Malley. But I couldn’t let them do that, of course. No way, and remain one of the good guys.
    Lonnie and his lucky Uncle, Big Thom O’Hearn, ended up dominating the numbers rackets in Birmingham when the racetrack was big. Don Ganato and Big Thom, both reasonable men as criminals go, reached a peaceful accord that carved up the city into crime zones. Don Ganato took the liquor and prostitution and union payola, and Big Thom got the greyhounds and the NASCAR and the football and whatever else book there was to make. This worked well as long as both men were alive, because both were Old World, and honor meant