Free American Gangster by Max Allan Collins Page B

was saying. “
Federal authorities have announced their intention to establish special narcotics bureaus in Washington, New York, Los Angeles, Chicago, Boston, Newark and other major metropolitan areas. . . .
”
    Richie was jumping rope, now, and could see the sensational images on the fuzzy screen: quick shots of inner cities, junkies in shooting galleries, homicide victims in alleys and gutters, and, most shocking of all oddly enough, white suburbia.
    And, of course, those who would fix all this: lawmakers on Capitol Hill.
    Richie heard somebody come in and saw it was his boss with the Prosecutor’s Office, Lou Toback. Toback, his tie loose, stood with his hands on hips and listened to the last of the heroin story on the news.
    Richie stopped jumping, said, “Dog and pony show.”
    Toback looked over his shoulder at Richie and half-smiled. “You think?”
    In the locker room, Richie changed into his street clothes while tall, slender Toback paced and talked. Seemed Richie’s boss had been selected to head up the Newark bureau in this federal drug inquiry.
    â€œYou heard the TV,” Richie said, tying his shoes. “Like I said, dog and pony show.”
    â€œNot how I’m hearing it,” Toback said, sitting on the bench nearby. “Not how it’s being advertised, anyway.”
    â€œWell, where do I come in, in a federal deal? Who the hell would I answer to? FBI? I don’t like the FBI.”
    â€œYou answer to me,” Toback said, “and the U.S. attorney. Nobody else. No FBI. Hoover knows better than to mix his boys up with dope—too much temptation for the feeble-minded.”
    Richie was dressed now. He sat on the bench and looked at his boss, who had always been straight with him, and said, “I know I’m not in any position to refuse this assignment, really. But I’m not convinced it’s a good idea.”
    â€œWhy, you’d rather stay where you are?”
    â€œWell . . .”
    Toback had a way of smiling that was at once mocking and friendly. “Rich, a detective who doesn’t have the cooperation of his fellow detectives is by definition ineffective.”
    â€œWhat’s that, French for ‘fucked’? Anyway, you know why I don’t have the ‘cooperation’ of my peers.”
    â€œ
Why
you don’t,” Toback said flatly, “doesn’t mean a damn.”
    â€œDoesn’t it? Doesn’t it mean anything that they’re all on the take, and I’m not?” He shook his head. “Instead of giving you a medal or some shit, for turning in dirty money, they bury your damn ass.”
    â€œNews flash,” Toback said, “the world isn’t fair. You’re right, Richie. But what does being right get you?”
    He frowned. “What does this assignment get me?”
    Toback shrugged. “Maybe it’s an opportunity to get away from all that. To go somewhere where you’re not some kind of goddamn pariah.”
    The two men sat there and stared at each other.
    â€œI’ll do it,” Richie said.
    Toback grinned. “Good.”
    â€œ
But
. . .” Richie held up a traffic-cop palm. “. . . only like this: I don’t set foot in a police station again, not on either side of the river. I work out of a place of my own. And I pick my own guys. Guys I know wouldn’t take an apple off a cart, a nickel off the sidewalk.”
    Toback thought about that. “Worked for Eliot Ness.”
    â€œMy favorite show, as a kid,
Untouchables
.”
    His boss grunted a laugh. “That explains a lot.”
    â€œWell?”
    Toback’s eyes narrowed. “Done.”
    The two men shook hands.
    Almost twenty-four hours to the minute from the time those GIs had stuffed four duffel bags of high-grade powder into Frank’s trunk, a phone began to ring in a detached shed next to a decrepit clapboard house in North Carolina.
    The