The Ace of Spades - Dell Shannon by Dell Shannon Page B

that is— about that I know,
it's out in the open for anybody to see— ambitious young man makes
good: starts with one small hole-in-the-wall joint and builds it up.
Once in a while it does make you think— he's doing all right on the
right side of the law, you know. A lot of people saying the pros,
it's because they get branded— nobody'll give 'em a job, nobody'll
teach 'em a useful trade, so they stay pros— that's not the answer,
as any cop could tell them. They've just got a kink somewhere. I
don't know how long Bratti's been in the other business. That kind,
they spring up overnight like toadstools. And when he drops dead of a
heart attack— or when we get the goods on him— and the position's
open, somebody else'll be right there to take over. Just as he took
over— or maybe built up that business for himself. No, my God,
that's not the syndicate thing— why should the big boys worry about
organizing that low?— it's standard business procedure. And how do
I know about Bratti? I'll tell you, though God help me if I ever said
it to a judge! About eighteen months ago we picked up a pusher by the
name of Fred Ring— we thought we had some nice solid evidence on
him— but at the last minute the witness reneged and jumped bail on
us, and he had a record so the judge looked down his nose and said
the mere signed statement wasn't worth a whoop in hell, and threw it
out. But while we had Ring, we ran a tape on some of his interviews
with visitors, all underhand as hell— and of course since that
Supreme Court decision that's inadmissible evidence too— but it
gave us Bratti's name. We gathered Bratti was paying the lawyer.
Which put Ring, ten to one, as the head pusher. Bratti and the boys
like him, they don't want too many of these irresponsible underlings
knowing their names and faces and addresses. For one thing, it's not
very unusual for a pusher— the man on the street-to sample his own
goods. There's a big turnover in pushers: the personnel, as a
business report'd say, fluctuates. Some of 'em get to be customers,
on the other side of the fence, and that kind— or any of 'em—
could be dangerous to the next highest man on the totem pole. O.K.
There'll be one, usually, heading the string, taking delivery of
supplies and handing 'em out, the one who knows the middle-man. We
think Ring was it at the time. We kept a very close eye on him, but
didn't get anything. We have also been keeping an eye on Bratti, with
the same result. Ring didn't last long after that— "
    "Fished out of the bay one foggy morning?"
    "Why, you bloodthirsty Latin," said
Callaghan, "you ought to know as well as me we're twenty, thirty
years away from that kind of thing. Of course not— he got to liking
his own wares too much and finally passed out in the General. They
aren't gangsters any more, they're just syndicate men, and employees
of syndicate men, and customers of the syndicates. Like the big
corporations of other kinds, the syndicates deal with subsidiaries—
and it's all very quiet and business-like. They know it doesn't pay,
it's not only dangerous to their continued operation but cuts into
net profits, if they go roaring around like I've heard tell they used
to, pumping lead into anybody gets in their way. That just doesn't
happen any more. The big boys are awful leery of the law these days,
and the hell of a lot smarter— they've found out, for one thing, a
smart shyster is less expensive in the long run than the
old-fashioned cannister man you just gave orders to go out and bump
off So-and-So, and don't waste cartridges. Look at Bratti. Thirty
years ago Bratti would have been a barely literate lout— standard
type as per the Hollywood version— anybody'd know him for a
gangster minute they laid eyes on him. Today, you can't tell him from
any other man in the crowd, except maybe he's a little better
dressed. He knows how to behave in polite society, he's married and
has a couple of kids, he pays his bills on time, he's a