“No need to worry. He may be good with the press, but he’s politically inexperienced. Doesn’t understand the machinery.”

“And I do.”

“You have me to advise you.”

“Still sounds like a potential scene-stealer.”

“But don’t you see, Harold? If you appoint him, anything good he does is a feather in your cap. You benefit even more than he does. And if he fails, well, it wasn’t your fault. You did everything you could.”

Burton puffed on his large, long stogie. “I like that part.” He thought a moment. “But I think Safety Director is too high profile. I’d rather have someone safer. Maybe Robert Turkel.”

“Turkel is a desk man. You need someone more visible. Ness hates to be deskbound. Always goes out on the raids with his men. Been shot at more than half a dozen times.”

Burton mulled it over, rolling the cigar between his fingers. “Maybe I could just put him in the police department. Make him some kind of special investigator.”

Lawrence shook his head vigorously. “How can he clean up the police department if they can fire him? Plus, he would be limited to police duties, and they can’t improve the traffic fatalities or the congestion or the exhaust fumes so thick you can’t step outside without getting nauseated. No, he needs to be completely independent. And he needs all the executive authority you can give him. All the powers and support of the mayor’s office.”

Burton blew a cloud of smoke into the air. “That’s a lot of power to give an unknown variable.”

“It takes a lot of power to accomplish a big job. And right now, Cleveland is a big job.”

Burton leaned across his desk. “Now you’re sounding like you really think this Buster Brown can clean up Cleveland.”

“Sometimes underdogs prevail.”

“I don’t see it happening here.”

“No one thought Braddock could take down Baer, either. But he did.”

“On points.”

“No one thought Omaha would win the Triple Crown.”

“This isn’t sports, Wes, and I’d like a straight answer. Do you think Ness can clean up this town?”

Lawrence waited a long time before answering. “I think it is important to your political future, Harold, that you be perceived as doing everything you can to clean up Cleveland. That’s what Reform candidates do. Hiring a hero to tidy up the joint can only make you look good. Even if it turns out that taking on a big city hurting bad is a little tougher than putting away Sicilian rumrunners. With him on your team, you can’t be faulted for not trying to make a difference.” He reached down for his briefcase. “He’s your ticket to reelection, Harold.”

Burton contemplated a moment, then spread his hands expansively across his desk. “All right, then, Wes. You win. Have the junior g-man come and see me.”

“Can’t you throw any harder than that?”

“I could, but you couldn’t catch it.”

“Aw, baloney. You throw like a girl.”

“No, you catch like a girl.”

“I ain’t had any trouble catchin’ anythin’ you’ve thrown.”

“I been holdin’ back. I don’t wanna scare you.” Jimmy Wagner and Peter Kostura had been playing catch for the better part of an hour. Jimmy was glad to have the company, though he would never admit it. Peter was four years younger than he was, a mere twelve, and he knew he’d get ribbed by some of the kids on the street if they knew he was messing around with such a punk. But where were they now? Truth to tell, there wasn’t much to do this time of year in Cleveland. Especially on Kingsbury Run. So they played catch on Jackass Hill. What else was there?

“All right,” Peter screeched. His voice still hadn’t changed, and it tended to break when he got loud. “You asked for it.” He reared back his arm and tossed the baseball with all his might.

Jimmy caught it without trouble. “Oooh. My hand is stingin’.” He laughed. “The Bambino probably couldn’t hit that one.”

“He’s a goner.”

“He’s retired. He ain’t never gonna be a goner.” Jimmy grinned. “But you are.”

“Yeah? Let’s see what you can do.”

“Happy to oblige.” With the advantage of four more years of muscles, well-honed by the menial jobs he worked to keep himself fed, Jimmy hurled the ball back.

Peter caught it. “Hah! See, you ain’t exactly Lou Gehrig yourself.”

Jimmy grinned. He hadn’t thrown the ball half as hard as he could.

He liked Peter. Kids were everywhere these days: no work, no one watching the schools, lucky if they even had parents. But friends-not just street trash but actual friends-were hard to come by on Kings-bury Run.

His father had told him-the last time he saw the man before he disappeared-that there had been a time when Kingsbury Run was a nice neighborhood. The wide, deep gorge stretched all the way from Cleveland ’s industrial area, the Flats, to East 90th Street. Once upon a time, according to his father, people had come here for picnics because the green seemed to stretch forever, and there was a brook and trees that provided shade. Even wildflowers. Folks used to come on dates, his dad had said. It’s where I took your momma, first time we stepped out together.

Jimmy had to wonder if his father had made the whole thing up, if it was just as false as a lot of the other stuff he said. Ever since the Crash, as long as Jimmy could remember, Kingsbury Run had been dirt and weeds and trash and bums. Over thirty different railroad tracks crisscrossed the Run, feeding supplies to the factories in the Flats and bringing in trash from all over the country. Hobo Jungle, some folks called it. They built the shantytown that housed the poorest and most desperate of the aimless wanderers who came to town looking for work, looking for a better life, and finding nothing.

Jimmy’s family came from the north side of the Run, where most of the colored families congregated, near Woodland Avenue. The working-class white folk lived on the south side of the Run, most of them with funny names he couldn’t pronounce. His father had said those names could give you a clue to what part of Europe or Asia they came from, but he’d never managed to figure it out. He didn’t spend that much time on the south side of the Run. He knew he wasn’t welcome. Things were more comfortable here, in no-man’s-land-at least during the day, when the bums were either scrounging for work or sleeping it off.

“Are we playin’ catch or countin’ sheep?”

“Sorry,” Jimmy mumbled. He lobbed the ball back toward his pal, who caught it with ease. Peter was actually a pretty salty ballplayer, not that he would ever tell the kid that. Course, Peter still saw his dad every now and again. His dad took him to a real-live Indians game at Municipal Stadium. And his mom had a radio, so they could listen to the games and Walter Winchell and The Shadow and all the other swell stuff that came over the airwaves.

“Are you ready for my fastball?” Peter shouted.

“I can handle it.”

“I’m gonna burn a hole right through your hand.”

“Gosh willikers. I’m a-tremblin’.”

“You sure you’re ready?”

Jimmy cracked a smile. “Give me everythin’ you got, champ.”

Peter did. He threw the baseball as hard as he could-right over Jimmy’s head.

“Aw geez.”

He knew they shouldn’t have been playing on Jackass Hill. It was great for sledding, when there was snow, but a stupid place to play catch. The ball sailed over the crest of the hill down a sixty-foot slope and into a gully.

“No way I’m goin’ down there,” Jimmy said.

“Well, I’m not goin’.”

“You threw it.”

“You missed it!”

Jimmy sighed. This was a bum deal, but it was his only baseball and he didn’t want to lose it.

“All right,” Jimmy shouted. “You’re probably too puny to make it down there and back up again.”

“Am not!”

“Prove it.”

“Why should both of us go?”

“Because it’s a race. Whoever’s toughest gets the ball first. Go!”