“He who fights with monsters should look to it that he himself does not become a monster.”
--Friedrich Nietzsche
This city breeds chaos, I always used to say to my squad. The filth, the dirt, the poverty—we resided in it, inhaled its toxic fumes, and, more importantly, fought against it. That was my little speech when a new recruit would join the Vice Squad. Commander Clarence E. Braasch, a product of Cabrini Green, the forsaken west side city housing of Chicago, the dominion of the ungodly, now leading the charge against the very people who I was raised amongst.
I always thought the speech was very effective, but who really knows. A hungry cop, sights high up on the ladder, would nod at anything I said.
Me, and the other brave men I commanded, formed the Vice Squad of the 18th Precinct, which was only slightly north of the streets I had grown up on. We did not enjoy the easy labor of the Gold Coast officers, those lazy officers who dealt only with the most white-collar of crime. A prostitute on Rush and Huron is headline news. The same hooker on our streets? Another day. Drugs, gambling, prostitution. We really were the Undertakers. We cleaned up this filthy city, and to be with us was to broadcast live from the gutter.
Chicago has long been a city commanded by an entrenched evil. Since Capone in the 20s, we’ve fought organized corruption, mobs, gangsters, racketeers, and so much of the garbage that is expelled from New York. Mayor Daley, in proper fashion, has run his tenure with the same strong-arm tactics of those that continue to infect this city. It would be impossible to forget, in my first day as Commander, that brief discussion I had with him. Few men are as powerful, few as intimidating, and even fewer as ruthless. He’d won the Mayoral race through dirty politics, bribes, and voter intimidation. And he was our king.
Courtesy of Chicago Police Department, 1959.
“Congratulations, Clarence,” a hand tapped my right shoulder. I quickly shifted my Commander’s hat from my right hand to the other. I knew that voice.
“Mayor Daley. Thank you so much,” I held my hand out to shake. He grabbed it swiftly and confidently and smiled—a wide grin, teeth stained yellow from the cigars he was often seen smoking. His hair was slicked back, suit pristine and classic. Around us passed several other high-ranking officers. I noticed Andrew Thompson, Commander of the 5th Precinct, and also newly promoted, sauntering through the room with his wife, Theresa. Saying something about Marvin Gaye’s “wonderful voice”. Fitted that, as Commander of the 5th Precinct, he’d be enamored by that jungle music. The room, Mayor Daley’s study—which was more like a University of Chicago library hall for hundreds of academics, outfitted with rich mahogany, that deep brown hue, painted portraits of former Mayors, and, at the head of the room, one of himself—was quite lively. Nobody would really notice us chatting.
“You know, Clarence, or should I call you ‘Commander Braasch’, I see potential in you. Not many of our officers are college-trained or as quick-thinking as you," Daley begun. He owned the conversation. Being next to him was to understand what it truly meant to feel small. "I heard about the raid you conducted in those horrific projects—that was quite impressive.”
“Oh,” I glanced down briefly, unsuited to compliments by a man of his stature. “I was simply doing my job, sir. I have no empathy or hesitation when it comes to the selling of a person’s body for money. Sinners deserve the worst of punishments.”
Daley chuckled.
“You see, Commander, that’s what I mean! More men like you,” he said, his pungent breath steaming over me nostrils as he leaned in and jabbed his pointer finger into the top of my left pectoral. “and we would all have an easier job. Less filth, less of those infernal Yippies, less of the fucking Italians, and less niggers.”
I blushed.
“Thank you, Mayor," I said. "I will only give you my best.”
He nodded, patted me on the shoulder and strolled on, short, powerful steps, commanding the room wherever he went, and buttoning his suit jacket, gut bulging out.
I exhaled and began to reach for a whiskey as my eye caught a passing pretty thing. Dark brown hair and a tight skirt. Enough ass to see as she walked. I began to saunter over—a Commander gets what he wants, is what my previous Commanders had always said, and this was my special day.
Suddenly, however, Mayor Daley was back.
“One more thing before I forget Clarence,” he put his hand on my sternum to prevent me from going past him. “Vice is a cruel, dirty mistress. Never, never forget that everyone—everyone—has their price. Protection from the garbage in this city isn’t free.”
His direct glare sent tremors down my spine as he leaned in. But five inches away from my face.
“I trust you will act accordingly,” Daley said.
“Of course. You have my word.”
Daley left, turning back to the party. I squinted, trying to find where that nice piece and her tight skirt had run off to.
When I took over as Commander the next day, roles slowly began to sort themselves out. I began to see who would be loyal and who wouldn’t. I could count about two dozen of my officers that I trusted with certain operations. I was new to the position, but had grown up in these streets. I knew what they needed, and more importantly, I knew how they worked, the never-ending cycle of drugs and crime. Every year, a new kingpin, and every year, a new "hustle". It became apparent that my right hand man, and Vice Coordinator, Sergeant Robert Fischer, was taking to the new position like a pig in slop. He loved the trash we dealt with. He yearned for the desperation of those that many of us arrested. It was like a drug to him. Which, in all fairness, was a bit ironic.
Several months later, Fischer rushed into my office, a relatively small room, enough, though, for a large desk and two chairs. He closed the door quickly behind him, sweaty, double chin glistening, dirty brown hair flattened by his policeman’s hat. I recognized the look on his face.
“Hey boss. Interesting thing just happened.”
I looked up, and put out my Lucky Strike.
“What, you found a woman that actually wants you in her bedroom?”
The smoke from the ashtray drifted upwards, into the path of my view of Fischer.
“Ha. Ha. How much do you know about Bill Gold?”
“The club guy?”
“Well, he’s a businessman, but yes, he owns a few nightclubs and bars,” Fischer responded, sitting down on one of the chairs in front of my desk, his eyes focused towards me. I had only seen Gold once or twice, but his name was often muttered on the streets. He had his hands in a lot of the business that the Vice Squad had been trying to shut down—he shuttled girls around clubs, many imported from countries and cities far from Chicago, drugs constantly changed hands under the dim lighting, muffled by the pulsating music and loud conversations of a busy club, and, if you knew the right person, there was always a backdoor to a smoky, bustling casino. “He just gave me a call actually.”
I had been scribbling notes as we were talking, but now was forced to give him my attention.
“What the fuck are you doing talking to him on the phone, Fischer?” I asked him scoldingly.
Fischer put his hands out as if to say, “don’t shoot the messenger”, and replied:
“No, no, hear me out. He’s got something interesting for us,” Fischer pulled out an envelope. It was full of documents. He placed it on my desk, and slowly guided it forward. I, glancing to the window in the door to find nobody there, quickly put on my reading glasses, supported by the tip of my nose, opened it and took a look. All I saw was green. The air seemed to get heavier, more still.
“Shut the blinds, Fischer,” I said, and quickly closed it back up. “…what is this on my desk?”
“That’s our cut, Commander,” He said, shutting the blinds. He turned back, grinning, clearly pleased with with his work.
“Excuse me?”
“Gold has more than just nightclubs, he also has--”
“A gambling problem doesn’t he?” I interrupted.
“Well,” Fischer leaned in, voice softer. “More than just a problem—an addiction. My guys have been sniffing around his underground gambling ops for a while now, and he finally wised up. He wants to make a trade.”
“A trade?” I leaned back in my chair, leather keeping my sore back from aching further.
“He wants…some protection.”
“In return for this ‘cut’?”
Now Fischer leaned back. Pointed and said, “exactly”.
I rubbed my eyes and sighed.
“God fucking dammit Fischer.”
“Boss, listen. We used to do this at my old unit. It's happening all over the city. Hell, by this point, it might even be expected of us. Think about just how much we deal with! The drugs, the backroom hazy, filthy casinos we bust, the whores we have to take off the streets, the pimps we have to fight! Sir, just take a look inside that envelope again. Guess how much is in there.”
“I don’t really care,” I said, getting up off the chair, hands wide on the table.
“I think you do, because that’s $3,600, and that’s just your cut,” Fischer crossed his legs.
I sat back down. Leaned back into the leather once again and looked up at the ceiling. I glanced over to the wall on my right to see my certifications. I’d really made it. I deserved this chair, this office, this position. The money was wrong—that I knew—but it had struck my pride, rather than my conscience. I deserved this money. I’d given enough to this neighborhood just by growing up in it, being raised in its dirt.
“$3,600? That’s not even close to enough.”
“That’s per month,” Fischer said. “And there’s more. If we ignore ten of Gold’s spots, you get another $1,500.” Fischer got up and began to exit. “I’m just going to leave this on your desk. If you don’t want it, give it back to me, and we’ll give Mr. Gold and his little casinos a ‘visit’.”
I continued staring at the envelope as he left the office. Blinds clattering against the glass window of the door as he exited out. God he was out of shape. I heard Fischer’s slow, rumble of a walk go quiet as he walked down the hall. I hadn’t taken my eyes off the envelope. I knew I deserved this, but would it become a threat to me? That I wasn’t sure. But I had confidence in my ability to cover this up, and I knew I’d have the Mayor’s back should anything happen. I looked away from the envelope, gazed a bit at my fingers, twiddling with a pen and made my decision. I rushed out the door and called Fischer’s name. He turned back. I nodded, and he smiled. We were in business.
I returned home, a fifteen-minute drive eastward, rain petering my windshield. I lived in a nicer part of town than the one which I’d grown up in and now protected. I pulled into the driveway, bits of gravel cracking under the weight of my tires. The lights were off in my two story townhome. I struggled out of the car, the groceries I’d picked up on the way in my hands, and cursed at the weight of two gallons of milk; eighty cents that would tear off my bicep. I managed my way up the stairs and into the house. I dumped my keys onto the first open space, the counter of the kitchen, and flipped a light. God it’s filthy in here, I thought. There were bowls and plates in the sink I’d neglected, illuminated by a cascading blue-grey light that poured in from the driveway and front yard. The rain picked up in intensity, sounding like little pellets hitting the windows. Disgusted with my lack of cleanliness, I looked for the cat, a four-year-old tabby I’d named Edward, but found only what he’d left in the litter box. Whatever, I thought to myself. He’d need to eat tomorrow.
Gold and his ten clubs we would go on to call the “big ten” and part of our “big club”. The operation worked simply and smoothly: I would tell the Vice Squad to ignore those ten spots, and, in return for the protection from police harassment, shakedowns, and arrests, Gold would meet with Fischer once a month, who was my bagman. Gold would hand the money over to Fischer in the alleyway next to Gold’s least visited club, and Fischer would bring it back to me, all tucked into his policeman’s uniform. It was quick, painless, and above all, so easy. Nobody cared for our district, its poverty and color, and even less cared to look into the Vice Squad’s operations.
A month later, rumor had spread throughout the entire squad. Fischer, apparently, couldn’t keep his mouth shut (which wasn’t a surprise, really. He was always shoveling Italian beef down his gullet). Shortly thereafter, my subordinates in the squad wanted to join the action. They would all, eventually, try to talk to Fischer about it, making sly hints here and there. But Fischer was good. He knew what needed to be done and promptly told them that I would share none of the profits (besides Fischer and a few of our key men). And I truly wasn’t going to, but that didn’t deter them. They were ambitious. Knowing I wasn’t going to give them anything, they came to Fischer with a plan that he then relayed to me.
It was a strikingly similar situation. Fischer walked in with that same look and told me that a few of the officers wanted to distribute the remaining taverns and clubs amongst themselves. At first, the immediate instinct was self-preservation. The more that were in on this, the more I was exposed. I expressed this to Fischer immediately, and he acknowledged that that was an issue.
“Listen Boss, right now, the only two vice men we would have to worry about would be Rifkin and Cello.” Rifkin and Cello were two of our vice officers who were assigned to work gambling and, due to their exposure to the immediate effects of our blind eye, would simply need to be paid off to stay silent. “But if the rest of the squad is getting paid, no one will complain. We’re under larger threat now by keeping them out.”
I fiddled with my pen, a gift from Mayor Daley.
“Fischer, you’re a madman. But I suppose you’re correct. I guess it is not a bad idea if these guys want to make a buck for themselves. We got our own thing going, haven’t we?” Fischer smiled. “But—I maintain control of which clubs are participating. I get final word on anything,” I focused my gaze on him.
“Final word boss, you got it. I’ll tell the squad.” And just like that, Fischer headed out of the office. Fischer was smart. He knew as long as the other officers didn’t touch the Big Ten, I’d be fine with them organizing their, as we would dub it, “little club”. Like good policemen, the officers listened to their commanding officer. Soon, like tentacles, the Vice Squad of the 18th Precinct was sucking a little bit of cash out of nearly every club and tavern in the district. Cello, Rifkin, the two already receiving a slight bit of my cut for the “big club”, along with two other vice officers, Mascolino and Napier, began to distribute the money from the little club amongst the rest of the officers. Each of them would receive roughly $300 a month, and the rest would receive close to $150.
Now, the “little club” was a much more widespread operation. Clubs and taverns vied for membership under the following guidelines: on the grounds that they paid $100 to the vice officer that would be collecting, there would be no harassment, no ID checks, and, even if it was a bar notorious for gay activities (the likes of which we had no desire in knowing), the officer would not, say, enter in with his flashlight shining bright and yell at the homosexuals. The officer would assist them in any of the tavern’s or club’s troubles and, if a police report needed to be filed about anything relating to the tavern, the vice officer would slant the report to ensure it looked down favorably on the bar. Additionally, and almost of more importance, the vice officer in charge with collection would warn them of any outside raids by other precincts that had caught a whiff of something fishy.
Fischer and I were raking in cash, and eventually, I repaid Fischer the only way I knew how. I called him into my office. A knock on the door.
“Come in,” I said as I scribbled on my note pad. The lines were filled with cash flowing in from the various clubs.
I extended my hand, palm facing upwards, motioning him to sit.
“Is this something regarding the Big Ten?” Fischer asked as he took one of the two chairs in front of me, curious.
“No, nothing of the sort,” I responded. I put down my pen. “Fischer, I wanted to tell you that you’ve been doing a fantastic job. I must say the Big Club has been a fantastic success, and in no small part to you. You are ambitious, and I see a grander potential than just this in you. I called you in because I’m promoting you.”
Fischer smiled widely and immediately relaxed. I continued:
“I’m going to transfer you to other duties outside of the 18th Precinct. You won’t be my Vice Commander anymore, because you’ll be involved in operations that include more than just this district. You’ve earned it.”
“Boss…I don’t know how to thank you,” Fischer said as he leaned in, hands glistening with sweat.
“You don’t need to. My secretary has all the info on the new position. I’ll see you around, and so will Gold. Unfortunately, I still need you as bagman, but Officer Barry, who you know has shown promise monitoring the little club, will take over as intermediary between us and the little club,” I grabbed my pen again and continued my duties. Fischer, recognizing the conversation was over, thanked me once again and backed out of the room. I should have felt better about giving the promotion, but there was a sinking feeling. Fischer was my right-hand, and seeing him go for greener pastures was tough. However, I knew he knew too much already about our operations, and I didn't trust his strength in front of an investigator. He'd take me down with him (I always knew a rat when I saw one). And I did, coincidentally, have faith in Barry to handle the little club and the officers within it.
A year later, the little and big clubs were still running smoothly. Everyone was seeing money come in like the spouts of water that flow in the Roman streets. And then came the Convention.
Lincoln Park, up northeast from the 18th Precinct, was full of Yippies protesting the Vietnam War, LBJ, and everything around their “hippy movement”. Ginsberg and his friends sang Ommm and whatever else they did in the name of “peace and love.” They stated they were protesting the continued conflict in Vietnam and other human rights issues in their “Festival of Life.” Sunday night of the Democratic National Convention, we had, from a top down order, instilled an 11 PM curfew on the protestors. Mayor Daley was livid with the idea of a Yippie protest ruining the clean image of Chicago, and the curfew was not the first attempt to clear out the park. That night, while Barry handled the clubs, I went up to the park to see the spectacle. It was nearly 10 PM, and our men had circled the protestors: young and bright-eyed, who were yelling and taunting the police from all over the city. Many of my men were there as well—pulled out of normal duties to control the crowd—and looked as if they had never seen such a group of restless individuals, and several seemed agitated, ready to strike at the harmless reefer addicts. I came upon a sergeant who motioned me over. The grass in the park was flattened, muddy, and dying from the amount of feet that had stomped on it. The sergeant was on a slight hill, looking over the Yippies. I came up to him and shook his hand.
“What’s the problem?” I asked.
The sergeant gestured around at the protestors. He seemed bewildered, almost conflicted as to what he should do.
“Well, this is it,” he told me. I gazed at the scene. They seemed stupid and ignorant, holding up signs about issues they would never solve, but they were harmless, high and lost in their own perfect little world.
“Then there is no problem," I said to him. "You can march your men out of here." Nodded and came upon another sergeant and told him the same thing. As the officers disengaged, the tension seemed to die. I wasn’t sure why the officers were so on edge. Perhaps they weren’t used to dealing with the underbelly of humanity. I began to leave the park, heading away from the action, with a few of my vice officers that had been tasked with “preserving the peace during the convention.” Nothing felt right, however. The protestors had insisted on staying in the park past the curfew to prove a point, and began to sleep wherever they could find space, and I knew that would be a problem for many of those wearing Blue. Then, and I’ll never forget that moment, I heard the sound of ruffling equipment, the noise made as officers move with haste armed with all their equipment around their waists, in their pockets, etc. I turned back, gazing back at the scene.
“Get the fuck out of here!” An officer yelled.
“This isn’t New York—this is Chicago!” I heard another officer yell.
And suddenly, they were on them. The officers under the command of sergeants I had not yet spoken to rushed the park. Armed with nightsticks, they appeared to club anything in sight, mauling those in the park. The protestors mostly ran, screams and all, with a few attempting to hold their ground. Days earlier, in the park on a sunny day, the Yippies had been taught self-defense, and now some were throwing rocks, squaring up at our men. Amongst the chaos, I heard newsmen yelling about their precious cameras and their media credentials. It was clear to me this was of no matter to those officers. This was not a reaction to unruly protestors gone wrong, no, this was a command. And a command I ventured came from quite high up on the ladder.
The weeks and months following that day were tense. The national media fed off of the violence and there were inquisitions into how this could happen against such ‘young and peaceful demonstrators’ as the reporters deemed them. Soon, there were investigators from the Department of Internal Affairs for the CPD, reporters from ABC, CBS, NBC, and all the major news organizations at our doorstep. A ripple had been sent down the spine of the entire department, nobody was safe. Especially when Mayor Daley desperately sought to assign the blame to someone to clean up the city's image. However, Barry insisted he had everything under control with the little club, and there was no reason to doubt him. Our Vice Squad’s operations with clubs had nothing to do with this spectacle of national proportions. I truly believed that.
The major issue was the shakeup in precincts. Officers were being passed around districts like they were unwanted migrants and coloreds in the Gold Coast. It was nearly impossible to keep track of who was staying and who was leaving and, to boot, even more difficult to maintain control of the little and big club with the depositions and investigations that required all commanding officers to give testimony after testimony. Barry, a relatively young and brash vice officer, was overflowing with duties, people to pay, and members of the club to deal with. As my gaze shifted away from daily operations and to deal with the aftermath of the DNC, the little club grew in size—nay, swelled. It came to my attention that the little club was now extracting money from over forty clubs under the same guidelines as before. I was stunned and sent for Barry.
The snow was falling outside my window and the accumulation was covering about half the damn thing. So, in essence, I now had only about half a window. The grey, cool light bathing the ornaments I had in my office. My leather chair, now sat on for over a year, was getting tough.
“Dorothy!” I yelled on the intercom. My secretary flew in.
“Yes, Commander?” She had on a pink blouse, shining pearls, and a red pencil skirt. She seemed unsuited for a cold Chicago winter day. My reaction to seeing her was a quizzical one.
“Could you—hold on. How are you surviving in that get up in this cold? I don’t mind checking out a fine piece of ass as you walk in the door, but I’d prefer you don’t get pneumonia.”
She blushed, chuckled, and moved past my question. Maybe she was uncomfortable. I didn’t really care.
“You called me, Commander?”
I gave my self a light smack in the face, disappointed in my scattered mind. So many things were going on.
“Yes, yes, I’m sorry. This leather chair…it’s horrific. It used to be soft but now it’s like my ex-wife’s behind—it’s just gotten flatter and flatter. Now it hurts to sit on. Get me a new one.”
“Yes sir,” Dorothy exited the room. I sniffed her perfume.
I continued my work as I waited for Barry, but could not work long until Dorothy knocked on the door. It had been perhaps five minutes since she’d left.
“Come in, Dorothy.”
She entered slowly and meekly.
“Sorry to disturb you, sir, but these two men are here to see you,” She rushed out of the room.
“No need to leave so fast, honey,” one of the men said as they smacked her on the butt.
I stared at them, studying their movements. They weren’t from Chicago, but maybe they were from Internal Affairs. I trusted no one besides my men. I prepared myself to act calm, my stomach beginning to feel a bit queasy, running through all the things I'd been taught about interrogations, trying to identify what tricks they might pull on me should they have something.
“What do you want? I have a lot to do,” I said, glancing at them but immediately going back to my work.
One of the men, a short, blue-eyed man with blonde hair combed finely to the side with the help of a lot of pomade, sat down quickly. He was holding a large envelope.
“Commander Braasch, correct?”
“That’s what it says on the door, correct?” I asked back. I had little time for meddling Internal Affairs officers.
The blonde man smiled to the other man who’d sat down next to him, a man with a large-pointed nose, top hat and overcoat.
“Yes. Well, Commander Braasch, we’re from the FBI. This is for you.”
He handed the large brown envelope to me, and the two men shared a glance before watching me grab the package and open it.
“What is this?” I said, leaning back, slowly opening up the envelope. They didn’t answer. I pulled out the lone sheet of paper that was held in it. I began to read:
THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA, PLAINTIFF
v.
CLARENCE E. BRAASCH, DEFENDANT
I shoved the paper back into the envelope. I’d seen enough.
“Get the fuck out of my office,” I told the two men, not giving either a look. They left without a word.
I placed the envelope down quickly. For a while, I just sat motionless in my uncomfortable chair and stared at it, there on my desk, on top of the notebook where I kept a ledger of the big club. The silence was brief, however, as Barry finally knocked. I didn’t answer, but he knew I was in so he rushed through the door anyway.
“Boss! Cello, Rifkin—“
I cut him off.
“They opened their fucking mouths didn’t they.”
With all the chaos from the convention and the flurry of internal investigations, Cello, Rifkin, and five others had been transferred to other precincts, and, no longer being involved in the little club operation, had testified against the 18th Precinct Vice Squad, and, more importantly, against me. I looked Barry in the eyes. I saw fear. Panic. His name was probably on that Grand Jury Indictment, too. I attempted to remove my reading glasses and place them onto my desk in a calm manner, so as not to spook Barry, but my hands began to shake until I dropped them mid-way. I leaned back into my god-awful chair, and rubbed my face, letting out a pained grimace as the lumbar support vanished. For a moment, I stared at the ceiling, the consequences of the past several years collapsing on me. I glanced at the wall, my diplomas, certificates, awards, and whatnot on display and felt disgusted. I took one more look at the indictment and swallowed heavily. I felt a swell of emotions within me, rage, repentance, regret, sadness, including some rage at Cello and Rifkin for bringing down the whole thing. I knew I’d hate them forever. But Barry was still in the room, standing by the doorway, breaking down before my very eyes. I had to set an example. I composed myself, looked him directly, and said:
“Barry—it’s over, Barry.”
Everyone has their price.
Works Cited
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"United States of America, Plaintiff-appellee, v. Clarence E. Braasch Et Al., Defendants-appellants, 505 F.2d 139 (7th Cir. 1974)." Justia Law. N.p., n.d. Web. 03 Dec. 2015.