W. R. Burnett - The Asphalt Jungle.pdf - chicoahmed

The Asphalt Jungle

W. R. Burnett

TO WHITNEY

My wife whose help and encouragement made the

writing of this book possible.

Man, biologically considered . . . is the most formidable of all

beasts of prey, and, indeed, the only one that preys

systematically on its own species.

—William James

Lou Farbstein, middle-aged but still referred to as the bright

boy of the World (and bright boy he had actually been twenty

years back), neither liked nor disliked Police Commissioner

Theo. J. Hardy, the new power in the city. He regarded him as

a rather weird phenomenon, wrote about him often with

curious impartiality, and greatly influenced the opinion of the

press generally by his sharp but fair pronouncements. Much

of what he wrote stuck. For instance, when he referred to the

Commissioner as a “Harold Ickes type character,” the other

reporters realized at once the aptness of the phrase and

began to make an exception of the sharp-featured, countrified

ex-judge when they wrote their frequent excoriations of the

corrupt gentry managing the now shaky City Administration.

Owing to Farbstein’s clarifying phrase, they perceived that

Hardy was honest, able, hard-working, and with plenty of

guts; they also saw that he was extremely irritable, a little

vindictive, and at times—ridiculous.

For some weeks after Hardy had taken over, the reporters

had considered him a mere front—a lay figure, humdrum and

respectable, behind which the thieves and connivers of the

City Hall intended to continue to carry on their denounced

malfeasance. Now they knew better. Hardy was the City

Administration’s one hope, and the politicians stood trembling

in the background. If Hardy could not save them, they would

all be voted out at the next city election, their enemies and ill-

wishers would be in power, and they themselves would be in

danger of indictment and conviction, or at least public

disgrace.

Bulley, the Mayor, had gradually faded into insignificance.

Curtis, Chairman of the Board of Supervisors, was on a highly

publicized vacation in California, taking a “well-earned rest,”

as Farbstein wrote in the World, bringing appreciative

snickers from those who were in the know. And Dolph Franc,

The Asphalt Jungle — 2

the formidable Chief of Police, was all smiles and sweetness,

in contrast to his former cynical ill-humor, and in public kept

referring to Commissioner Hardy as “my great little boss.”

Nevertheless, the newspapers continued attacking the

Administration with non-partisan unanimity—especially the

Police Department—and Hardy, no longer able to ignore the

blasts and now thoroughly aroused, had sent out invitations to

a press conference, to be held at night in his battered and

dingy office in the Old City Building.

The reporters sat around smoking their own cigarettes and

grumbling. What kind of a lousy conference was this? No free

liquor. Not even common courtesy. The harness-bull secretary

in the outer office had looked at them as if they were a group

about to be shoved into the show-up line.

Only Farbstein was unperturbed. Like Diogenes, he’d been

looking for an honest man for a long time, and he had begun

to feel that the flame in his lantern would sputter out before

he found him. But, though the flame had shortened almost to

nothing, here he was at last. Hardy! It wasn’t necessary to like

him. In fact, it was impossible. But you could respect him, and

to Farbstein—at this juncture in his life—that was everything.

He sat listening calmly while the men about him yapped and

raved. In spite of all their exterior toughness and cynicism,

they were good solid guys, fathers and tax-payers. They’d see

the light in all its unaccustomed brightness soon.

A sudden silence fell when the Commissioner walked in. It

was a cold night and he was wearing a heavy ulster, old-

fashioned rubbers, and a battered, sweat-stained hat, pulled

down almost to his eyes.

He did not flash a politician smile on them, or shake hands

all around, or get out the cigars and the whisky, or make some

touching reference to his poor wife waiting at home or to his

charming, and politically valuable, little grandson. He merely

pulled off his hat, sat down at his desk still wearing his

overcoat, and stared at them hard with his cold, inquisitorial

gray eyes. They could see he was sore as hell and hated their

guts. It was refreshing.

After a moment, without preliminaries, he began to make a

speech.

“I’ve called you here,” he said, “not to soft-soap you and tell

you what smart and wonderful guys you are—you hear enough

The Asphalt Jungle — 3

of that, I think. Neither am I going to ask you to lay off. I’m

just going to tell you the facts of life and then leave it up to

you.

“You say the Police Department is corrupt. You say the

bunco squad works with the con men. You say the police are

taking a fortune from syndicated prostitution—and rousting

around and making their arrest records from the unsyndicated

and lone-wolf prostitutes. You say the racket squad allows big-

time racketmen to live here for a consideration, and then

kicks around and persecutes the little local boys. You say in

spite of the laws that bookies are operating all over the place

and that a lot of police officers are getting rich on protection

money . . .

“Shall I go on?”

Hardy glanced about him sharply, his thin lips set in a harsh

line. Nobody said anything.

“All right. I guess that’s enough for a starter. Now first I

want to say this.

I’m not denying that corruption exists in the Police

Department. In fact, there is quite a lot of it—more than I can

run down and punish in a few months. But there are also

many honest men on the force, high and low, and you’re

making it mighty tough for them to hold their heads up.

According to you, every man in a city police uniform is a louse

and a stench in the nostrils of you high-minded, blameless,

extremely honest gentleman of the press.”

There was considerable squirming in the Commissioner’s

office, and Farbstein smiled to himself.

“What is your basis for comparison?” Hardy demanded.

“Name something that has no corruption in it.”

“Mother’s love,” said Hillis of the Sun, and there was a brief

titter.

“I deny that emphatically,” said Farbstein. “Ever hear of a

character called Freud?”

“I’m not going to labor the point,” said Hardy. “But you men

are criticizing the Police Department as if it alone, in a pure

world, suffered from corruption. All human institutions are

fallible—even the newspaper business, I’m afraid, hard as that

may be for you crusading gentlemen to believe. All attacks

and crusades of this kind are alike in the way I’m speaking

The Asphalt Jungle — 4

W. R. Burnett - The Asphalt Jungle.pdf

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