Clean Sweep

A Barney Miller / The Jeffersons Crossover

May 1981

The afternoon sun streamed through the windows of the 12^th Precinct, highlighting the dust motes that drifted lazily through the squad room.  Captain Barney Miller sat at his desk, reviewing paperwork with the resigned patience of a man who knew that peace was always temporary in his precinct.

Detective Ron Harris stood near the coffee maker, admiring his reflection in the chrome surface of the pot.  He had been doing that more often since Blood on the Badge hit the bookstores.  Not that he was vain – he just appreciated success when he saw it.  Even if it was his own.

Detective Arthur Dietrich sat at his desk, reading a book about the industrial applications of perchloroethylene.  He had been on this particular tangent for two days now, ever since a dry cleaning ticket had fallen out of a suspect’s pocket.

Officer Carl Levitt, dressed in plainclothes as part of his ongoing training as a detective in his “white badge” probationary period, was organizing case files with the intensity of someone trying to prove something.  Just the other day, Deputy Inspector Frank Luger visited the squad room and referred to him as a mufti.

The relative calm was shattered by the sound of raised voices from the hallway.

“I’m telling you, he broke into my store!  Who else would do it?”

“ME?  You’re the one who’s been trying to put me out of business for years!”

“Oh, please!  Your stores couldn’t put out a candle, much less put ME out of business!”

The door burst open.  Detective Stan Wojciehowicz – Wojo to everyone who valued their tongue – entered first, looking harried.  Behind him came two uniformed officers, and between them, two well-dressed middle-aged men who were trying to lunge at each other while simultaneously maintaining their dignity.

“Captain,” Wojo said with the weariness of a man who had spent the last twenty minutes as a human buffer, “we’ve got a situation.”

“I can see that,” Barney said mildly, rising from his desk.  “Gentlemen, if you could both—”

“Don’t gentlemen me!” the shorter of the two men snapped.  He was impeccably dressed in a three-piece suit, with a neatly trimmed mustache and an expression of righteous indignation.  “This crook broke into my store!  Jefferson Cleaners on Lafayette Street!  I built that business from nothing, and now this honky thinks he can just—”

“Honky?” The taller man’s face flushed.  “I’m the victim here!  Cunningham Cleaners has been serving Greenwich Village for fifteen years, and this – this – ”

“Successful Black businessman?”  Harris interjected smoothly, stepping forward.  “Is that what you were going to say?”

The taller man blinked.  “What?  No!  I was going to say competitor!”

“Uh-huh,” Harris said, crossing his arms.  He had developed a particular tone for moments like this – not quite accusatory, but definitely skeptical.  It had served him well in his writing.

“Harris,” Barney said quietly, a gentle warning.

George Jefferson – for that was indeed who the shorter man was – turned to Harris with surprise and then something like gratitude.  “Finally!  Somebody who understands!  You know how it is, brother.  We work twice as hard to get half as far, and then they want to take even that away from us!”

“Mister Jefferson,” Barney said, moving around his desk with the calm authority of a man who had mediated more disputes than he could count, “nobody’s taking anything from anyone.  Now, why don’t we start from the beginning?  Wojo?”

Wojo flipped open his notebook.  “We responded to a disturbance call at the corner of Lafayette and Spring.  These two gentlemen were in the middle of the street, causing a scene.  Mister Jefferson here claims that Mister Cunningham burglarized his dry cleaning store.  Mister Cunningham claims Mister Jefferson burglarized his.”

“It’s the only explanation!” Gil Cunningham said.  “My store was broken into last night.  The safe was opened – professionally, I might add.  Nothing else was touched.  Who else would know exactly where to find it?”

“Oh, so now I’m a professional burglar?” George’s voice went up an octave.  “I got seven stores between here and Queens!  You think I need to rob YOU?”

“Seven stores you bought with dirty money, probably!”

“DIRTY?” George lunged forward.  Wojo caught him.  “I’ll show you dirty!  I’ll clean your clock and press your face!”

“Gentlemen!” Barney’s voice cut through the chaos.  It was not loud, but it had the quality of a teacher who had dealt with rowdy students for decades.  “That’s enough.  You’re both making serious accusations.  Do either of you have any proof?”

The two men glared at each other but said nothing.

“I see,” Barney said.  He exchanged a look with Harris, who shrugged.  “Mister Jefferson, when was your store burglarized?”

“Night before last.  They got into my safe, took the weekend receipts.  About fifteen hundred dollars.”

“Mister Cunningham?”

“Last night.  Same thing.  Twelve hundred.”

Dietrich looked up from his book.  “Perchloroethylene,” he said.

Everyone turned to look at him.

“Excuse me?” Barney said.

“It’s the primary solvent used in dry cleaning.  Fascinating substance.  It was first synthesized in 1821 by Michael Faraday, though its commercial applications weren’t fully realized until the early twentieth century.  The molecular structure—”

“Dietrich,” Barney said gently.

“My point is,” Dietrich continued, unperturbed, “the dry cleaning industry is remarkably competitive.  There are approximately thirty thousand dry cleaning establishments in the United States, with significant market fragmentation.  Statistically speaking, the probability that these two gentlemen would burglarize each other’s stores is actually quite low.  The risk-reward ratio would be unfavorable for established business owners.”

“See?” George said triumphantly.  “Even the weird cop agrees with me!”

“I didn’t say you were innocent,” Dietrich clarified.  “I said it was statistically unlikely.  There’s a difference.”

“Oh, now you’re calling me unlikely?”

“Mister Jefferson,” Barney said, rubbing his temples, “nobody’s calling you anything.  But without evidence, all we have are two burglaries and two accusations.  Were there any signs of forced entry at either location?”

Both men shook their heads.

“So someone had keys or knew how to pick locks,” Harris observed.  “Any employees you’ve fired recently?  Anyone with a grudge?”

“My employees love me,” George said.  “I pay good wages.  Well, decent wages.  Okay wages.  Look, the point is, nobody’s got a reason to rob me except HIM.” He jabbed a finger at Gil.

“My employees are loyal,” Gil countered.  “It’s a family business.  Has been for fifteen years.  Unlike some people who just moved into the neighborhood and started undercut—”

“Undercut?  I offer competitive prices!  That’s called capitalism!  But I guess you’re used to that honky monopoly you had going!”

“Mister Jefferson,” Barney said, his patience starting to fray, “I’m going to need you to stop using that word in my squad room.”

“What word?  Honky?  Why?  He is one!”

“That’s not the point—”

“Oh, I see how it is!” George’s eyes narrowed.  “In his neighborhood, he can say whatever he wants about me, but in YOUR precinct, I gotta watch my mouth?”

Harris stepped forward.  “Mister Jefferson, the Captain’s not trying to silence you.  But you’re not helping your case by being aggressive.  Trust me on this – I’ve written extensively about the relationship between law enforcement and the African American community.  Chapter seven of Blood on the Badge specifically addresses—”

“You wrote a book?” George’s demeanor shifted slightly.  “You published?”

“Hardcover,” Harris said with barely concealed pride.  “It’s in its third printing.”

“Huh.” George looked at Harris with new respect.  “Moving on up, huh?”

“You could say that.”

“I like that.  Man’s gotta have ambition.  That’s what I’m talking about!  See, I started with ONE store, and now I got seven!  You think I did that by robbing the competition?  I did it with hard work and—”

“And by stealing my customers!” Gil interjected.

They were off again.

Barney closed his eyes briefly, centering himself.  He had dealt with family feuds, mob disputes, and once, memorably, a turf war between competing mimes.  He could handle two dry cleaning entrepreneurs.

“Okay,” he said firmly.  “Here’s what’s going to happen.  We’re going to process both of your complaints.  We’ll investigate both burglaries.  And in the meantime, you’re both going to cool off.  Wojo, put them in the cage.”

“What?” both men said simultaneously.

“You’re arresting us?” George sputtered.  “For what?”

“Disorderly conduct,” Barney said.  “You were causing a disturbance in a public street.  Once you’ve both calmed down and we’ve had a chance to look into your allegations, we’ll discuss bail.”

“This is an outrage!” Gil said.

“This is racism!” George added.

“This is a holding cell,” Barney corrected.  “And you’ll both be treated equally in it.  Wojo?”

Wojo, who had been a cop long enough to know when the Captain meant business, escorted both men toward the cage at the back of the squad room.  Their protests echoed off the institutional green walls.

“I want to call my wife!”

“Well, I’m calling MY wife!”

“Weezy’s gonna get here before your wife does!”

“Susan will be here in ten minutes!”

“Oh yeah?  Weezy can make it in FIVE!”

The cage door clanged shut.  Barney returned to his desk and sat down heavily.

“Captain,” Levitt said hesitantly, “do you really think they burglarized each other?”

“No,” Barney admitted.  “But I think if I leave them out here, someone’s going to throw a punch.  And I’d rather not add assault charges to the paperwork.”  He looked at Harris.  “What do you think?”

Harris considered.  “Jefferson’s got money.  Seven successful stores.  Cunningham’s established, been around for years.  Neither one of them fits the profile for this kind of crime.  They’re both too visible, too invested in their reputations.”

“Agreed,” Dietrich added.  “Also, the methods used in both burglaries were identical.  Same M.O., same type of safe manipulation.  If they were targeting each other, there would likely be more personal touches.  Vandalism, perhaps.  A message of some kind.”

“So we’ve got someone hitting dry cleaners in the Village,” Barney said.  “Two stores in two nights.  Any others reported?”

Levitt hurried to check the recent complaints.  “Nothing in the system, Captain.”

“Check with the surrounding precincts.  If there’s a pattern—”

The phone rang.  Barney picked it up.  “Twelfth Precinct, Captain Miller.” He listened for a moment.  “Where?  Yes, send a unit.  We’ll be right there.” He hung up and looked at Dietrich and Levitt.  “Another dry cleaning burglary.  Mercer Cleaners on Mercer Street.  That’s three in three nights.”

“I’ll take it,” Levitt said eagerly.

Dietrich stood and reached for his coat.  “I’ll accompany him, Captain.  This is becoming intriguing.”

As they headed out, the door to the squad room opened, and two women entered.  One was elegant and composed, wearing a stylish dress and carrying herself with the quiet dignity of someone who had dealt with difficult situations before.  The other was similarly well-dressed but had a more exasperated air about her, as if she had been interrupted in the middle of something important.

“Excuse me,” the first woman said politely.  “I’m Louise Jefferson.  I received a call that my husband George has been arrested?”

“And I’m Susan Cunningham,” the second woman added.  “My husband Gil called about being detained?”

From the cage, two voices erupted simultaneously.

“Weezy!”

“Susan!”

Both women turned to see their husbands pressed against the bars of the holding cell.

“See?” George called out.  “I told you Weezy would get here first!”

“They arrived at the same time!” Gil protested.

“Only because you got lucky with the traffic lights!”

Louise closed her eyes and took a deep breath.  “George Jefferson, what have you done now?”

“ME?  I didn’t do nothing!  It’s HIM!  He robbed my store!”

“I did no such thing!” Gil said.  “He robbed MY store!”

“Oh, Lord,” Louise muttered.

Susan Cunningham turned to Barney with an apologetic expression.  “Officer, I’m so sorry.  Gil can be quite competitive.”

“Competitive?”  Louise said.  “Try impossible.  George has been obsessed with your husband ever since that bowling tournament.”

“That was rigged!”  George shouted from the cage.

“It was not rigged, George,” Louise said wearily.  She looked at Susan.  “How do you put up with it?”

“Wine,” Susan said.  “Lots of wine.”

Louise laughed despite herself.  “I hear that.”

Barney had stood when the women entered.  “Mrs. Jefferson, Mrs. Cunningham, I’m Captain Miller.  Your husbands were brought in for causing a disturbance.  They’re also accusing each other of burglary.”

“Burglary?”  Louise’s eyes widened.  “George, you didn’t—”

“Of course I didn’t!  Baby, you know me better than that!”

“I know you’ve been complaining about Gil Cunningham for the past six months,” Louise said.  “Ever since he beat you in bowling.”

“That ain’t got nothing to do with this!”

Susan turned to her husband.  “Gil, tell me you didn’t do anything foolish.”

“I didn’t!  Susan, I swear.  But someone broke into the store last night.  The safe was opened, the weekend receipts were taken.  And George has been making threats—”

“What threats?” George sputtered.

“You told Charlie the bartender you were going to clean my clock!”

“That’s an expression!  I didn’t mean I was literally going to DO it!”

Louise and Susan exchanged a long look that conveyed years of marital experience.

“Captain,” Louise said, “I apologize for my husband.  He can be enthusiastic.”

“And stubborn,” Susan added.  “Gil too.  They’ve been competing with each other since George opened his Lafayette Street location.”

“It’s been difficult,” Louise admitted.  “George sees Gil as the competition that proves he’s made it.  But sometimes he gets a little carried away.”

“A little?” Susan raised an eyebrow.  “Gil’s been losing sleep over it.  Every time George opens a new store, Gil thinks it’s a personal attack.”

Barney listened to this exchange with growing interest.  “So they have a history of rivalry.”

“Oh yes,” both women said in unison.

Harris had been watching the interaction with the keen eye of a writer gathering material.  “Mrs. Jefferson, has your husband ever expressed any intention to actually harm Mister Cunningham’s business?  Beyond normal competition, I mean.”

Louise considered this.  “No.  George talks big, but he’s not a criminal.  He’s proud of building his business legitimately.  It matters to him that he did it the right way.”

“Gil’s the same,” Susan confirmed.  “He’s been in this business for fifteen years.  His father started the first store.  He’d never risk the family reputation by doing something illegal.”

From the cage, George called out, “See?  Weezy knows I didn’t do it!”

“I know you didn’t burglarize anyone, George,” Louise said patiently.  “But that doesn’t mean you didn’t get yourself arrested for being a stubborn fool.”

“But baby—”

“Don’t but baby me.  You were supposed to meet with the accountant this afternoon.  Instead, I get a call that you’re in jail!”

Wojo, who had been standing guard near the cage, tried to hide a smile.  Barney caught his eye and could see his detective was enjoying the show.

“Captain Miller,” Louise said, turning back to Barney, “what exactly would it take to get our husbands released?”

“Well,” Barney said carefully, “the disorderly conduct charges could be dropped if they both agree to behave themselves.  As for the burglary accusations, we’re investigating those separately.”

“They didn’t burglarize each other,” Susan said flatly.  “It’s ridiculous.”

“I’m inclined to agree,” Barney said.  “But we still have two unsolved burglaries.  Three, actually.  We just got a call about another one.”

“Three?” Louise and Susan said together.

“Someone’s targeting dry cleaners in Greenwich Village,” Harris explained.  “Your husbands’ stores were hit on consecutive nights.  Now there’s been a third.”

The women looked at each other with dawning understanding.

“So it’s not personal,” Susan said slowly.  “Someone’s just robbing dry cleaners.”

“It would appear so,” Barney confirmed.

Louise turned to the cage.  “George, did you hear that?”

“Yeah, I heard it,” George said, somewhat subdued.

“Gil?” Susan prompted.

“I – yes,” Gil admitted.

There was a long, awkward silence.

“So maybe,” Louise said carefully, “you two were a little hasty in accusing each other?”

Neither man answered.

“George?”  Louise’s voice had that tone that wives develop after years of marriage, the one that suggests that the correct answer is obvious and had better be forthcoming.

“Well, maybe,” George mumbled.

“Gil Cunningham,” Susan said in a similar tone.

“It’s possible I jumped to conclusions,” Gil said reluctantly.

Before anyone could press the advantage, the door opened and Dietrich and Levitt returned, escorting a young woman in handcuffs.  She was in her late twenties, professionally dressed, with an expression of sullen defiance.

“Captain,” Dietrich said, “meet Teresa Moreno.  We caught her coming out of Mercer Cleaners with approximately eighteen hundred dollars in cash.”

“It’s my money!” the woman protested.  “They owe me!”

“You burglarized a business and you’re claiming the proceeds are yours?”  Harris said skeptically.

“I worked for years in this industry!” Teresa snapped.  “I gave them everything!  And what did I get?  Nothing!  No promotions, no respect, nothing!”

George, who had been listening from the cage, suddenly said, “Wait.  Teresa?  Teresa from my Elizabeth Street store?”

The woman’s head whipped around.  “That’s right, Mister Jefferson.  Remember me?  The assistant manager you promised to promote?  The one who increased your revenue by fifteen percent?”

“You wanted too much money!” George protested.

“I wanted what I was worth!”

“Nobody’s worth that much!”

Louise closed her eyes.  “George, please stop talking.”

Teresa turned her glare to Gil.  “And you!  You hired me away from Jefferson, promised me I’d be a manager within six months.  Then you fired me when I asked for a raise!”

“You were asking for nearly what I pay my manager!” Gil protested.

“Because I was doing the work of a manager!”

“The point is,” Dietrich interjected calmly, “Ms. Moreno has confessed to burglarizing all three dry cleaning establishments.  She had keys to both Jefferson Cleaners and Cunningham Cleaners from her previous employment.  The third location she also had keys to – she worked there briefly last year.  She’s been quite forthcoming about her motives.”

“Damn right I have,” Teresa said.  “You people exploit your workers.  You promise promotions and raises, and then you find excuses not to deliver.  Well, I decided to give myself the raise you both refused to give me.”

Barney gestured for Levitt to process her.  As they moved toward the booking desk, he turned to the cage.

“Well, gentlemen,” he said mildly, “it appears neither of you burglarized the other.”

George and Gil looked at each other through the bars.

“I suppose,” Gil said slowly, “I may have been hasty.”

“Yeah, well,” George said, not quite meeting his rival’s eyes, “maybe I got a little heated too.”

“A little?” Louise said.

“Weezy, please.”

Barney unlocked the cage door.  “You’re both free to go.  No charges.  But I’d suggest you two work on your communication skills.”

George and Gil emerged from the cage, both looking slightly sheepish.  They stood awkwardly for a moment, neither quite sure what to say.

Finally, Gil extended his hand.  “No hard feelings?”

George looked at the offered hand, then at his wife, who was giving him that look again.  He sighed and shook it.  “No hard feelings.”

“Although,” Gil added with a slight smile, “I still beat you in that bowling tournament fair and square.”

George’s eyes narrowed.  “That’s what you think.  You got lucky.”

“Luck had nothing to do with it.  My team’s just better.”

“Better?  Your team couldn’t bowl their way out of a paper bag!”

“George,” Louise said warningly.

“I’m just saying—”

“How about this,” Gil said, his competitive streak rising to match George’s.  “Next month’s league tournament.  My team against yours.  We settle this once and for all.”

“You’re on,” George said immediately.  “And when we win – and we will win – you’re gonna admit that Jefferson Cleaners is the best in the Village.”

“When we win, you’re going to admit that Cunningham Cleaners has the superior operation.”

They shook hands again, this time with considerably more force.

Louise and Susan exchanged resigned looks.

“We’re never going to hear the end of this, are we?” Susan said.

“Never,” Louise confirmed.

As the four of them headed toward the door, George paused and turned back to Harris.  “Hey, Detective.  What’s that book you wrote called?”

“Blood on the Badge,” Harris said.  “It’s available at most bookstores.”

“I might pick up a copy,” George said.  “Always good to support a brother who’s moving on up.”

“I appreciate that, Mister Jefferson.”

After they left, Barney sat back down at his desk.  The squad room returned to its normal level of chaos – phones ringing, typewriters clacking, the eternal coffee pot percolating.

“Well,” Harris said, settling into his chair, “that was educational.”

“In what way?” Barney asked.

“Human nature.  Pride.  Competition.  The way people jump to conclusions when they’re threatened.” He pulled out his notebook.  “Might be a good chapter for my next book.”

“You’re writing another one?” Levitt asked.

“Always working on the next one,” Harris said.  “That’s how you build a career.”

Dietrich looked up from his perchloroethylene book.  “It’s interesting how quickly they reconciled once the actual perpetrator was identified.  Cognitive dissonance is a powerful force.  When the evidence contradicted their beliefs, they were forced to adjust their worldview.”

“Or they just realized they looked like idiots,” Wojo suggested.

“That too,” Dietrich agreed.

Barney smiled slightly.  “At least they worked it out.  That’s more than some people manage.”

“Think they’ll really settle things in a bowling tournament?” Levitt asked.

“Who knows?” Barney said.  “But at least they’re not settling it in my squad room.”

Wojo suddenly perked up.  “Bowling tournament?  When is it?”

“Next month, they said,” Harris recalled.  “Why?”

“I love bowling,” Wojo said enthusiastically.  “I’m actually really good.  I use a two-finger ball instead of the conventional three-finger.  It gives you better control on the curve.”

Everyone stared at him.

“What?” Wojo said defensively.  “I can have hobbies.”

“Of course you can,” Barney said diplomatically.  “Just try not to get involved in any more disputes between competing businessmen.”

“No promises, Captain,” Wojo said with a grin.  “But I might just have to check out this tournament.  I mean, if they’re settling it on the lanes, someone should be there to make sure it stays friendly.”

“That’s what worries me,” Barney muttered.

EPILOGUE

Three weeks later, Wojo stood in the Greenwich Village Bowling Alley, watching two teams of dry cleaning professionals warm up.  Jefferson Cleaners wore matching blue shirts.  Cunningham Cleaners wore red.  The rivalry had apparently extended to color coordination.

George Jefferson was in intense conversation with his team, gesturing animatedly.  Across the lanes, Gil Cunningham was doing the same.  Their wives sat in the audience, chatting with each other like old friends, apparently having bonded over their husbands’ mutual stubbornness.

Wojo had brought his own ball – a custom-made two-finger model that had served him well in various police league tournaments.  He was not competing, just observing, but he could not help admiring the craftsmanship of the lanes.

“And they’re OFF!” the announcer called as the tournament began.

For the next two hours, Wojo watched what could only be described as aggressive competitive bowling.  Every strike was celebrated with elaborate enthusiasm.  Every spare was treated like a victory in a major war.  George and Gil kept a running commentary that bordered on trash talk but never quite crossed the line into genuine hostility.

“Nice try!” George called after Gil left a 7-10 split.  “My grandmother could pick that up!”

“Your grandmother bowls better than your whole team!” Gil shot back, then proceeded to miraculously pick up the split.

Wojo found himself grinning.  This was not really about bowling, he realized.  It was not even really about dry cleaning.  It was about two successful men who had found in each other a worthy competitor – someone who pushed them to be better, even if neither would ever admit it.

In the end, Cunningham Cleaners won by twelve pins.  George protested that one of his team members had been distracted by a buxomly bimbo.  Gil suggested that perhaps Jefferson Cleaners should practice more.  Louise and Susan rolled their eyes in perfect synchronization.

As the teams shook hands – with only slightly excessive force – Wojo headed for the exit.  He had seen what he came to see.  These two would probably be rivals forever, but they would also, in their own stubborn way, become something like friends.

His two-finger bowling ball felt good in his hand as he walked to his car.  Maybe he would join a league himself.  After all, everyone needed a hobby that did not involve arresting people.

Though knowing his luck, he thought with a smile, he would probably end up mediating a dispute between competing bowlers.

Just another day in New York City.