The Biggest Brother

But Beck rejected compromise like a body rejects bad kidneys. As the other unions surrendered to save members' jobs, Beck urged his local to reject the deal -- though it would have saved 90 officers from unemployment -- and vowed to fight in court. Members listened.

Two hundred and fifty officers were laid off four days later.

When diabetes and grandkids pulled Beck into retirement, many veteran cops thought one of Beck's underlings would assume the throne. Loomis didn't see it that way. "I wasn't comfortable that the other guys who were running were going to be able to deal with it."

When it comes to overtime, promotions, discipline, and shooting investigations, he knew that City Hall kept its gloves laced tight. And in a politically expedient place like Cleveland, cops always make convenient fall guys.

"The mayor runs the police department," says Loomis. "He says he doesn't. Bullshit."

Loomis had far fewer years on the force than his opponent, Detective Bill Van Verth, whom Beck supported. And Loomis was virtually unknown outside the Fourth District. So he shotgunned e-mails and visited precincts, offering himself as a bright-eyed alternative to the status quo. "It's like a marriage," says Detective Amy Duke, one of Loomis' running mates. "You start to get stagnant and tired. It's just not the same as it used to be."

The layoffs also worked to Loomis' advantage. The laid-off cops were still union members, and some still smarted from being sold out by the veterans. "He aggressively campaigned with the officers" who lost their jobs, says one cop. "He kind of broke the union in half that way."

The bitter election ended with a department divided between veterans and newer cops -- and a jolly 42-year-old charged with reuniting them.

"I have huge shoes to fill," Loomis says. "Bob Beck's the only president I've ever known. Hopefully, at the end of the day, guys will realize I fight just as hard for the old-timers -- and I say that with all the love and respect I can muster -- as we do for the young guys. That's how you try to win those guys over."

If Steve Loomis' emotions are on endless tap, there are days when he -- and some in the rank-and-file -- wish he could somehow untap the keg.

One came on a rainy Sunday in November. Loomis and some friends had just watched the Browns dump a heartbreaker to Pittsburgh. He and a friend stopped by the restroom, then rode the wave of drunks before being stopped by a security guard.

Loomis' friend, the guard said, had threatened someone in the bathroom. It was time to go home.

The guard was mistaken, Loomis says. "I was standing next to him the whole time," he says. "He didn't threaten anyone."

They obliged nonetheless and joined the pack near the exit, walking past Lieutenant Deborah Washington on their way, Loomis says. They should have kept walking. Loomis may be the patriarch of the Zone Car Lounge, but he's still a detective.

Washington was talking with the security guard.

"We're leaving," Loomis recalls saying. "But for the record, he didn't threaten anybody."

Washington repeated the guard's allegation, swearing that Loomis' friend had got into it with someone in the restroom. Loomis unwisely resisted.

"You're going to take the word of the civilian over a policeman?" he recalls saying heatedly.

"I don't answer to you, Mr. President," Washington fired back.

They went back and forth until Loomis and his friend left. Washington complained that Loomis was drunk and breaking rank. (He denies he was hammered, but defends his right to get hammered.)

Loomis was suspended for 15 days. The story quickly hit the paper and gave his critics something to seize. "The union body has no faith in his leadership and cannot abide by his foolishness any longer," Detective Charlie McNeeley wrote to The PD. "He should do the honorable thing and resign."

Says another cop: "You make all of us look bad. I expect you to be above reproach, and if you cannot be above reproach, I have a problem with that."

"I was disrespectful," Loomis says now.

He's heard that Scene has requested the investigation file on the incident. "You're not going to slam me, are you?" he asks. So he recommends picking up another file -- the "Art McKoy file." That one got him suspended too. But it might be his proudest moment as president.

Loomis was at home when the call came, sometime around midnight. A dispatcher was screaming into his phone. He could only make out one word: "Metro."

He rushed from his Old Brooklyn home to MetroHealth's emergency room. The parking lot was dotted with police cruisers. "I knew I had a shot cop," he says. "But I didn't know how bad it was."