He waited until the detective opened the door, peered into the corridor, shook his head negatively, and sat down.
“Now we come to what the papers didn’t have. Bannon had been in a fight, and we’ve got reason to believe that two kids are implicated in the murder instead of one. You see”—Macon paused for effect—“the autopsy showed that Bannon had been struck in the back of the head with some sort of weapon, maybe the gun. But the blow wasn’t hard enough to knock him out. So he must’ve been fighting with someone else, from the bruises he had on his face, and maybe he was giving some other kid a licking. So we’ve got two kids to look for. Of course,” he went on, “there’s always the chance that it was one kid. But we don’t think so.”
“Did you find out what kids were friends?” one of the detectives asked.
“We did,” Macon said, and took another card from the pile on the desk. “I’ll write their names on the board and you can copy them.”
When Macon had finished he turned to the group and said, “You all know that Benny Semmel and Frank Goldfarb were the direct causes of the riot in their official class. That makes them first-class suspects, except”—Macon paused for breath—“that their punishment wasn’t any more drastic than that of the other boys. All the kids in the class have good alibis; some I’ve checked, and I’ll tell you which ones, and they click.
“You see”—Macon sat on the edge of the desk—“what makes this so tough is that these kids aren’t criminals yet, and we can’t find holes in their alibis. I don’t have to tell you what we’re up against. They’re getting wilder and tougher every day, and our jobs are going to get tougher. But to get back to these kids, they all did about the same thing. They hung around the school for a while. Then some went home, some went to the movies, some went to their clubrooms, and some went to the poolroom, to the park, or just walked around. That’s what makes it tough. The kids with court records—well”—Macon pulled up his trouser leg—“we checked them too. We can’t break their alibis.”
“You sound plenty pessimistic, Lieutenant,” one of the detectives said.
“I know,” Macon agreed, “but we’ve got this to go on. I’m sure two kids knocked off Bannon. And I’m willing to go along on the premise that they were friends. First we’ll concentrate on them”—he pointed to the grouped names on the board—“and then we’ll work on the others. Now,” he continued, “another thing. You see that a lot of these kids belong to clubs. All right. We’re going to raid their clubs. Maybe we’ll pick up something and maybe we won’t. Maybe the ones that did it will’ve told the guys in their gang, and if we quiz them, we’re liable to break them down. And then”—Macon raised his hand—“we’re liable to pick up some kids in the clubs on other charges. Carrying concealed weapons, counterfeit ration coupons, stuff like that. If we hold them, the kids in the clubs are going to be sore at these kids.” He pointed again to the names on the board. “And in that way somebody is liable to crack up. Remember, these kids try to look tough, and they hate cops and dicks”—Macon smiled as some of the men twisted their lips wryly—“but they’re not old enough to know all the ropes. We’ll get the killer or killers for that reason. We’ll scare them, and that way we’ll get them.”
“Suppose we work on these suspects and nothing turns up?” a detective in the front row asked.
“Before we close this meeting,” Macon said, “you’ll have the names of everyone in Bannon’s official class, his other classes, the clubs or gangs they belong to, and anything else we know. You’ve all seen the kind of guns these kids carry. We pick up at least a dozen every day all over the city. So if there aren’t any more questions we’ll go over the ground plan of the yards and the floor, and then we’ll pass out mimeographed sheets with the names of Bannon’s former students.”
For more than an hour Macon led the discussion and oriented the assembled men in the physical features of the neighborhood, the location of the school, and possible entries to and exits from the school. He stressed again that there were no witnesses who saw or noticed anyone suspicious entering or leaving the school, and that this lack of witnesses complicated the case.
“So there it is,” Macon concluded. “Now you know what we know. The first thing to do is to get after the gangs. Decide what you need and see Sergeant Fuller, who will keep a record of your activities and get anything you need. Good luck.”
The four detectives, Gallagher, Leonard, Finch, and Wilner, who were assigned to check on Benny Semmel and Frank Goldfarb, read the files of both boys, quickly noted that they had been driving a car illegally and that they belonged to the Amboy Dukes.
“They hang out on Amboy near Pitkin,” Wilner read from the report. “I know that corner. Pretty tough.”
“Used to be a lot of trouble back there in ’34 and ’35,” Gallagher agreed. “Some of the boys on that block were mobsters for Abe Reles and Buggsy Goldstein.”
“I sure wish I wasn’t on this case,” Wilner said. “I don’t like putting the rap on kids.”
“Some kids if they knocked off their teacher.” Leonard laughed and bit off the end of a cigar.
“Well,” Gallagher said, “let’s get started. Two of us’ll go down their club with a wagon and pick up as many as we can, and you can pick the others up on the corner. Better take some cops with you. How about you coming with me, Finch?”
Finch nodded. “Suits me.”
“We’ll pick them up about ten o’clock tonight,” Gallagher said.
“Wilner and me’ll get those on the corner at ten,” Leonard said. “Let’s see”—Leonard reached for the report—“they hang out between Pitkin and Sutler on the east side of the street in front of a candy store. See you guys tonight. Come on, Moe,” he said to Wilner, “let’s get something to eat. We’re working tonight.”
Crazy Sachs and Bull Bronstein were the first ones to notice the patrol wagon coast to a stop in front of the candy store, and before they could run the police had run two squad cars onto the sidewalk on both sides of the store, completely blocking any attempt to escape. With quiet efficiency the police rounded up the Dukes who had vainly attempted to break through the cordon and ordered them into the patrol wagon. Five minutes later the squad cars backed off the sidewalk and accompanied the wagon back to the Liberty Avenue station.
“All right.” A policeman opened the rear door of the wagon. “You gentlemen can unload.”
“Ain’tcha got a plush carpet for us?” Larry Tunafish asked.
“Get out,” the policeman said, “before you get a slap in the mouth.”
“What you brung us in for?” Crazy wanted to know. “We ain’t done nothin’.”
“Come on,” the policeman said impatiently, “get moving.”
Muttering and grumbling, the Dukes entered the police station and filed into their assigned benches. They were frightened, for although most of them knew they had not been implicated in any misdemeanor or felony, they were all armed, and a concealed-weapons charge could mean a stiff sentence.
“Don’t answer any questions,” Larry Tunafish whispered to Bull. “We can ask for lawyers. Pass the word.”
Bull tried to wink confidently and whispered Larry’s advice to Mitch. Mitch passed the word to Crazy, who sat next to him, and Crazy passed the message to the boy on his right. Soon they were all winking at one another, and Bull began to grin and twist about to wink at the other Dukes.
They turned in their seats as they heard the doors behind them open and saw more of the Dukes being ushered into the room.
“Hey,” Crazy said, “they got all our guys! Don’t say nothin’ without seein’ your lawyer!” he shouted to them.
“Shut up”—Detective Wilner approached him—“or you’ll get a fanning.”
“Don’t mind him,” Mitch interceded. “Crazy’s a little nuts. He don’t know what he’s doing.”
Wilner looked at Crazy and photographed him mentally. “All right,” he said, “just keep him quiet.”
“Get into those
benches there,” Finch ordered the Dukes who were entering the station, “and behave until we get to you. Who’s the president of the Dukes?”
No one spoke.
“Maybe you didn’t hear me,” Finch said sarcastically. “Who’s the leader?”
Larry stood up. “I am.”
Gallagher counted rapidly. “We’ve got seventeen of you. Now, you,” he said to Larry, “are all your guys here?”
Larry looked around, and Gallagher prodded him. “Don’t take all night,” he said.
“One guy’s missing,” Larry said.
“Who?” Gallagher asked him.
“Frank Goldfarb.”
Wilner clicked his teeth. “Oh.”
“What you got us here for?” Larry asked them. “We didn’t do nothing.”
“Who said you did?” Detective Leonard asked them. “We just want to ask you some questions.”
“Suppose we don’t talk?” Larry asked.
Leonard shrugged his shoulders. “We’re not going to beat you up, if that’s what you want us to say. But you’ll talk. Step out here.”
Larry did not move.
Wilner beckoned to him. “Step out! If you don’t step out you’re resisting an officer and I’ll drag you out.”
Larry stepped into the aisle.
“Now get up front,” Wilner ordered him, “and put your hands over your head.”
Larry walked sullenly to the front of the room and slowly raised his hands. He glowered as Detective Finch went through his pockets, removed his wallet, sun glasses, handkerchief, small change, cigarettes, and unsnapped his key chain. Finch ran his hands along Larry’s body, feeling for a gun, and then turned Larry’s hat inside out. Then, as if it were almost an afterthought, he raised Larry’s trouser legs and from the sheath strapped about his right calf removed the hunting knife.
Finch straightened up and hefted the knife in his hand. “I suppose you use this to clean your fingernails?” he asked Larry. “I guess you can give yourself or some other guy quite a manicure with this? What do you work at?”
Larry did not look at him. “I’m a shipping clerk,” he said.
Finch looked at the other detectives and the policemen. “Another one,” he sighed. “I suppose you use this to cut cord and paper?”
“I do,” Larry said.
“Maybe the judge will believe you,” Leonard said with mock solemnity. “Kramer,” he called to one of the policemen, “book him for carrying a concealed weapon and get ready to take him over to the line-up.”
The Dukes were stunned, unable to believe what was happening. Forty-five minutes ago they were sitting around the club or hanging around the corner, and now they were in deep water. Each one was ordered to the front of the room and searched, and the collection of knives and blackjacks grew larger. Only Black Benny and Crazy were weaponless, and they were held on suspicion.
Gallagher called together the detectives and spoke quietly. “We got quite a haul, and you noticed that this kid they call Black Benny wasn’t carrying anything?”
“So what?” Wilner said. “That Crazy kid was clean too.”
“It’s a hunch,” Gallagher insisted as he shook a cigar at them. “I’ll bet you guys a round of beers that if we get this other kid, Goldfarb”—he snapped his fingers—“we’ll find nothing on him.”
Leonard’s mouth hung slack. “I think you got something there. But I’ll bet you that round just to make it interesting.”
“Good,” Gallagher said. “How about you and Finch going out and picking up Goldfarb?”
“We’ll bring him down to headquarters when we get him.”
“Right. So get going. We’re booking these kids and taking them down to the line-up. Kramer,” he called to the policeman, “get these kids booked and take them back to the wagon. Then you better notify their parents to come down to court tomorrow morning and bail them out.”
“Yes, sir,” Kramer said, and motioned for the other policemen to help him.
With quiet efficiency that eliminated any attempts at nonsense the Dukes were individually booked for carrying concealed weapons, while Moishe Perlman had added to this charge the illegal possession of gasoline coupons that probably were counterfeit, and Bull Bronstein was charged with a narcotic violation in addition to carrying a large sailor knife. Black Benny and Crazy were booked on suspicion, and as they sat in the wagon and were driven to the line-up the Dukes did not speak to one another. For playing at being tough and putting one over on the cops was fun, but now they realized they were facing a real rap and that the bravado, the back-stiffening sneer, the cynical snarl which was supposed to intimidate the cops had not been noticed. Facing one another on the twin benches in the caged part of the patrol wagon, they were frightened boys who bit their lips to keep from crying.
Black Benny sat beside Crazy, who trembled and muttered incoherently to himself. Mitch sat on Crazy’s right and kept a restraining hand on him. Benny rocked as the wagon sped toward police headquarters on Raymond Street and wondered why he wasn’t lucky. Frank hadn’t been around and thus had escaped the raid. In fact, he was hardly ever around. Frank kept telling him that it looked suspicious for them to be together so much, but he couldn’t see it that way. Ever since last Saturday, when Frank had given Crazy the dirty deal, he hadn’t been around the club, Selma’s, or the poolroom. The only times Benny saw him were at school, and then he’d leave with some sort of whacky excuse about looking for an apartment for his family m East Flatbush.
It was plain as day to Benny that Frank was looking for an out, and he had to smile in the darkness as he reflected that Frank was in with him. Just as deep. Just as solid. He was fully implicated, and because he knew it he was avoiding him and the Dukes. Now they were all being booked, and Benny found little consolation that he had been weaponless when searched, for he was being booked with the others, and his parents would have to bail him out and they would give him plenty of hell.
Frank had to be lucky. Frank had to be the guy who was taking the beating, and if Benny would’ve known then what a rat he was he would’ve let Bannon give him the shellacking he deserved. Because he had tried to be a friend, a real Duke, he had shot and killed a guy for Frank, and now he was riding in the pie wagon while Frank was out somewhere horsing around with a babe.
Benny hated Frank. The gnawing hours of distrust and suspicion were now culminated in this newborn hatred, and Benny tried to think of some way of getting even. But he knew that he did not dare. He had to keep his nose clean and maybe if he would’ve been a smart guy he wouldn’t have been hanging around with the Dukes. In a pinch he was as good as Frank—he knew that—but when it came to thinking things out long-range he fell down.
As he walked across the brilliantly lit stage ahead of Crazy and stood blinded by the battery of lights that shone upon him it didn’t seem to be he whom the gruff strong voice was describing. Benjamin Semmel, known as Black Benny, age sixteen; height: five-six; weight: 147; distinguishing features: dark complexion and blackheads; residing at 16A Amboy Street; attending New Lots Vocational High School; in the official class of the late Mr. Bannon; booked on suspicion for consorting with dangerous juvenile characters. Black Benny was known occasionally to drive automobiles without having an operator’s permit.
“Anyone here recognize him?” the voice droned. “All right, step down. Next, Mitchell Wolf, known as Mitch, age seventeen—” The descriptions of the Dukes followed in rapid order, only halting as Crazy was dragged onto the stage by two policemen who held him as he screamed and cursed at the darkness beyond the lights.
Finally, still bewildered as they saw and heard themselves described as juvenile delinquents and not as mobsters, they were all off the stage and standing before the desk of the committing officer, who booked them before they were led away to their cells. As Benny waited to step before the desk he saw Frank being brought in by Leonard and Finch. Frank’s father followed them, disheveled and pale with fright and worry. Now Benny was glad. At least Frank
wasn’t going to get away with it, for if they were going to sit in the can Frank would be keeping them company.
“Please.” Frank’s father held Leonard’s sleeve. “What did you bring him here for? He was coming home when you stopped him, and what has he done?”
“We just want to question him,” Leonard replied.
Mr. Goldfarb wrung his hands. “Then you’ll let him go?”
“We can’t tell you,” Finch replied. “Take it easy, Mr. Goldfarb, we just want to ask your son some questions. If he hasn’t done anything he’ll be out of here in no time. You know these boys are your son’s friends?”
Mr. Goldfarb looked at the Dukes. “Some of them I know.” He nodded. “The Sachs boy and my son’s friend there, Benny. One or two others.”
“You know that we’re holding every one of them for carrying a concealed weapon?” Leonard said. “Your son is hanging around with a fine crowd.”
Mr. Goldfarb bowed his head. “There’s nothing I can say.” His voice was hoarse and he swallowed. “Nothing I can say.”
“You better sit over there,” Finch said kindly. “We’ll let you know soon what we’re going to do with Frank.”
Leonard approached Gallagher and they held a whispered consultation. Gallagher nodded and Leonard walked over to Black Benny and tapped him on the shoulder.
“Come on,” he said, “we want to talk to you.”
Benny saw Frank already seated at the table in the small room adjoining the court chamber. He tried to grin as Frank winked at him, but his smile froze and he turned away.
The Amboy Dukes Page 14
