“Detective Macon,” he began, “I’m a friend of Mr. Bannon’s… Yes”—Frank nodded—“the teacher who was murdered. I wanted to call you before this but I was scared. Yeah, scared. The guy who knocked him off is one of them tough Jews. A killer.” Frank congratulated himself. This would help throw suspicion from him as the informer. If he played it right they’d only get Benny, and when Benny tried to implicate him he would deny it. That was the angle! The out! Benny was the killer!
At the other end of the telephone line Macon signaled for Gallagher and Wilner to listen in on the extension telephones. He winked at them and made a circle with his thumb and index finger. The case was breaking.
“So you know who did it.” Macon spoke into the telephone. “Can you tell us?”
“I can,” Frank said. “I used to go to the same church with Mr. Bannon and we were good friends, but I was afraid to talk before now.”
“We’ll take care of you,” Macon said. “You don’t have to be afraid. Who did it?”
“I—it—it—”
“You want to tell us at the station? We’re at East New York and Rockaway.” Macon spoke quietly.
“No,” Frank faltered. “His gang is liable to get me. They’re killers. I’ll tell you who did it and that’s all.”
“All right.” Macon nodded at the telephone. “Who did it?”
Frank struggled to speak.
“Who did it?” Macon asked again, and covered the mouthpiece of the telephone with his hand. “Gallagher,” he whispered, “start tracing that call!”
Gallagher nodded, hung up, and left the room.
“Don’t be scared,” Macon said soothingly. “Who did it?”
Frank’s mouth was dry and his tongue felt as if it did not belong to him. He had to go through with it. Benny had got him in trouble and Benny had to be paid off. It was Benny or him. He wet his lips and spoke directly into the mouthpiece. “Benny, the kid they call Black Benny, did it. He shot Mr. Bannon.” And as he informed, Frank wanted to recall the words, but it was too late.
Macon’s face was triumphant, and Wilner tried to smile but found it difficult to do so. “Thanks,” Macon said. “So he did it? We suspected him.”
“He did it,” Frank repeated hoarsely.
“O.K.” Macon played his trump card: “You better come in, Frank. We want to talk to you too.”
Frank slammed the receiver onto the hook, stuffed his handkerchief into a pocket, and ran out to the street. He stood on the sidewalk, dazed, turning about, not knowing where to go. Macon had been too smart for him. There was no escape. Blindly he ran into the hallway of his tenement and up the stairs. He flung open the kitchen door, and his hands trembled as he opened the bureau drawer and searched under his clothing for the wallet. He sighed with relief and hope as he found it and skimmed rapidly through the compartments. The money was there, though now, as he looked at it, twenty dollars was so little. But he could still buy that gun. There was only one reefer in the cigarette case, and the paper wrapper of the reefer was old and wrinkled. For a moment he debated whether he ought to save it for a tight spot, but then he decided that he was in as tight as he could ever be, and so long as he felt the way he did about shooting it out with the cops he ought to smoke it now. With a gesture of defiance he struck the match, lit the marijuana cigarette, and blew the first puff of smoke at the mirror. He looked all right. His eyes were narrowed and drawn at the corners and his lips twitched, but he knew he would get away. He had to get away, but he regretted squealing to the cops. What he should have done was buy the gun and knock off Benny. That would’ve been best. That way he would’ve paid the bastard off, and he still wouldn’t have ratted. But it was too late. The cops were going for Benny, and the heat was on for him.
He jerked erect as he heard the front door open and Alice’s light step in the kitchen.
“Oh.” She was startled as she saw him standing in the doorway. “I didn’t know you were home.”
Frank dragged on the cigarette and felt the first pulses of false courage surge through him. “Yeah,” he replied. “It’s me. I’m clearin’ out.”
Alice barred the kitchen door. “No!”
“I got to, baby.” He laughed. “I’m in a jam. The cops must be lookin’ for me now.”
He derived a perverse joy from seeing the sorrow in his sister’s face.
“Yeah,” he went on, “in a jam. You know what I done?”
Alice struggled to speak.
“I’ll tell you,” he went on. “I just told the cops who killed Mr. Bannon.”
“Frank!” Alice screamed.
Frank advanced toward her and drew back his fist. “Don’t yell,” he warned her, “or I’ll flatten you. I told them Benny did it, but the cops want me too.”
Alice’s relief was explosive. “Thank God!” she said.
Frank took one last luxurious drag on the reefer and threw the butt into the sink. “Don’t thank nobody,” he said to her. “I was with Benny when he shot him. The cops are lookin’ for me. I gotta get goin’.”
Alice’s world sank into the sea. She looked at her brother with a fear and despair that aged her. She struggled to speak, to cry out, to say something, to call aloud, but she could do nothing but stand against the kitchen door, rigid, stiff with despair and fear.
“I’m sorry, kid,” Frank said. “You better let me go.”
“No,” she whispered. “We’ll save you. Somehow we’ll save you.”
“Save me,” he laughed, “for what?”
“We’ll save you.” Alice stood with her back against the kitchen door. “You didn’t mean it. I know you didn’t mean it. We’ll get a lawyer; we’ll get all the lawyers you need, only don’t run away and make it worse. Don’t run away,” she repeated.
Frank hesitated. “You think so?”
“Yes,” Alice whispered, “we’ll get lawyers. Mom ‘n’ Pop’ll come home and we’ll tell them.”
“That’s no good.” Frank took his cigarette case from his hip pocket and then put it back again as he realized it was empty. “You heard Mom on Sunday when she called me a murderer.”
“Don’t say it!” Alice shook with sudden nausea.
“A murderer,” Frank repeated hollowly. “She called me a murderer.”
“Don’t say it!”
“A murderer.” The phrase was hypnotic and he had to repeat it again. “A murderer.”
Alice looked about her. There was nothing she could do.
“If you love me”—Alice stretched out a hand—“if you love Mom ‘n’ Pop you’ll stay so we can help. It was an accident, wasn’t it?” she plunged on desperately. “So maybe you won’t get so long in prison and then you’ll come back and we’ll be waiting here for you.”
“That’s all, sister,” Frank flung at her. “Come back to this? To this!” He pointed about him. “To this dump and these flats and houses? To these streets? To Brownsville? To this?” he screamed at her, and his face was a contorted mask of fright, disgust, and frustration. “I’d rather die! Hear me, die!”
“We’ll save you,” Alice whispered. “Save you. Momma, Poppa—” Her voice broke. “Momma! Poppa!” She called desperately, as if by some strange miracle her cries would bring her parents to her.
“Get outa my way.” Frank grasped her shoulder.
Alice flung herself at him. “No,” she wept, “no! Stay! Stay! You can’t go. They’ll kill you! They’ll kill you for telling on Benny!” She locked her arms around him as he struggled to break free, and suddenly Frank hit her a short jolting blow on the jaw. Stunned, she released him and staggered to the table.
Frank looked at her. “I had to do it, baby. I’m sorry. Don’t worry, I’ll get away.”
The sight of his sister weeping upset him. Hesitantly he approached her and then realized that he was losing time he needed desperately.
“Say good-by to the folks.” He jammed his hat on his head, and as she did not reply he turned again to her. Alice sat hunched over the table with h
er head pillowed on her arms, crying, her thin shoulders shaking, her heart twisted into a knot of grief.
Somehow he could not leave Alice, and as he hesitated again he heard the thin metallic shrill of the police sirens as the scout cars raced into Amboy Street and blocked off Pitkin Avenue and East New York Avenue.
“The cops,” he gasped. “The cops!”
Alice looked up. “I’m glad,” she said.
“You little bitch,” he snarled wildly, “glad that I’m gonna burn?”
“We’ll save you,” she said wanly. “We’ll help you.”
Frank’s eyes rolled in his head. His tongue flicked his lips and, dumb with fear, he raced out of the flat up to the roof. Cautiously he peered over the edge of the roof and saw the cars blocking the entrance of the tenement and the crowds of people, thin streamers of heads, arms, and legs converging and surging against the police lines around the tenement. Hopelessly he passed his hand across his eyes and thought of the suspense, fears, and uncertainties that had made of his days and nights an anguish and rack of misery, and which had corroded and rotted the guts out of his friendship for Black Benny, until in his all-consuming hatred, his mortal funk, he had betrayed Benny and had trapped himself beyond all hope of escape. He thought of Betty, of her bright smile, her firm young breasts, her soft lips and mouth whose kiss and caress he would never know again. He thought of July, freedom, the sea, the escape that almost had been his. He thought of living, clean sweet air, broad fields and rivers, clean streets and houses.
And as he stood at the edge of the roof, uncertain and afraid, suddenly he was struck a staggering blow in the back of his head that sent him stumbling against the roof ledge. The pain was a throbbing club that beat in his brain, and reeling and helpless, he turned about slowly and saw Crazy Sachs advancing toward him. Crazy wore brass knuckles on his right hand, and in his brutal, insane face there was the red lust of the killer. Weakly Frank raised his hands to ward off the next blow, but Crazy hit him a jarring blow that deadened the muscles of his arm, and as he dropped his guard Crazy’s left cut into his face.
“I was listenin’ to the radio,” Crazy hissed, “and you squealed on Benny!”
Frank choked, and a thin spume of blood flecked his lips. “Let me alone,” he gasped, and tried to run, but Crazy blocked his escape.
“Now I gotcha.” Crazy’s voice was triumphant. “Gotcha!” He swung again, and the brass knuckles broke Frank’s nose. “Gotcha for everything!”
Frank was blind and helpless with pain, and Crazy rushed him, pounding killing blows on his head and shoulders, blows that broke his flesh and muscles and bone, that left him gagging with an incessant drumming pain. Suddenly he grabbed Frank by the throat and forced him back over the ledge.
People in the street began to scream and to point at the struggling figures on the roof. They could see the threshing boys and the slow, inexorable stiffening of Crazy’s arms as he choked Frank and forced him back over the roof ledge. From the surrounding windows the people screamed for help, shielding their eyes, wanting not to look or see, and yet fascinated by the deadly tableau on the roof.
As Crazy continued to force Frank back and over the roof edge, his arms were grasped by his mother.
“Leon!” she shrieked. “Zindele,” she implored, and tugged vainly at her son. “Leon! Let him go. For God’s sake, let him go! Leon! Leon!” She clawed at his clutching fingers. “Zindele, zindele!”
Crazy’s breath came in great heaving gasps and he looked at his mother, who stared at him with dead, rigid eyes. In her face and eyes there was no longer the love and affection he had always known, and she appeared like a woman made of wax, whose features have been frozen into an expression of terror beyond belief.
Snarling, Crazy shoved his mother aside and with one last blow and curse he hurled Frank from the roof. With flaying arms and legs Frank fell and hit the rail of the third-story fire escape, then caromed out in an arc toward the street, screaming his life away.
The Amboy Dukes Page 24
