by Jack Tunney
“This is Frank Billings,” Father Cruz said, starting the introductions. “Frank, these are the two detectives I told you about. You can trust them.”
“You didn’t say one of them was a nigra.” Billings looked ready to bolt from the room.
Tombstone had followed me into the room, but had stayed back by the door. He allowed a slow grin to overtake his face, revealing the oversized brilliantly white teeth capped by half-moons of pink gums from whence his nickname came.
“We all gots to be something, sho-enuf,” Tombstone said. His mother had been school teacher and he spoke better English than I did. He knew it irritated me when he played the fool, but sometimes it put folks at ease to fulfill their expectations.
“He’s big, but he’s harmless,” I said, more to irk Tombstone than to reassure Billings. “But you, Mr. Billings, you’re not so harmless.”
Billings stood up. He was a big man and there was anger and tension in his stance.
“Easy,” I said putting up a placating hand and sitting in the other chair, diffusing the situation. Billings looked slightly confused then sat back down himself.
“I can see you’ve been a boxer,” I said. “You’ve got the scar tissue around your eyes and ears to prove it. I can also see from the condition of your hands, many of the fights you’ve been in haven’t involved gloves.”
“I don’t want to fight no more,” Billings said. There was a plea in his voice that made the blurted statement almost poignant.
“Okay,” I said. “Who’s making you?”
“Crawley.”
I looked from Billings to Father Cruz.
“Hiram Crawley,” Father Cruz said. “He’s the head Southern Pacific railroad bull.”
“King of the Tracks,” Billings said. “Any bo knows he’s got trouble if he bucks Crawley.”
“I know him,” Tombstone said from the doorway. “He’s free with his fists and his truncheon. Southern Pacific backs him because he keeps a lot of trouble off the tracks.”
“That’s because he’s the biggest trouble on the rails,” Billings said.
Tombstone nodded. “Heard he was running a shakedown racket, but we haven’t paid it any attention since it’s small change compared to Mickey Cohen’s illegal activities.”
“Nobody cares if bos got trouble,” Billings said. There was a lot of scorn and injured pride in his voice. The hobo culture took far more from a man than it gave, however, it give the destitute a sense of identity. To identify yourself as a bo was to lay claim you were still a man.
“These men will listen,” Father Cruz said.
“Why should they be any different?” Billings said with a sneer.
I looked at the man, wondering about the best way to play the situation.
“We don’t back down,” I said.
Billings looked directly at me for the first time. “Father Cruz says you’re the guy chopped down Solomon King.”
I nodded.
“I heard you broke your hand putting down Willy Stevenson,” he said.
“My wrist,” I said, holding out my right hand and making a fist.
“It going to hold up?”
I shrugged. “Don’t know, but maybe we can use Crawley to find out.”
ROUND THREE
Billings hit me with a straight right. Maybe I could have swatted it away, but it was a strong shot and we had to make things look good.
Billings was tough for a bo. He’d led a hard life on the rails and it showed in his sinewy muscles and gut determination. But constant undernourishment had also taken its toll. Matched up against another bo in the same condition, Billings rudimentary boxing skills and determination would probably have seen him come out on top. However, I’d had to slow way down or Billings would have run out of steam before we’d even gone two minutes.
We we’re fighting in an area of the tracks where disused freight cars were stored. A makeshift ring had been squared out using old telephone poles placed flat on the ground. The area was near an established hobo camp, visited regularly by travelling men from all over, but also raided often by Crawley and his pack of semi-tame railroad bulls.
That's where the bulls had caught Billings and me, and how we'd ended up pitted against each other in this bare-knuckle contest.
Other bos from the camp were gathered around the ring cheering either for Billings or me, depending on which one of us Crawley had pinned their future. Ten of Crawley’s uniformed minions, tough well-fed men with their truncheons drawn and their Southern Pacific badges hanging heavy on their chests, waited to crack the skulls of any bo who didn’t do as he was told.
Billings and I had railed into the LA depot in an empty cattle car out of Stockton. Tombstone had driven Billings and me up to Stockton despite Billings’ assurances we could have ridden the rails north before coming south. However, after spending six hours in an empty but stinking cattle car, I was glad we hadn’t followed Billing’s advice and ridden the blinds both ways.
Billings was known as a jungle professor, a man who had ridden the rails far and wide, knew every jump-off spot, every free handout location, and what bulls were lenient and which ones verged on being killers. The price of trespassing on the rails was high. I’d seen the reported statistics. In 1953, Southern Pacific agents had ejected over 600,000 trespassers from the company's trains, often violently. And the Interstate Commerce Commission recorded over 6,000 trespassers killed or injured – and there were many others that went unreported.
Using the information provided by Billings, it hadn’t been hard to convince Chief Parker to let our Hat Squad unit run a freelance operation against the Southern Pacific Railroad’s police. As far as Chief Parker was concerned there was only one big dog in town – and that was the LAPD.
He didn’t care if the Southern Pacific bulls thought they were cops and everyone else thought the hobos were just throwaway citizens. Parker hated corruption in any form. He’d created the Hat Squad – officially known as the Gangster Squad – by bringing together the toughest and straightest cops on the LAPD.
The unit’s mandate was to root out all corruption and organized crime in the city. The only rules were to take no bribes, turn no blind eyes, and to use whatever methods needed to take down anyone who did. For Parker, the ends justified the means, and the Southern Pacific bulls were more than fair game.
The Stockton rail yard had been busy, but despite the presence of a handful of Southern Pacific bulls, it was known to be hobo friendly. A bo didn’t get smacked about there simply for riding. If he was caught stealing or vandalizing, then he faced the wrath of the local law. However, if he kept to himself in the local hobo camps, didn’t get caught where he shouldn’t, and simply hitched a free ride on any of the freights coming and going from all over the country, the law was live and let ride.
The Los Angeles junction was a whole different story.
It was early in the afternoon when, with Billings leading the way, I slipped out of the cattle car as the freight slowed going up the 4th Street hill leading into the enclosed yards. Four other bos were with us, none of whom had shown any interest in me beyond judging if I was a threat to them or not. I was dressed in rough clothing, all supplied by Father Cruz except for a pair of my own heavy work boots.
I followed Billings and the other bo’s down a siding and into a makeshift camp. Even though it was still early by hobo standards, I counted about twenty-five other travelling men already in the camp. Some were gathered around a rudimentary cooking fire. Others were stretched out on the ground lightly napping in the early afternoon sun. A group of six were engaged in a card game I didn’t recognize.
Billings and I had made our way separately to the cooking fire where there was a communal pot of what appeared to be stew. Clearly, the pot was never cleaned. Water and whatever scrounged potatoes and vegetables were available had simply been thrown into the continuous mix. Several carcasses, bones picked clean were scattered about. I hoped they were rabbits, but they could have just as eas
ily come from cats or small dogs.
I looked into the stew pot and saw the gray lumps of mystery meat and my stomach turned over. Billings saw the look on my face and laughed as he scooped out a helping with a tin cup he produced from inside his ragged suit.
Before he could eat, however, there were shrill whistles and shouts as ten Southern Pacific uniformed bulls charged into the camp. Swearing loudly, they made free with their truncheons and boots as they rounded the camp inhabitants into a ragged group. The bulls met little resistance from men used to being despised and abused.
Once the group was tightly packed and contained, Crawley walked into the camp behind his men. I would have recognized him without having seen his picture in the files at LAPD’s Central station. He was a big man, easily over six foot four with a breadth of chest and belly that bespoke muscle and power. He had a handlebar mustache slapped across the granite slab of his face beneath a beaked nose and tiny close set eyes. His uniform was as immaculate as those of his men were sloppy. The black bill of his round cap was shiny enough to reflect the overhead sun.
Two of the bulls had produced revolvers and were keeping the motley group of bos at bay, threatening to use the weapons if they were not obeyed. Used to having their own way with the hobos, the bulls were brimming with bravado – corrupt and cruel, like the man they followed.
“You boys will never learn, will you?” Crawley said, his voice a gravel filled Scottish burr. He slapped a long hickory baton across his right palm, the baton’s leather strap around his left wrist – a southpaw.
One of the bos, a stick thin man with a pockmarked face, spoke out. “It’s just a travelling camp, Mr. Crawley, sir. We’ll move on.”
Crawley walked up to the man and smiled. I saw the blow coming, but the skinny bo sure didn’t. Crawley’s baton only moved eight inches, but it was still a powerful strike to the man’s completely unprotected solar plexus. The bo doubled over and dropped to his knees retching.
Crawley look down at the man. “This is my train yard. You set up camp here, you owe me rent, and you can't ride the Southern Pacific without paying.” Crawley turned and walked a few paces back. Then he ordered his men, “Split them up and search ‘em.”
The other bulls cut the gathered bos into two groups. Billings had told me this was likely to happen and we made sure we were separated. The bulls made the bos empty their pockets onto the ground in front of them. There was an assortment of pocket knives, buttons, and papers. A few coins and an odd crumpled dollar made an appearance here and there.
“I said search ‘em!” Crawley roared when his saw the pathetic collection.
This time the uniformed bulls manhandled each bo, patting them down and digging hidden cash and coins out of filthy clothing. Everything was tossed onto the ground.
As the two armed bulls stood guard, others meticulously went through pockets, checked brims of caps, and even detailed shoes and fingered belts.
A hard-working bindle stiff, who'd been following the harvest, was found to be hiding forty dollars, which he probably planned on taking home to his family. It was a huge amount by hobo standards, his lifesavings.
When he pleaded with the bull searching him not to take it, he was unceremoniously thrown to the ground and kicked repeatedly. It was a heartless thing to do, with no concern for his labors whatsoever.
When a bull with a long face and dirty hair approached me, I stood my ground until he tried to grab me. I deflected his arm and stepped backward. He looked at me angrily and raised his truncheon.
“Don’t,” I said, in a low voice.
“It’ll be me searching you standing or three of us searching you on the ground,” he said menacingly. The nameplate on his heavy wool uniform shirt told me his last name was Cotton.
“It’ll take more than three,” I said calmly. “And they’ll be doing it without you.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ll be on the ground yourself with a broken jaw.” I hadn’t flexed my fists yet, but I sure wanted to do so.
“What’s to stop us from just shooting you for resisting,” he said with a curl of his lip, as one of the armed bulls turned our way.
In a flash, I stepped forward, slammed the palm of my right hand into his left shoulder and used my right hand to pull his right shoulder forward. My actions spun Cotton around. When he was facing away from me, I looped my right arm around his throat and pulled him back against me. He was off balance and choking as I grabbed my right hand with my left, pulling my right forearm back across his throat.
“Maybe they won’t mind shooting through you to get to me,” I said roughly into his ear.
“What’s this?” Crawley appeared next to the armed bull, pushing his gun arm down. He gave me a hard look. “You a tough guy?”
“You ain’t taking my money,” I said. Billings had told me the way things would go if somebody didn’t cooperate.
Crawley stared hard at me and I had the feeling he could see right through the borrowed clothing I was wearing and the dirt I’d artfully smeared on my arms and face. It takes a long time to get the ground in grime look of most travelling men and I was worried Crawley would see me for an interloper. Greed and sadism blinds men, however, and Crawley just sneered at me.
“If you think I give a damn about ol’ Cotton there, you’re sadly mistaken. I got no problem killing him and taking you down for his murder. Let him go and you might get out of this alive.”
I released Cotton’s throat and shoved him forward, making him stumble into the armed bull who fell down trying to catch him.
Some of the other bulls went to move toward me, and I began to hope fervently Tombstone and the rest of my backup were nearby.
Crawley put up a hand and stopped his men from advancing. He walked up to me himself.
“I like a man with a bit of spirit,” he said. “Most of these bos are no better than whipped dogs with their tails between their legs. Now, you’re going to do exactly as I tell you, or I will have you busted up so bad you’ll never be able to grab another passing freight.” He turned and looked over at the other group of bos. “You got any contenders over there, Henderson?”
The bull named Henderson pushed Billings out of the group. “Billings here don’t want to let us search him either.”
Crawley turned back to face me with a shark’s smile. “Now, isn’t that convenient? What’s your name, boy?”
“Flynn,” I said without thinking. I felt a line of sweat pop out on my forehead as I cursed myself and hoped Crawley wasn’t a fan of the pro fights.
“Now, Billings has been through this before. He’s a tough old horse, but you look like you can give him a run.”
“I ain’t fighting,” I said.
“You will fight,” Billings said. “Because if you don’t, you won’t see the sunrise tomorrow.”
“You threatening to kill me?” I wanted it plain and in the open.
“I don’t threaten, son. I do. These are my tracks, my freight cars, my engines. I can bury you under a ton of coal and nobody will ever see you again.”
Crawley turned and waved Henderson over. Henderson came, pushing Billings ahead of him.
“Here’s how this works,” Crawley said. “I’m a fair man. Normally, we just take half a bo’s money in rent and train fare. But I’m in need of a little entertainment, so I’m going to give you boys a little incentive. You fight until one man goes down and stays down. The man left standing gets to keep his money and move on as do the other bos in his group. The bos in the loser’s group lose every cent paying for both groups.”
This entertainment was nothing new to Crawley and his crew. The bulls herded Billings and myself along with the other bos over to the makeshift ring bordered by the telephone poles.
I was trying to burn time, wondering when Tombstone and the rest of the squad would put in their appearance.
Prompted by the jeering of the bulls and the bos he was representing, Billings came at me as if he had forgotten we were supp
osed to be putting on a show to get the goods on Crawley and his crew. Billings threw a series of rudimentary combinations, from which I simply backed away.
He had power in his fist, and he was obviously a tough opponent in the rough and tumble way of untrained fighting men. However, even on a bad day when I’d been with the Navy’s Shore Patrol, I could have put him down without breaking a sweat. But this was a different situation. I didn’t want to hurt him, but if I wasn’t careful he might hurt me as I tried to maneuver the fight.
I was suddenly kicked violently from behind, shoved forward to collide with Billings, both of us falling to the ground. I rolled away quickly and turned to face Crawley. He smirked at me and gave a condescending fake laugh, “Haw, haw ...” He reached over and grabbed the bo nearest to him, a slight man with a club foot, by the neck and forced him to his knees. He took out a revolver and put it to the man’s head. “If you don’t quit pussyfooting and start fighting, I’m gonna put this one out of my misery.”
I turned to Billings who had just regained his feet. He swung at me immediately and tagged me on the right cheek. I had just enough warning to turn my head slightly, but the blow still stung. Where the hell was Tombstone?
I batted Billings next jab away with my right and shot out my left, hitting him in the chest. The point of the chin is the knockout button, but with unprotected fists, it was an easy place to break knuckles.
Billings staggered back and I moved in on him. Using my big hands as clubbing mittens, I clouted him first over his right ear and then his left. I knew the blows would sting and disorient, but not do any real damage to either him or me.
Crawley fired his gun into the ground next to the man he was forcing to kneel. “I said fight!”
Billings charged me. I waited till the last second and then stepped to one side like a matador using a veronica on a passing bull. As Billings stumbled past, I shoved him hard and sent him crashing into Crawley and the kneeling man.
