‘Such as... did you know Novack?’
‘Which Novack? There’s hundreds of Novacks. The woods is lousy with ’em.’
‘Heim Novack. The hunk who got it... the other night.’
‘Naw! Never heard of him.’
Turner raised his big hand, held the palm of it stiff and brought the edge of it down hard over Covicci’s kidneys. Covicci screamed with pain. ‘All right,’ said Turner calmly. ‘You were seen leaving a restaurant with him at nine o’clock. He was found dead at eleven. Now do you remember?’
‘Sure,’ said Covicci, hate gleaming in his eyes. He twisted his head to look at Turner. ‘Now I know who you musta meant. The guy asked me for a light as I was paying my bill at the cashier’s. Never seen him before in my life. He took a light and just walked out the door with me.’
‘He got in your car with you.’
‘You must be cracked. I ain’t got no car!’
‘Sure you got a car. It’s not registered under your name, but you got a car...’
‘I swear I ain’t got a car. You can’t prove I got one.’
Again the big hand was raised and brought down over the hanging man. Saliva sprayed from his mouth as the blow landed. His legs kicked, and the room echoed with his screams.
‘I’ll ask you the question again,’ said Turner. ‘Do you own a car?’
Covicci licked his lips with the tip of his tongue. ‘I gotta friend who lets me borrow his car... once in a while,’ he admitted slowly. ‘It ain’ mine, though,’ he added hastily.
‘That’s better,’ said Turner. ‘Now, another question: Where’s that car now?’
Covicci shook his head. ‘I don’t know...’
Suddenly Turner was deadly vicious. ‘Quit stalling!’ he said. ‘Where’s that car?’
‘Look...’ Covicci spat his words back, ‘I don’t know... I ain’t seen it... my lawyer...’The screams began again, rising and lowering until they tore at Rafferty’s ears, as Turner methodically recommenced his beating. ‘Stop!’ Covicci pleaded. ‘Wait! Wait, I’ll tell you... I’ll tell you...’Turner stepped away from the door and stood beside Covicci, waiting patiently. Tears ran down the gangster’s face, and he had to swallow quickly to clear his voice. ‘In a garage down on the south side,’ he said. ‘That’s where it is...’
‘Where?’
‘The Milon Park Garage,’ Covicci said. He gave the address.
Turner nodded to one of the detectives. ‘Get it,’ he said, ‘get it fast!’ The detective hurried from the room. Turner again focused his attention on Covicci. ‘Okay, my boy,’ he said. ‘Let’s ask a few more. Where were you going, when you and Novack got in the car?’
‘He didn’t get in the car.’
‘The hell he didn’t! You know, Covicci, I’d hate like hell to have to bust your kidneys wide open. Let’s try it again...’
Turner was interrupted by the sudden opening of the door to the room. Quickly Turner placed his hand over Covicci’s mouth. A harness cop stepped inside the door and closed it. ‘His lawyer’s outside, demanding to see him.’ He motioned towards Covicci.
‘Stall him a couple minutes,’ said Turner. ‘We’ll have him right out.’ The cop returned with the message. Turner and the detective swiftly removed Covicci from his position on the door. Before untrussing his hands, they splashed cold water on his face and dried it quickly with a towel. Then, loosening his straps, they replaced his shirt, tied his tie, and stuffed his limp arms in the sleeves of his coat. The fuzzy, gray hat was jammed on his head. Turner patted him gently on the shoulder. ‘You’ve been a good boy, Joe,’ he said. ‘I hate to see you go. But I probably will be seeing you again... soon!’ He pushed him out the door.
Standing in the main Homicide office, a red-faced, hawk-featured man was arguing heatedly with two detectives. Seeing Covicci, he rushed to his side. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.
‘The dirty sonsabitches!’ snarled Covicci. ‘They beat the living hell outta me...’
The attorney, in a rage, faced Turner. ‘You can’t get away with this! I’m making an issue of this right now!’
Turner regarded the attorney with distaste, but his voice was placid. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he said. ‘Covicci is an awful liar.’
‘I’m taking my client to see a doctor!’
‘Go ahead,’ said Turner. ‘There’s not a mark on him.’
‘How do you know?’ demanded the attorney.
‘Well... unless he brought some in with him,’ said Turner. ‘We just had a quiet little talk, didn’t we, Covicci?’
Covicci spat on the floor.
‘I was with ’em all the time,’ said the second detective. ‘I didn’t see nothing happen.’
The attorney grasped Covicci by the arm and hustled him to the door. He turned to face the watching group. ‘I’m swearing out a warrant against you today,’ he told Turner. The lawyer and his client slammed the door behind them.
Rafferty and Turner walked back to the sergeant’s small office. ‘Will he?’ asked Rafferty.
Turner shrugged. ‘Probably. But by that time we’ll have Covicci’s car, and we’ll arrest and hold him on a murder rap. We got good reason to believe the actual killing was done in the car. If it was, there’ll be bloodstains and prints.’
The two men sat down in the office: Turner behind an oak-finished desk, Rafferty in a straight-backed chair. ‘How come Covicci was fool enough to use his own car in a shooting? Don’t they usually steal cars for that purpose?’
‘Sure,’ said Turner. ‘As a rule they use a hot car and then ditch it. This didn’t start out for a ride, but it ended up that way. Covicci will probably plead self-defense.’
‘What was the motive?’
‘That’s up to the D.A. to figure out,’ he said. ‘We’re lucky to even have a suspect. Most gang killings are tougher than hell to prove. When we found Novack’s body, we had absolutely nothing to go on. Then we picked up a line from a stool who said Covicci was seen leaving a restaurant with Novack. But we didn’t have any reliable witnesses to prove it. All it did was give us a lead on Covicci. We started nosing around and discovered Covicci was laying low, and a car which he owned and registered under an alias was missing, too. There had to be a reason for it. Either he was mixed up with this killing, or with something else which we didn’t know about yet. So we pulled him in.’
‘But suppose he isn’t guilty?’ asked Rafferty.
Turner lit a cigarette. ‘Then what we did to him was just part payment on an old account.’ He looked at Rafferty squarely. ‘Maybe you do it differently when you’re a trooper,’ he said, ‘but when you’re a cop, you got to use every break you get. I never beat up an innocent suspect in my life. I never seen another cop do it either. If we pull in a... well, just a regular citizen... with no record, we give him a break; or if we get a hold of a suspect where there’s any doubt, we give him a break, too. But take these bastards like Covicci... he’s been arrested on fourteen different counts, starting from armed burglary and rape and ending up with murder. Three different murder raps he’s been hauled in on, and he’s beaten them. Now, he’s got dough... he can afford good lawyers. The bastards won’t talk, and as soon as we try to question ’em, their attorneys spring them. The law bends over backwards, trying to give the crooks a break. Against cards stacked like that, you gotta do the best you can. Sometimes, maybe, all we do is pick up a word... a hint... but it may help break a case. Sometimes it doesn’t work, and we got to be careful about marking ’em up. But in the case of a mug like Covicci... he was just collecting a little interest on a debt long overdue.’
That night Rafferty thought about Turner and Covicci. It was the first time he had seen a suspect manhandled, but he had no sympathy for Covicci. On the other hand, his sympathies did not entirely lie with Turner. He felt that Turner had gambled too much on a hunch, had risked too much on grabbing the gangster before charges could be brought against him. Yet he recognized the problems facing Turner, and
the men on his squad, who sincerely were attempting to maintain peace and order and protect human life.
In the morning Katherine and Emmet ate their breakfast in a big, clean, economical cafeteria. The morning paper had a story concerning the arrest of Joe Covicci charged with murder. Turner’s hunch had paid off. ‘I guess maybe we’re going to move, Kathy,’ he said.
She looked up quickly from her breakfast. ‘To Chicago?’ she asked.
‘Would you like that?’
She smiled. ‘It’s big... and exciting,’ she said. ‘It would be fun.’
‘Well,’ he said, his face expressionless, ‘we’re not moving to Chicago.’
Her face fell. ‘No?’
‘No, We’ll go to New York instead. If we’re going to change, we might as well go whole hog.’
Katherine was excited, but quickly became serious. ‘But you’ve never been to New York,’ she said. ‘Maybe you won’t like it.’
‘I’ll like it,’ he replied. ‘I’ll get along. New York isn’t much different from Chicago. People are pretty much the same all over. A cop’s a cop; the law’s the law. Maybe I’ll have to learn to do things a little differently, but the reasons I’m doing them will be the same.’
In September they arrived in New York. They brought all their clothes in three suitcases, and found an inexpensive furnished room on West 106th Street. In one corner of the room was a small gas plate. At the end of the hall was a bathroom which they shared with the other roomers on the floor. Emmet had with him his honorary discharge from the Highway Patrol, a letter of recommendation from his commanding officer, and a savings book from the bank in Gilmore Springs with his—and Katherine’s—small joint savings account.
Immediately Rafferty enrolled in a special course in police work, studying at a civil service school for the examinations he knew he must take to get on the force. Next he applied for an application to take the examination, and he was told that notice of the next examination would be published in the papers.
But before the announcement was published, it was October. October the 29th, to be exact. October 29, 1929. And the gears of the nation’s economy faltered, slowed, and ground to a halt. It was in the newspapers, the news bigger, bolder, blacker each day. But as news it mean little to Emmet, less to Katherine, as neither of them owned a share of stock or a single bond. The great depression started, and the men who had jobs held to them grimly, while the multitude of men, without jobs, increased daily in the streets. By January, 1930, the examination notice had not yet been published in the papers. The mayor had announced that all city departmental budgets had been pared to the bone. Slowly, Emmet realized that the force would not be hiring new men for some time... possibly a very long time. He told Katherine of his fears.
‘Let’s go back home,’ she said. ‘We’ll go back and perhaps you can get back on the patrol.’
‘No,’ said Emmet. ‘We’ll stick it out. The patrol won’t be taking men either. We’re here, and I’m staying. If you want to go back to Fletcher... to your folks, I won’t blame you.’
‘If you stay, Em, I’ll stay,’ she said.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘But I got to find a job. We’re running out of money.’
It was true. They had less than fifty dollars left in their savings. But there were no jobs to be had. Great crowds of men formed in front of the employment agencies, early each morning, standing patiently, one, two, three hours for the office to open; awaiting anxiously the news of a pitiful handful of jobs... a few hours’ work unloading a truck, door-to-door canvassing on a straight commission, shovelling snow in the coal yards by the river.
Chance or luck—or perhaps it can properly be called fate—once again stepped into Rafferty’s life. Fate, possibly, is the better name because it again linked him into the old familiar pattern: protector in the schoolyard; taker of tickets; patroller of stores; guardian of the highways. A block away from the furnished room on West 106th Street was a small Italian restaurant. It had no name, and outside was a neat white sign which read simply: GOOD SPAGHETTI.
It was one of a thousand... or many thousands... identical places in the city, buried in a basement, supporting a dozen tables. Good Spaghetti was operated and owned by an elderly Italian named Rizzoni, who sold his spaghetti at thirty-five cents a plate, including salad and bread with garlic butter. Optional, at an additional cost of ten cents a small glass, was Mr. Rizzoni’s own homemade Dago-red wine. While the sale of the wine was undoubtedly a profitable operation to Rizzoni, he did it more for the convenience of his customers than for the actual money, and the fear of prohibition agents haunted him constantly.
Katherine and Emmet had eaten at Good Spaghetti on a number of occasions when first coming to New York and while still in funds, but neither of them enjoyed the sour-tasting wine, and did not drink it after their first visit. In February, after a desperate and unsuccessful week of job hunting and missed meals, Emmet decided to take one of their few remaining dollars and buy Katherine dinner at Rizzoni’s.
The tiny restaurant was nearly filled when they appeared, and Mr. Rizzoni seated them next to a table containing a solitary drunk. The drunk, who apparently had wandered in off the street, was drinking glassfuls of the wine and becoming increasingly loud in his demands for more. Mr. Rizzoni, who acted as waiter for the restaurant while his wife worked in the kitchen, hovered anxiously to take Emmet’s order. The drunk noisily demanded more wine, and when he was ignored, angrily shoved back his chair, knocking it to the floor. Rising to his feet he began berating the unfortunate proprietor. Rizzoni, a small, dark man with a startling white mustache across his swarthy face, could do little with his halting English to quiet the fellow. The drunk, recognizing his advantage and pushing it to the limit, increased his shouting which now could be heard clearly on the street, and refused to leave the restaurant at Mr. Rizzoni’s request.
Emmet, seated with Katherine, had been listening to the argument in some embarrassment. Suddenly he arose to his feet, grasped the drunk by the arm, shoved the hold into a shoulder lock and marched him out the door. On the sidewalk, he told the drunk, in words easily recognizable, what would happen if he returned to the restaurant. The drunk walked quietly, although unsteadily down the street.
Mr. Rizzoni greeted Rafferty at his table with profuse thanks and insisted upon paying the check for their spaghetti. At the end of the dinner, he seated himself at the table and poured them each a glass of wine. They could not refuse to drink it without offending the old man, but by the time they had finished, the dining room was deserted. During the conversation, Rafferty mentioned that he was looking for a job. Rizzoni hurriedly excused himself, and went to the kitchen door where he held a rapid conversation in Italian with Mrs. Rizzoni. He returned to the table, his small face split in a wide smile, and offered Rafferty a job. In his excitement, it was necessary that he repeat his offer slowly that he might be understood, but unquestionably he was offering Emmet a job as a waiter, at five dollars a week, his meals and tips. Emmet immediately accepted the offer on the condition that he be permitted to take his food home to eat it. This request was enthusiastically granted.
The job, poor as it was, was the break necessary for Rafferty to remain in New York. The restaurant was open only from noon until two in the afternoon; and from five until ten at night. The rest of his time was his own, and he continued his studies at the civil service school. The five dollars a week paid their room rent, and the occasional ten- and fifteen-cent tips enabled them to meet their other tiny expenses. And equally important, or perhaps more important, was the great covered dish of spaghetti Emmet carried home to the room each night, or sometimes an aluminium kettle of minestrone.
Occasionally, Katherine managed to find post cards and envelopes to be addressed for a small direct-by-mail printing company located in the East Twenties. Seated on a straight-backed chair, and holding an empty suitcase on her lap to write upon, Katherine would work far into the night writing the addresses in pen and ink. For her ser
vices she was paid seven and a half cents per hundred names and addresses, but the occasional dollar or two that she managed to pick up in this way was needed badly.
The Raffertys hung on grimly. Katherine worried about Emmet, although he did not seem unhappy. Each morning, he arose early and read the papers, looking for a job and making the rounds of the employment agencies. After reporting for the lunch hours at the cafe, he went to his civil service school, studying hard and intently.
In May, 1930, the papers announced the forthcoming examination and, on the day appointed, Emmet took his examination. Nearly seven hundred and fifty other hopefuls took it too. He received no further word concerning the examination until July, when he received a letter merely stating that he had passed it successfully, had been assigned a number in keeping with his grades, and when his number was reached, he would be notified for further examination.
He awaited additional news anxiously, but the summer passed without his receiving it. In September, nearly a year to the day of their arrival in New York, he was notified to appear before the Civil Service Commission. As a result of his personal interview and his references, he underwent a rigid physical and medical examination. Passing them easily, he was appointed a patrolman on probation for six months.
Rafferty adjusted his blue tunic carefully, and set the visored cap securely on his head. He examined himself critically in the hazy mirror of the furnished room. ‘How do I look?’ he asked.
‘You look perfectly beautiful,’ said Katherine.
Rafferty grinned and patted the night stick and holstered gun on his hip, looking down at the heavy-soled black shoes on his feet. ‘No more riding around in luxury,’ he said.
‘Sure, and one of these days you’ll be riding around in the commissioner’s limousine of your own,’ Katherine replied with a heavy imitation Irish brogue.
Rafferty laughed. ‘No,’ he said. ‘But much as I’m delighted with the sheer beauty of this uniform, as of this moment I’m bucking for promotion to get out of it.’
Six months later he completed his probation and was appointed to the regular police.
Rafferty Page 4
