Juvenile Delinquent

by Richard Deming

  Finally I said, “You ever try a reefer?”

  “Sure,” he said indifferently. “When I was fourteen. Made a damn fool of myself at a club party and never touched one since.”

  “How about H?”

  He looked at me. “That booby-hatch juice? Do I look nuts?”

  “The police found a kit in your club room,” I said. “In a hole in the wall behind a picture.”

  He frowned. “They found it, huh? None of us been around the club room today because it’s still staked out. I guess we’ll have to find a new spot. Now the blueshirts know where that one is, they’ll pull a raid every time somebody loses a hub cap.”

  “About the kit,” I reminded him.

  He shrugged. “A few of the guys try it for kicks once in a while.”

  “How many?”

  “Not many,” he said evasively.

  “How long’s a rig been part of the club room furnishings?”

  He looked surprised at the question. “I don’t know. Year, year and a half.”

  “Don’t kid me then, Stub. If it’s been around that long, some of the boys are beyond the kick stage. How many of your members are hooked?”

  He looked uncomfortable, then gave a the-hell-with-it shrug. “Maybe twenty. And about a half dozen auxiliary members.”

  I whistled. “A third of the club! Where do you get the stuff?”

  “We don’t,” he said in a definite tone. “Not as a club, that is. The ones with monkeys on their backs are strictly on their own.”

  “But you know their source,” I insisted.

  “Maybe. You’d have to convince me that had something to do with the murder before I spilled it, though. I got no desire to end up in an alley.”

  “If it’s got nothing to do with the murder, it won’t go past me.”

  When he merely continued to look unenthusiastic, I made use of a little of the information I’d gotten from Sara Chesterton. “They get it from the barber or the pool hall?” I suggested.

  His head jerked around in astonishment. “If you know, why ask me?”

  “So they do get it there. What’s that barber’s name again?”

  His face turned suspicious and I saw immediately I’d made a mistake. I tried to rectify it just as immediately.

  “Okay, Stub. I tried to pull a fast one. I don’t know where the barbershop or the pool hall are, and I tried to trap you into telling me. It won’t happen again. We’ll keep things on the level. Here’s why I wanted to know. What you told me about Bart Meyers trying to reform the club got me to thinking perhaps the dope pushers weren’t happy about his trying to discourage potential customers. And anybody low enough to sell dope is low enough to stick a knife in a kid and frame another kid for it.”

  He thought this over, finally said reluctantly, “It’s Harry’s Pool Parlor at Fourth and Lucas. Only it ain’t the pool hall that sells it. It’s a guy named Art Cooney who hangs around there. The barber is a guy on Sixth named Sam Polito. Neither one’s a user himself.”

  “They rarely are,” I informed him. “They know better than to use it themselves. How do your hooked club members raise money for their expensive habit?”

  “Different ways, I guess.”

  “Like pushing a little H themselves for Cooney and Polito? Or maybe recruiting new addicts?”

  “I guess they do some of that.”

  “What else?”

  “Steal stuff too,” he admitted.

  “Who are their fences?”

  “The same two guys. They trade merchandise for H instead of cash.”

  “I see. But this is strictly an individual activity, and not a club arrangement?”

  “Yeah. The club never uses those guys.”

  “You have your own fences for club activities, eh?”

  “Just one.”

  “Harry Krebb?” I asked, drawing on another bit of information I had gotten from Sara.

  He raised his eyebrows. “You knew a little bit about this neighborhood before you came to see me.”

  “Very little,” I said. “That’s about it. What kind of stuff do you take Krebb?”

  “All kinds. Hub caps, tires, radio aerials. Mostly stuff from cars. But he’ll handle most anything. Even cigarettes and whisky.”

  “He pays cash?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And that’s how you finance the club?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What else does the club do?”

  “That’s about all. Except have a rumble with the Gravediggers now and then.”

  “I thought you said the order was out against that?”

  He was silent.

  “What’d you mean by that, Stub? Who ordered the Purple Pelicans and the Gravediggers to stop fighting?”

  Before answering he lit another cigarette and nervously puffed on it. Eventually he said, “Hell, I’ve told you so much now, I’m dead if anybody finds out. I may as well tell you the rest.”

  And for the next fifteen minutes I listened to an amazing story of how an organized adult gang was deliberately exploiting a bunch of teenagers by steering them into dope addiction and encouraging them in large-scale theft and burglary, the bulk of profits from which went into the pockets of the adults.

  The Purple Pelican’s contact with the group was a hoodlum named Buzz Thurmond, Stub told me. The garageman fence and the two heroin pushers he had previously mentioned also took orders from Thurmond. But Buzz Thurmond was known to be only a lieutenant and not the boss of the gang, because the man who had organized the Gravediggers along similar lines was a different hood named Limpy Alfred. Who the big boss was, Stub had no idea. But it was generally accepted by both the Purple Pelicans and the Gravediggers that they were under the protection of a powerful adult gang which would furnish them bail and legal service if they ever got in trouble.

  It was Buzz Thurmond who had introduced the club to its fence, Harry Krebb, as well as introducing individual members to the two narcotics pushers. It was also Thurmond who outlined to the club what petty jobs to pull. He regularly attended the secret meetings of the club and it leaned heavily on his advice.

  When I asked how long this had been going on, Stub said, “About four years. Just about the time I joined the club. He hung around and got to talking to some of the boys and dropped hints that he could show us how to raise money. After a while somebody brought him to a meeting so he could talk to the whole group. After that it got to be a habit for him to drop around to meetings. He never tried to tell us how to run the club, though. I mean who to make officers and so on. He just advised us on jobs.”

  I asked, “Did this Buzz Thurmond know about Bart’s reform campaign?”

  He looked startled. Glancing at me sideways, he said in a suddenly thoughtful voice, “Yeah. He never said anything one way or the other about it, but I guess he wouldn’t have liked it much, would he?”

  “I shouldn’t think so,” I said drily. “It might have put a crimp in his business. One more thing, Stub. Did you know the reason the cops showed up so conveniently to catch Joe on the spot was that fifteen minutes previously they got an anonymous phone call from some girl telling them a reefer party was in progress at the club room?”

  “No,” he said with surprise.

  “Any idea who the girl might be?”

  He shook his head.

  “The police have a theory it was either Bart’s girl or Joe’s wanting to break up the fight because she was afraid her boy friend would get hurt. Would either of them do that?”

  He shook his head again. “Bart’s girl didn’t much like fighting, but she wouldn’t dare pull a stunt like that. Bart would of slapped her silly. And Joe’s girl would of figured he’d win, so she wouldn’t call.”

  “I’ve got Bart’s girl’s name,” I said. “But who’s Joe’s?”

  “Wouldn’t he tell you?”

  I could have said I didn’t think to ask, but we’d gotten along so well honestly up till now, I wasn’t going to spoil future relations ove
r a minor point. “No, he wouldn’t,” I admitted.

  “Then I can’t either,” he said. “Joe must not want her mixed in.”

  “Fair enough,” I said agreeably. “I guess that covers things for now, Stub. You’ve been a big help. Where can I find you if I need you again?”

  “If I’m not at home, just look for a purple jacket. When you find one, tell the guy your name. I’ll pass the word that you’re okay.”

  He stepped out of the car and stood waiting on the sidewalk as I pulled away. I raised my hand in salute and he threw me a friendly good-by.

  7

  THE tavern beside which I had been parked was on Eighth Street. I drove along Eighth three blocks to Vernon, turned right, went past the building where Stub Carlson lived and continued to the middle of the next block.

  This block was a solid bank of small businesses on both sides of the street. On the west side there was a tavern on each corner, in between were a variety of places ranging from a barbershop to a small vegetable market, and in the exact center of the block was a brownstone entrance leading to the flats above the stores. The street number painted above this entrance was 620.

  Parking my car in front of the entrance, I went in. At the end of a dim hall I could see stairs going upward, and near them, seated in a kitchen chair which was tilted back against the wall was a skinny man with his hat on. Even in the subdued light I recognized him as a detective out of Homicide named Hogan. Apparently he was the stakeout Stub Carlson had referred to.

  Since there was no sign of a basement stairway in the hall at this end, I guessed it was situated under the other stairs.

  As I moved past the detective, I said casually, “Hi, Hogan.”

  “Whoa!” he said, coming out of a semicoma and his chair at the same time. “Where you think … Oh, it’s you, Manny.”

  I said, “Like to take a look at the Purple Pelicans’ club room.”

  “You on this case?” he asked.

  When I nodded, he said doubtfully, “I don’t know, Manny. I’ve got no authority to let anybody down there.”

  “Isn’t Homicide finished with it yet?”

  “Oh, sure. I’m just staked out to nab any members who float in.”

  “Then come off of it,” I said. “What the devil authority do you need?”

  He scratched his chin. “None, I guess,” he decided. “Guess I’m just getting contrary like the old man. Come on.”

  He led the way to a wooden door under the stairs, opened it and preceded me down a steep flight of steps. This led directly into a basement room which ran clear from the front of the building to the alley. It was about twenty feet wide and fifty feet long, with the only natural light and ventilation being two small eye-level windows at either end.

  The walls were brick and the ceiling unfinished, but both were cleanly whitewashed. Bright green draw drapes hung at each of the four windows, apparently partly for decoration and partly to insure privacy. The cement floor was enameled battleship gray with a decorative border of red.

  Under the stairway was a homemade bar painted and trimmed in the same combination as the floor. There were no bottles on it or behind it, but a metal washtub next to the bar contained an empty wine bottle and a number of empty beer cans.

  The place was furnished with a radio-phonograph whose scarred cabinet indicated it was second or third hand, wooden benches all around the walls except where they were interrupted by radiators, a number of cheap card tables and about twenty folding chairs. Decorations consisted of a number of pictures hanging on the walls, most of which seemed to be nudes cut from magazines and calendars and placed in dime-store frames, and a white muslin banner over the bar on which had been painted, with rather surprising expertness, a purple pelican.

  Except for a trash can and a stack of inexpensive ash trays on the bar, there wasn’t another thing in the place.

  I didn’t have to ask Hogan where the body had been found, for the chalk outline was still there in front of the bar. When I looked closely, I could see a couple of small spots of dried blood in the center of the outline.

  “Things just like they were?” I asked Hogan.

  “Yeah. Except for a cigarette butt that was in there.” He pointed to an ash tray on the end of the bar containing nothing but a little ash. “They figure it was one the dead kid smoked while waiting for Joe Brighton, but they took it along for the lab anyway.”

  “Only one butt, eh?” I asked.

  “Yeah. No kind of evidence whatever that anyone but the dead kid and young Brighton were here all evening. Who you working for, Manny?”

  “Joe Brighton,” I said.

  “Oh? Well, sorry to disillusion you, but if your fee depends on getting him off, looks like you’re working for nothing.”

  “Where’s that hole where they found the heroin rig?”

  Hogan went over to the wall and pushed aside a framed drawing of a Petty girl who was, as usual, phoning somebody in the standard garb of nothing. Behind it one brick had been removed from the wall, leaving a small oblong cavity. It didn’t tell me anything.

  “I guess that’s all,” I said. “Thanks.”

  “See anything the boys missed?” he asked with a touch of indulgence.

  “Naturally,” I said. “The killer couldn’t have been Joe Brighton, because he was a short, red-headed man who wore elevator heels, a checked jacket and an Alpine hat with a feather in it. He’s ambidextrous, had just arrived from Australia on a cattle boat and snores when he sleeps on his left side.”

  “Amazing,” Hogan said in simulated awe. “How do you do it?”

  “Elementary,” I said negligently.

  Upstairs again Hogan tried to get me to linger. We’re fairly good friends, but I suspected it wasn’t just my charm which made him want me to stay and pass the time. Sitting hour after hour in a hallway where it’s too dark to read isn’t exactly absorbing work, and I imagine the detective would have welcomed even Count Dracula as a companion to break the monotony.

  “What’s Warren Day expect to accomplish by staking out this place?” I asked curiously.

  Hogan shrugged. “I guess he figures if we catch some kid in the act of walking in here, it’ll be evidence he belongs to the club and we may have a better chance of getting some information out of him. We tried rounding up all the kids we could find wearing purple jackets, you know, but none of them would even tell us the time. Day would like one of the members’ testimony that young Brighton and Bart Meyers met to fight over leadership of the gang.”

  “You’re wasting your time,” I told him. “A dollar will get you ten that every member of the club knows you’re sitting here.”

  “No bet,” he said gloomily.

  It was not yet four o’clock when I came out of 620 Vernon, so there was still time for a call or two before I started interrupting people’s dinner. Across the street at the corner of Sixth and Vernon there was a drugstore. I checked the phone book for a Quint family on Sixth without success. Apparently they had no phone, for the only Quint family listed was out in the West End. And the drugstore didn’t have a city directory.

  “You know a Quint family that lives along here on Sixth someplace?” I asked the druggist.

  He was an old man, bent and shriveled and nearsighted and a little hard of hearing. I had to repeat the name.

  The second time he said, “Quint? Al Quint, the newspaper guy?”

  I was reasonably sure the father of the girl I was looking for wasn’t a reporter, but I said, “I was looking for Stella Quint. I don’t know her father’s name.”

  “That’s Al’s kid, mister. High-school girl. Al sells newspapers at Fourth and Center.”

  He didn’t know the address, but he told me the flat was in the next block, third building on the right.

  This street was practically identical to the one where Stub Carlson lived. When I entered the front hall of the third tenement on the right, I found a tenant list as dirty as the other tacked to the wall. According to it Alfred Q
uint lived on the second floor.

  A frowsy, middle-aged woman in a soiled house dress came to the door carrying a sleeping baby in her arms.

  “Is Stella home?” I asked her.

  She blew a wisp of hair out of her eyes. “In the front room.”

  Without a sign of curiosity she stepped aside to let me into a narrow hall, closed the door behind me and went off toward the kitchen. I turned the other way and went into the front room.

  It was a small, crowded room furnished with a cheap sofa, an assortment of ancient easy chairs, and tables and lamps, and a brand-new television set. A boy of about twelve was slouched in one of the easy chairs and an attractive blonde girl of about sixteen sat on the couch. She wasn’t wearing a purple jacket, but her hair was done up in a pony tail and bound by a purple ribbon.

  “Hi, Stella,” I said. “I’m Manville Moon, a friend of Joe Brighton’s. Like to talk to you for a minute.”

  She raised listless eyes to mine, eyes deeply shadowed and flecked with red, as though she had done more crying than sleeping the previous night.

  “Sure,” she said. “Take a walk, Skippy.”

  Rising from the couch, she went over and turned off the television set. The boy gave me a resentful look and stalked from the room. A moment later the outside door slammed.

  “We didn’t have to break up your brother’s program,” I said, “he could have stayed and we could have talked in another room.”

  “He sees too much TV anyway,” she said in a voice as listless as her eyes.

  I took the easy chair Skippy had vacated. “I’m a private detective, Stella. But I’m also a personal friend of Joe’s dad. I’m looking into last night’s affair in an attempt to help Joe out of his jam. He says he didn’t kill Bart Meyers, you know.”

  When she made no answer to this, I asked, “You think he did?”

  “Does it make any difference?” she said in a weary voice.

  “To Joe it does. I know you must feel bad about Bart being killed, but you wouldn’t want to see Joe punished for a crime he didn’t commit, would you?”

  “I don’t know,” she said without interest. “I mean no, of course not. What’s the good of punishing him even if he did it, for that matter? It won’t bring Bart back.”