It was time for the Lucky Strike he had been craving since the end of mass. He headed back to the sacristy convinced that for Mrs. Bancik he was a busybody who only wanted to scare her. He had no intention of going through the same thing with Richie Maxwell’s mother. His last resort would be a face-to-face meeting with Richie and Joey in Sister Mary Margaret’s office in the next couple of days.
Who in hell did McDuffie think he was talking to, an irritated Bancroft thought as he pulled the Packard away from the curb in front of the Clarion office. The son of a bitch had the gall to put me, his boss, on warning that if Wendy wanted ‘real inside stuff’ he was the man she should talk to. The arrogant bastard would be looking for another job if I had my way, but I don’t.
Bancroft watched McDuffie’s Chevy disappear from his rearview mirror as he turned toward High Street and checked the time. It was ten minutes after eight. He traced his route on the Rand McNally, and saw that the Breakers was close enough for him to get a quick cup of coffee at the Riviera, and still get there by eight-thirty. He found a parking space, picked up the Clarion at the lobby newsstand, then took a stool in the coffee shop.
A woman of about forty seemed surprised, maybe even annoyed, when he sat down and opened the Sunday Magazine. Wendy’s article was a beaut. It profiled George Richards, the gruff, no bullshit pressroom boss he first met during the strategy meeting in the paper’s conference room.
Under her byline, he found what he was looking for, a credit that read: The George Richards story as he remembers it. He would make damn sure that there would be no Jim McDuffie in Wendy’s story, and that the “real inside stuff” would be supplied by Hensley Parker Bancroft.
He finished his coffee, dropped a quarter on the counter, and with the folded Clarion under his arm walked out to his car. He checked his watch and saw that it was only eight-twenty, giving him plenty of time to get to The Breakers on schedule. He’d be as discrete as possible, but how inconspicuous could he be if he pulled up to The Breakers in a Packard roadster. It was time for an executive decision, and Bancroft decided to scope the neighborhood for a suitable parking space. He found it down the block and around the corner, safely out of sight. Bancroft saw that it wasn’t a great neighborhood and there would be hell to pay with Maude if the roadster was returned with even a small scratch. Couldn’t worry about it now, it was time to run down Jackie Cashman.
Jackie was at the opposite end of his route, and after dropping off his last four papers he’d be done for the day. He had busted his ass earning that sawbuck from Sweeney, but a bargain is a bargain and he was finished at The Breakers by eight. He’d skirt around the apartment to stay out of Sweeney’s way. He wanted no part of what that mean son of a bitch was planning.
Frank Gazzi had no such inclination. He had worked hard to be Johnny-on-the-spot for the two homicide detectives, and today he was looking for his payoff. He had traded his shift with another beat cop at the Precinct who was more than glad to unload his Sunday. He had cozied up to that scumbag Marsucci to get what he wanted, the time, the place and the kid Richie the Boot would use to make his first move.
As usual, Gazzi had all the information he needed but was clueless what to do with it. The Breakers was at the very end of his walking beat in a low crime area hardly worth patrolling. Street cops in uniform were a rarity so he had been very careful sizing up the layout. He decided it would be best to circle around the garages and find a spot where he could eyeball the loading dock and service entrance.
Then what? He could throw away his career if he fucked this one up. Hopefully Cisco and McClosky would be around and the decision would be theirs. Tony Gordo had twice saved his ass after he screwed up with the two whores, and he had been warned that the numbers racket was off limits. Today he was slapping his friend in the face, and there would be no third chance. He still didn’t know why two homicides were involved, and he didn’t care. All he wanted was to get the hell out of the Third Ward and back into a squad car. If it took a snot-nose kid to punch his ticket, so be it.
Gazzi found a made-to-order vantage spot behind a large clump of untended shrubbery at the south end of the garages. He settled in too late to spot Joey lugging the second bundle of papers into the apartment and closing the service door to the basement behind him.
Joey was glad he had cased the building last week. This was his second time around and he was just as awestruck as before. If the two elevators weren’t enough, one for the swells who lived there and the other for deliveries, there was the thick carpeting in the lobby and halls, and potted flowers on each of the eight landings. Joey wanted to get his ass in and out real quick. He was breathing hard as he pushed the number eight button and began the slow ride to the top. Bejesus H. Christ, he thought, what if Al Sweeney and the other punks from St. Mike’s are waiting when I get out?
He studied Marsucci’s list and fingered the small block of wood in his pants pocket. He waited for the service elevator to stop, then stepped into the rarified air of The Breakers’ eighth floor. So far, so good, nobody here. Maybe I’m worrying for nothin’.
He propped open the elevator door with the block of wood then swiftly walked to number 806, then 804 and 803. There were Clarions in front of three other doors, so he relaxed even more knowing that McDuffie’s thug had come and gone.
Downstairs Bancroft was surprised that there was no security intercom to screen visitors. He entered the lobby just as a middle-age couple dressed in their Sunday-finest emerged from the elevator, nodded in his direction, and walked out to the street. He checked the layout and saw that a service elevator was tucked away at the end of a hall leading off the lobby. The needle on the elevator’s floor indicator had stopped at five. Across from the hall a metal door opened to a stairwell to the basement and the floors above.
The Cashman kid is hard at it, he thought. Already down to the fifth floor. No sense following him from floor-to-floor, let’s give him until the third then take the stairs to meet up with him on the second. That should give me enough notes for Wendy.
It didn’t bother Bancroft to ignore Herb’s marching orders to be a fly-on-the-wall recording every move the kid made. Hell, if you’ve seen one floor, you’ve seen them all. When the needle dropped to three he climbed the stairs to the second floor and waited for Jackie near the service elevator. A quick look up and down the hall told him something was wrong. Three copies of the Clarion had already been delivered, but how was that possible with Jackie only down to the third floor? He crossed the hall, sat down in an upholstered chair next to a spider plant and waited.
He had barely taken a seat when the service elevator opened and a kid he didn’t recognize walked out with three copies of the Beacon under his arm. Bancroft saw that things were not only wrong, but terribly wrong. He realized for the first time he was smack-dab in the middle of a circulation war.
“Who the hell are you?” Bancroft blurted as he got up and approached the kid. “And where the hell is Jackie Cashman?”
“Who the hell are you, mister?” Joey said pushing past Bancroft. “Got work to do and I don’t know no Jackie Cashman.”
Bancroft was at a loss. He had never imagined that the circulation war would involve hand-to-hand combat. He watched this cocky little son of a bitch make a big show out of checking a list before dropping off his papers. The kid’s shitty little grin was telling him ‘here they are, mister, and what are you going to do about it.’ And where the hell was Jackie Cashman? He was supposed to meet him here, but was nowhere in sight.
Joey knew he was right on target when he figured this klutz wanted no part of what was going on. His fancy duds and the way he spoke said it all. I’ll be god damned if he doesn’t know what to do next, Joey thought. Might as well push it and see what happens.
“Taking the elevator down. Wanna ride along?” Joey tossed over his shoulder as he bent down and picked up his wooden door jamb. He turned and saw the guy, whoever he was, disappear into the stairwell, probably on his way to meet up with
him in the basement.
Outside Sweeney was getting restless. He figured it was time to get moving. It was at least fifteen minutes since that punk from St. Mark’s had hauled two bundles of Beacons into The Breakers’ basement. Judging from the size of the bundles the kid would be dropping off between twenty to thirty freebies and that should take no more than twenty minutes.
He fingered the bruise on his neck, an unwanted reminder of the beating McDuffie had given him the day before. He considered it a good sign that his eyes had not puffed up. It would be hard for him to scare the shit out of anyone if he had two black eyes. He lifted his sweatshirt and removed the Beretta from its Lone Ranger holster. He hefted the pistol from hand-to-hand like a plaything rather than the deadly weapon it was. He still failed to notice that he had inadvertently pushed the safety bar off.
He hadn’t decided yet whether to first slap the kid around before waving the pistol in his face. Or he could come directly to the point, poke the gun at the kid to show he meant business, then kick him in the ass and send him on his way. Yeah, that would send a message loud and clear, he thought. No need to kick the shit out of the little punk, not like the five coons that needed a good working over. God damn it felt good when I nearly busted that nigger’s arm. Should have. Damn if they didn’t all turn yellow, and now they got this kid doing what they’re shit-scared of doing themselves.
This was a delicious memory and Sweeney basked in its afterglow as he stepped onto the loading dock with an anticipatory smile. He was about to have some fun. He did not see the blue-clad figure step from the shrubbery at the south end of the garages.
From his partially concealed vantage, Gazzi watched Sweeney stride quickly across the parking lot and pause at the loading dock. He knew he had seen this big, muscular teen before, but couldn’t place exactly when or where. His cop instinct kicked-in leaving little doubt he was watching a bully up to no good. That’s fine and dandy, he thought, but nothing’s happened yet so there’s not a god damn thing I can do, or is there?
Gazzi took only a few steps, stopped and stared, not quite believing what he saw. The punk had lifted his sweatshirt and pulled what appeared to be a pistol from a holster on his hip. What the fuck am I looking at, am I seeing right? Does that punk have a gun? Is it real? A toy? Just something to scare the shit out of the Bancik kid?
Gazzi waited until the teen disappeared through The Breakers’ service entrance and close the massive door behind him before starting out in cautious pursuit. The weight of his Smith & Wesson as it bounced on his hip supplied the courage he needed. He reached down and unsnapped the leather safety flap that freed the revolver’s hammer. Gazzi was now ready for action.
He stopped at the service door, waited and listened. Nothing, not a sound. Any pretext would do, just something to justify rushing in with gun drawn, a cop taking control. This was scary territory for a lowly patrolman making a last ditch effort to save a career that had been in the toilet for years. Cisco and McClosky are gonna be here any time now, he thought, and they’re gonna see me at my best. You can bet your sweet ass on that.
Gazzi had no idea what was happening inside. Suddenly he was sweating. It dawned that the only time he had fired his revolver was to qualify at the police pistol range. He cracked the service door enough to hear three loud voices echoing through the basement. One belonged to Joey Bancik, the others he didn’t recognize.
Bancroft was clearly out of sorts as he headed down the stairs to The Breakers’ basement. He stopped at the first floor landing to collect his thoughts, but came up empty. The irony didn’t escape him. Here he was the Clarion’s Vice President for Circulation, the big boss himself, on-site to watchdog the opening salvo of a circulation war, and he might as well be invisible. He arose from where he had been sitting on the stairway, brushed the seat of his pants, and started across the landing. Profane shouts from the basement pulled him up short, but only for an instant. He sped down the final flight of stairs and was about to swing open the door, when something in his gut took over. He slowly opened the door, watched and listened to what was happening no more than twenty feet away.
The Beacon kid from upstairs, obviously terrified, was backed against the wall next to the service elevator. He was partially obscured by a looming antagonist who leaned over him with his left hand on the wall and the other obviously jabbing him in the chest.
“You miserable little cocksucker, what the fuck you think you’re playing at!” the hulking figure shouted as the Beacon kid tried to push himself away only to be slammed back, his head bouncing off the cinderblock wall.
“Jesus Christ, Sweeney, enough’s enough, I get it! You don’t need no gun.”
“Just letting you know we’re not fucking around.” Sweeney lifted his Beretta and tucked the muzzle under Joey’s chin. “You know what the niggers got. This time will be worse.”
Sweeney wanted Joey to cower, bawl, maybe piss his pants, but he wasn’t getting it. This little bastard wasn’t even looking at him, instead he stared wide-eyed at what he saw coming up behind him. He turned with his gun hand poised to be confronted by Hensley Parker Bancroft.
This was all new to Bancroft, real danger, or was it. He stopped in his tracks, his eyes fixated on the Beretta. Was it real or a toy? he thought. He cautiously closed the gap between them to ten feet. Holy shit, it’s real.
Sweeney hadn’t moved. He widened his stance as if to brace himself should Bancroft decide to rush him.
“Hold it right there, Mr. Bancroft, we ain’t playing games.”
Bancroft could see that although the gunman was big, he was no more than a nervous teenager.
“If you know me, then you know I’m not playing,” Bancroft said. “Relax, take a deep breath, and hand me the gun, then we can forget this ever happened.”
For Joey, it was all happening so fast he couldn’t keep track. He didn’t budge an inch as he watched Sweeney and the guy face-off. They were frozen in place, each waiting for the other to make the first move. He knew for certain that a nasty son of a bitch like Sweeney wasn’t about to hand over his gun.
Then it all fell into place for Joey when he spotted a big janitor’s push broom off to the side of the elevator. But he had to be quick, as fast as he’d ever been. They were still jabbering back and forth, but Joey wasn’t listening, for him, their words were just noise.
Sweeney was still in a fighter’s stance with his feet far enough apart for Joey to push the broom between them, then hook it over one foot and yank. He grabbed the broom, crouched behind Sweeney, and swung into action. He needed every ounce of strength to pull Sweeney off balance so that Bancroft could grab the pistol. It worked, god damn it worked! he thought as Sweeney pitched forward.
The bully failed to regain his balance, and with the Beretta gripped in his right hand, he threw his arms out to break his fall. He tightened his grip on impact, his trigger finger squeezing hard, and the pistol exploded in Bancroft’s face as he reached down to grab the gun. Bancroft’s head snapped back as the bullet punctured his forehead just above his nose, and penetrated deep into the brain. He was dead before he hit the floor.
Joey was stunned. What had he done, what the fuck had he done? Without thinking, he jumped on Sweeney’s back and grabbed for the gun.
Sweeney was just as dumbfounded. Now on his knees, he looked down at the blood spreading out from Bancroft’s head. He stared at the gun in his hand, uncertain what to do next. First he had to get rid of this little son of a bitch on his back. He pried Joey loose just as the door to the loading dock opened, and a silhouetted figure, gun in hand, stepped through it.
While listening outside, Gazzi had hoped, even prayed, that he would never have to step inside the door, that the shouted obscenities coming from the basement would be the end of it. Cisco and McClosky would show up to see he was as good as his word, that he had kept things under control until they arrived. The gun shot changed everything.
Gazzi took a few steps and stopped to scan the basement. The big
teen he had seen in the parking lot was on his knees, one hand with a gun pointed right at Gazzi, and the other arm had a thrashing Joey in a neck-lock. An animal instinct took control. Gazzi fired from the hip, and got off two wild shots. His intended target dropped his gun and released his hold on a suddenly limp Joey.
“You stupid son of a bitch, look what you’ve done,” an enraged Sweeney screamed. “Call a doctor, you shot the kid.”
Gazzi holstered his gun as he raced toward the bloody tableau he had helped create. He ignored the dead man, someone he didn’t know, and bent over Joey, a likeable little punk despite all his profane, tough talk. The boy’s shirt was drenched in blood flowing from a wound in his left chest. His breathing was wheezy, and Gazzi could barely find a pulse.
The shots had drawn an audience of about a dozen of The Breakers’ tenants, three of the men still in pajamas, and two women in bathrobes. Most had inched over from the elevator and a few had used the stairs.
No longer feeling a pulse, Gazzi gently lowered Joey’s left arm to the floor and looked up. The silent crowd had doubled and he was trapped in the wake of his latest fuck-up. He was strangling in a tightening circle of accusing faces. He returned his gaze to the carnage around him, and tried without success to piece everything together when Sweeney came to his rescue.
“Just don’t stand there you mother-fuckers,” a sobbing Sweeney spit the words out. “Got phones don’t ya, go call, call damn it! Get somebody! The cops even.”
As if on cue, Gazzi got off his knees and the crowd, already frightened by Sweeney’s outburst, backed away. They bumped into a new batch of voyeurs that swelled the crowd to more than thirty.
“The police are already called,” a woman’s voice rose above the murmuring. “My Fred made sure of that, he’s waiting out front for them.”
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