Father Divine's Bikes

by Steve Bassett

For Gazzi, her words were a reprieve. A call to the precinct was no longer necessary. He now had time to manufacture a story that would hopefully save what remained of his career. One of his wild shots killed Joey Bancik, how the hell could he explain that? Had he blacked out? Was there a real threat from Sweeney? For sure, nobody pointed a gun at a cop and got away with it. That’s the way it works isn’t it? He pushed aside the discordant thoughts and confronted the crowd.

  “Okay, folks, time to back-off,” Gazzi said gesturing with outstretched arms. “Nothing more to see here. You can go back upstairs now. You’ll hear all about it on the radio and read it in the papers.”

  Sweeney fought hard to restrain himself as he watched this useless cop swing into action. Forgotten was the man who laid at his feet in a pool of blood with a bullet in his head. That was an accident and not really his fault. This cop had gone crazy with his gun. Two wild shots, one killed the kid, where the hell did the second one go?

  Gazzi watched the last of the crowd disappear then turned to survey the macabre scene. The Beretta was on the floor between the two bodies. Sweeney had dropped to his knees, no longer able to control his tears.

  “I killed the boss,” Sweeney said. “Didn’t mean to, just happened. I tripped, just tripped and shit, I don’t know, just don’t know why the gun went off. The floor, that’s it, the floor did it. Hit the floor and the gun went off. He wanted the gun, grabbed for it.”

  “Your boss? What in hell do you mean, your boss?” Gazzi’s gaze shifted between the sobbing teen and the well-dressed body on the floor. It finally dawned where he had seen this kid before. He was one of the Clarion carriers who ran numbers for Jim McDuffie. But who was the dead man?

  “Out with it, give me a name!”

  “Name’s Bancroft. That’s all I know. McDuffie called him the big boss from downtown.”

  “You mean from the Clarion office?”

  “Think so.”

  “Get up and turn around, put your hands behind you,” Gazzi said as he snapped the cuffs on. “Now get your ass over in that corner and stay there.”

  It was shortly before nine o’clock when Cisco and McClosky cruised past the Beacon circulation office on their way to The Breakers and saw no one in sight.

  “If what we’ve been hearing is true, it’s a hell of a way to start a circulation war,” Kevin said. “They must be hiding someplace to ambush the Clarion kids.”

  “That’s what has me worried,” Nick said. “During my carrier days, there was always a bunch of us hanging out on Sunday morning to bitch with the boss.”

  “I still don’t know why you’ve got a bug up your butt over those two kids. They know they’re breaking the law, and probably don’t much give a damn. What do you expect to find today?”

  “No idea. Let’s take a look at what’s come down so far. They pulled Scarlatti from the river, and replaced him with Butcher Salerno. Boiardo’s sending a message.”

  “Scarlatti is ours, but the numbers racket is vice. Let Finelli and his boys handle it. We’re homicide.”

  “I can’t really explain it,” Cisco said. “It’s just something about two altar boys involved in a mob turf war that’s already ugly.”

  They turned the corner and were half a block from The Breakers just as a police cruiser, its cherry top flashing and siren wailing, screeched to a stop in front of the entrance. A shouting man rushed to the car, and pointed to the apartment driveway.

  Cisco regretted that he had decided to turn off the police radio during their drive up the hill from headquarters. Now they were in the dark as they followed the cruiser down the driveway to the rear parking area. The two uniforms had already jumped from their car, and were pushing their way through onlookers blocking the large loading dock door when Cisco and McClosky pulled up behind them.

  “Hold it right there!” Cisco yelled as he and McClosky flashed their badges. “Homicide. We’ll take it from here. Get these civilians away from the door.”

  The two detectives entered the basement expecting the worst, and had taken only a few steps when their fear was realized. In the middle of a bloody mess stood Frank Gazzi.

  McClosky turned to the cops outside the door. “You, get on the radio to the dispatcher and have them call the medical examiner, and you get everybody off the loading platform, keep it clear for the meat wagon.”

  The scene secured, he joined his partner and an obviously traumatized Gazzi at the murder scene, a dead guy face down on the floor, and Joey Bancik on his back in a pool of blood. While scanning the basement he discerned a shadowy figure standing in a dark corner.

  “Okay, Gazzi, start talking,” Cisco said, his anger barely under control. “First, who shot the Bancik boy?”

  “It was an accident. I had to protect myself. That gun on the floor belongs to that guy over there. He had it pointed right at me….”

  “You telling me you shot at that guy and killed the kid? Is that what the fuck you’re telling me? Who is he? Got a name? And give me your weapon, wouldn’t want another accident.”

  “Not yet. Happened so fast.” Gazzi handed over his Smith & Wesson, and with it his career. “I only had time to cuff him before you got here. I’m pretty sure he runs numbers for McDuffie.”

  “Get your ass over here where we can see you!” McClosky ordered. “You have a name?”

  “Al Sweeney.”

  “How old are you?” McClosky said.

  “Seventeen.”

  The detectives exchanged glances. Things were going from bad to worse, not only did they have two bodies and a dumb cop on their hands, now they could add a juvenile to the mix.

  “Looks bad I know, but I didn’t mean to shoot no one,” Sweeney said. “Only wanted to scare the kid. Then this Clarion guy showed up. I tripped and fell and it went off.”

  “Clarion guy?” Cisco said. “Are you saying you know the dead man?”

  “Yeah, he knows him, says he was his boss, name’s Bancroft. Doesn’t know his first name,” Gazzi intruded.

  “Shut your god damn mouth!” Cisco said as he fought the urge to grab Gazzi by the throat.

  Meanwhile, McClosky was finished searching Bancroft’s back pockets and had reached under the body to remove the deadman’s wallet from the inside pocket of his jacket.

  “Hensley Parker Bancroft. With a name like that, he’s got to be important. License says he’s thirty-eight, and has a Forest Hill address. A Princeton Club membership card, and let’s see here, also a member of the Broad Street Club.”

  McClosky replaced the wallet and was careful to avoid touching the Beretta and other evidence to be photographed by the forensic team. He arose and turned to the cop standing guard at the door. “Hey you, officer, what’s your name?”

  “Foster, Officer Foster.”

  “Okay, Officer Foster, put in another call to the dispatcher and have him call the morgue. Have him relay the name Hensley Parker Bancroft. Maybe the stiff is important enough to get them off their asses.”

  He looked at Cisco and didn’t like what he saw. McClosky sensed the inevitable, his partner was about to lose it, he had seen it before. It was time to take over the interrogation before Nick’s rage created an impossible situation.

  “You two stay right where you are,” McClosky said, then turned to Cisco and lowered his voice. “I think it’s time to take a deep breath, Nick. We’ve got one big, fucking mess here, and it’s going to get bigger.”

  The two detectives realized that their long partnership was about to be tested. They had taken a lot of shortcuts during their years together, but had never turned rogue. Mutual trust and a shared hatred of the crooks on the force made it possible for them to overcome philosophical differences. This time they had turned away from a problem that could have been easily solved, and now there were two bodies to deal with.

  “Talk about headlines,” Cisco said. “A dead Beacon carrier, slash numbers runner, and a Clarion executive with a hole in his head. Saunders and Lucio are gonna go crazy.”

&
nbsp; “Not just the scribblers,” McClosky said. “It’ll be the whole city. Think about it. Richie the Boot and Longy at it again, black bookies from Atlanta recruiting white kids to run numbers, a Boiardo soldier fished from the river, and we might as well throw in the whore and her pimp ice picked on Broome.”

  “And Bancroft shot to death by one of his paperboys,” Cisco said.

  Their morbid litany was interrupted by the arrival of the morgue meat wagon and to their surprise, Coroner Walter Tomokai and his forensic team. Tomokai had the uncanny ability to ferret out the important stiffs from the mundane traffic that passed through his daily house of horrors. Hensley Parker Bancroft must have rung his chimes.

  “Detectives Cisco and McClosky, busy, busy, busy,” a smiling Tomokai said as he approached with extended hand. Two photographers and a team of medical flunkies trailed behind. The smile faded when he saw Joey Bancik’s body. “Christ Almighty, you’re never ready for something like this.”

  The two detectives watched silently as Tomokai put the photographers and medics through their paces. This was an important case and the coroner made sure that every detail was cataloged.

  “You two, let’s get going,” Cisco motioned Gazzi and Sweeney toward the door. “We’re going downtown. We’ll need complete statements from both of you, so plan on spending the night. The drive will give you plenty of time to dream something up.”

  Police Chief Patrick Riley was waiting for them at headquarters. After the initial call to the dispatcher, it took less than an hour for word of the shootings to reach him at home. This had headlines written all over it, and he wasn’t about to let the mayor and district attorney hog the spotlight. He set-up camp in his office, making sure that all of the celebrity photos on the wall behind him were straight. It had taken only a few minutes for him to shed his golf clothes and pull a freshly-pressed uniform from his private wash room. He was ready.

  Cisco and McClosky pulled into the police parking lot and were relieved to see that headquarters was just as quiet as they had left it two hours earlier. McClosky removed the cuffs from Sweeney and dropped them into an evidence bag that contained Gazzi’s Smith & Wesson. Forensics had the Beretta.

  “The Chief wants to see you,” the Desk Sergeant said as they entered the building. “He’s in his office.”

  “Thanks, Sarge, give us the keys,” Cisco said, then turned to Sweeney and Gazzi. “You’ll get your phone calls after we’re finished with the Chief.”

  They locked Sweeney in a basement holding cell and marched a docile Gazzi to an interrogation room.

  “Hold on a minute before we see the Chief,” McClosky said. “Let’s get it straight where we’re going. I know how you feel about the Bancik kid, and how he and his buddy were sucked into the numbers racket. Upstairs I say we talk only about the shootings today. The rest is gonna come out with the D.A. and the press. Agreed?”

  Cisco knew that his partner had nailed it all along. They were homicide. They weren’t priests and they weren’t vice.

  “Agreed.”

  Upstairs they found the Chief had left the door to his office open, a cue that they could walk right in.

  “Okay, let’s have it,” the unsmiling Chief said from his padded leather desk chair, He pushed a large, hand-carved onyx ashtray and chrome cigarette lighter across the desk. “This is a nasty one, and I’ll want all you’ve got before I call a news conference.”

  “There’s not much to it,” Cisco said. “The only questions we have concern the charges to be filed, and who files them.”

  It took less than ten minutes and two cigarettes for the detectives to lay it all out for the Chief. It hadn’t escaped their boss, a notorious stickler for details, that the two detectives had no written notes and were winging it.

  “So that’s it,” the Chief said, “You’re satisfied with what you’ve told me?”

  “I’d say where we are right now, yeah, I’m satisfied,” Cisco said.

  “And how about you Sergeant McClosky, do you agree with Lieutenant Cisco?”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  “So that’s it for now,” the Chief said. “I’ll call the mayor and D.A., and set the news conference for four o’clock. Gives you plenty of time to write your reports.”

  They got up and were heading out when their boss pulled them up short. “And freshen up, you both look like you’ve been sleeping in your clothes. Put those shavers in the bunk room to use, I want you standing clean and neat behind me when the flashbulbs start popping.”

  “It’s gonna be a circus, and everyone loves a circus,” Cisco said outside in the hall. “With an important stiff like Bancroft in center ring, it’s up for grabs who’ll be the ringmaster.”

  “My bet’s on the Clarion,” McClosky said. “Everyone will want the frontpage, and they’ll be kissing the publisher’s ass to get it.”

  The two detectives wasted little time on Gazzi and Sweeney. They were handed phones and given five minutes to make their calls. Gazzi came close to blubbering while asking forgiveness from his wife, while Sweeney showed no remorse when talking to a father who had been living off his son for years.

  Meanwhile, McClosky called Juvenile Court, and was connected to Sweeney’s most recent case worker. She’d be there in less than an hour.

  “That’s taken care of,” he said. “And how about you, Nick, I figured you’d want to handle the Banciks.”

  “I’ve been thinking about it, and I don’t feel I’m the right guy to break the news.”

  “Got anybody in mind?”

  “Yeah, and that’s where I’m going now, won’t be gone long. Hold the fort, and let’s hope there aren’t any more stiffs on our watch.”

  Ten minutes later Cisco was out of his cruiser and at the front door of St. Mark’s rectory. Inside, Father Nolan had just polished off his second helping of scrambled eggs, and was leafing through the Clarion sports section when he heard the doorbell. He had removed his collar, and was ready to kickback after completing clerical duties that began with the six-thirty mass. He had rebuttoned his collar and stifled his annoyance by the time he opened the front door.

  “Good morning, Father. Can you spare me a little of your time?” Cisco said, holding up his badge.

  “Certainly, come in,” the priest said. “I didn’t get your name.”

  “Lieutenant Cisco, homicide. I’m hoping you can help me out.”

  “In any way I can, just hope it’s legal.” The priest was thankful that his lame quip had been brushed aside by the detective. He feared what was coming next. He ushered Cisco toward two overstuffed chairs in the parlor and waited.

  “I’m afraid I have some bad news about one of your altar boys, Joey Bancik. He was shot and killed this morning while on his paper route.”

  “Jesus Christ, Almighty! How did it happen?”

  “I’m afraid the story gets even worse, he was accidentally shot by a police officer.”

  The distraught priest got up and walked to the front window. With his eyes closed, he took three deep breaths in a futile attempt to compose himself. His lips were moving, but the words wouldn’t come. He took two more breaths and turned toward Cisco. For the first time, Cisco saw that this priest was different. He was young, tall and muscular, nothing like the aesthetic clerics he was used to.

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “I want you to break the news to the Bancik family. I think it’s the right thing to do, that they get the word from someone like you who can really reach them.”

  “Lieutenant Cisco, I’m a clerical joke. I’ve known that Joey Bancik and another one of my altar boys were running numbers. That’s right, they were numbers runners for the mob using their paper routes as cover. And I did nothing about it. Only last week I tried to tell Joey’s mother what her son was doing, and I couldn’t get her to listen. I failed, and now Joey’s dead. Tell me, was it the numbers?”

  “Yes, Father, and let’s leave it at that. If you agree to see the Banciks, then you should take it al
l the way. Joey is at the city morgue by now. His mom and dad should have someone with them when they view the body. Will you do it?”

  The priest could not erase the image of a devout and simplistic woman who dropped to her knees in front of him after last Sunday’s mass. She couldn’t understand why he didn’t really know her Joey. He was an altar boy. He went to school and studied hard, and he would graduate. Her Joey would never run numbers. He was a good boy. He delivered papers and put food on the table. He was a good boy.

  Cisco silently studied the young priest who was not only searching for a reply, but for retribution as well. He wondered if he had made a mistake coming here. The priest turned to the window, took two deep breaths, then turned back again and locked eyes with the detective.

  “Okay, Lieutenant, I’ll do it.”

  Steve Bassett was born and raised in Newark’s crime-ridden Third Ward and, although far removed during a career as an award-winning journalist, he has always been proud of the sobriquet Jersey Guy. He has been legally blind for almost a decade, but hasn’t let this slow him down. He received three Emmys for investigative documentaries, and the California Bar Association’s Medallion Award for Distinguished Reporting on the Administration of Justice. Polish on his mother’s side and Montenegrin on his father’s, with grandparents who spoke little or no English, his early outlook was ethnic and suspicious. It was a world in which cabbage, potatoes, sausage and heavy homemade dumplings reigned. This is the setting for “Father Divine’s Bikes.”

  He has written two nonfiction books, one published by Ashley Books, “The Battered Rich,” and “Golden Ghetto: How the Americans and French Fell In and Out of Love During the Cold War,” published by Red Hen Press under its Xeno imprint. He lives in Placitas, New Mexico with his wife, Darlene Chandler Bassett.