He waited until the door closed behind the two women. "Listen, Roman," he began, as though he were talking to a child. "These slums breed poverty and violence, baby. There's so much pain and ugliness in life that that little shit that happened today is only a small part of it. It takes a brutal struggle to get enough money to get above this, that's why them boys got killed today. That happens at times."
"But," Roman said sullenly, "for no reason; the guys didn't even get to Alfonso."
Prince shook his head. "You'd be surprised," he said quietly, "just how much those killings did help us. Right now, Alfonso is somewhere shaking like a leaf. He knows we meant to get his ass and not those kids. By now this rumble is being talked about all over the city, and if we get away with it, without gettin' our fingers burned, this city will be in the palm of my hand."
The pink princess phone rang softly. Fatdaddy bent down and picked up the receiver. He held it out to Prince. "Yeah, baby." Prince's voice was firm.
Chinaman, on the other end, spoke slowly. "Ain't but four of the studs who drove the wheels checked in yet, Prince. Little Larry was handling the wheel for them 'woods off the Heights and ain't showed up yet."
"You got any ideas what could have held him up?" Prince asked sharply.
"Naw, man. The stud should have been back here an hour ago. All he had to do was to drop them peckerwoods off and ditch that goddamn car."
"Maybe he ran into a little trouble," Prince suggested slowly. He balled his fist up, then forced himself to relax.
"That's the way I got it figured," Chinaman replied. "The stud must have got uptight, somehow."
Prince paused for a moment, his mind working quickly. "How mellow is this stud?" he asked suspiciously. "It just might cost us our family jewels if this stud ain't cool."
"The guy's real cool, Prince. Real cool. But if this happens to be a first-degree beef, baby, I don't know if he's that strong."
"Yeah, I'm hip," Prince answered coolly. "Dig this, Chinaman, we better take a few precautions. You get in touch with the four other studs that did the driving and send them over to the hideout, one at a time, in a cab. Have them dress up in suits and ties before leaving their pads, dig. That way the fuzz might think it's just another guy going out on a funky date and leave them alone. After you send the last one over, you get your ass over here with them until you hear from me. We might as well put them in hibernation until the heat is off."
"Okay," Chinaman answered, "but it's going to be one hell of a party trying to keep them studs cooped up.
"Don't worry," Prince assured him, "Vicky's already over there and I'll be there myself with the rest of the gang "
Prince hung up and yelled for Ruby. When she appeared, he ordered, "I want you to call down to the Roost and have Tess pick up three more girls and head out to the hideout. Tell her to use the '67 Caddie." He hesitated before adding, "Oh yeah, tell her to stop by Billy's apartment and pick up two pounds of reefer to take along."
Brute whistled. "How about me and Fatdaddy going out there, too?"
"No, I'm going to let you and Fatdaddy shack up over at my apartment. Apeman, too, as soon as...."
"Prince?" Ruby called from the bedroom, interrupting him. "Tess didn't know Billy's address."
"Well what in the hell is stopping you from giving it to her?" he yelled angrily. "You been there enough times."
"I just know where the house is, honey; I don't know the address."
"I'll give it to her," Roman said, walking towards the bedroom.
The phone began to ring again. Brute stared around in astonishment. "What the hell!" he exclaimed stupidly after picking up the phone nearest him and hearing a buzz. The phone continued to ring loudly until Prince stepped behind the bar and picked up the receiver of a phone neatly concealed inside the cabi net. He nodded slightly twice, then smiled. "You say the kid sells papers around there, huh. Okay, you find out what peewee gang this kid runs with and reward them. Buy them some new leather jackets or something. Just make sure we give them something this week," he said and hung up.
Prince picked up a piece of paper he had written an address on. "Fatdaddy, you and Brute go in the bedroom with Roman; I'll call ya when I get finished." When the bedroom door closed behind them, Prince picked up the phone and dialed a number slowly.
A female voice answered on the other end. "Let me speak to Racehorse or Tony," he said quietly.
7
CAPTAIN MAHONEY STARED hard at his two lieutenants and said, "I should bust you both. You stand there and tell me you're on the case, but two kids have died already and possibly more before the night's over, and you don't even have a lead."
Lieutenant Gazier grinned sheepishly. "It's only been three hours, Captain; give us a little time."
Lieutenant Morales, well aware of his captain's tantrums, waited patiently for the storm to pass.
"Give you time? You've already wasted two weeks without getting a lead on that colored kid that got killed," Mahoney answered, pounding violently on his desk.
"This is a different situation," Gazier replied. "These kids were killed today in broad daylight with at least twenty punks in the rumble, so there's going to be a leak somewhere, you can bet on that."
Captain Mahoney walked around his desk. "What do you think about that, Morales?" he asked.
Morales stood and looked into the gray eyes of his superior officer. "I believe what Gazier said is true, Pat," Morales said softly. "Too many kids participated in the fight for it to stay quiet."
Mahoney paced up and down the room for a moment. "You can't add anything else to that, Morales?"
Morales slowly lit a cigarette before replying. "I don't think this was just another rumble."
Gazier asked impatiently, "Just why in the hell don't you think so?"
"There're too many little factors in this case, Gazier, that you and I have overlooked."
Mahoney raised his shaggy eyebrows. "What kind of factors?"
"First of all," Morales began, "we have completely ignored the fact that Alfonso Clemente was somewhere in that poolroom when the gang came in."
"So?" Gazier grunted. "What the hell does that prove?"
"Just shut up, Gazier," Mahoney said. "Maybe if you listen you can learn something for a change."
Morales smiled slightly. "Alfonso has dealt drugs from out of that poolroom for the past two years, and the way this thing adds up to me, these punks were after him, not the kids who got hurt."
"That could be," Gazier agreed grudgingly. "There might have been some bad dope sold somewhere down the line to bring this on."
"You got any more ideas along that line, Morales?" Captain Mahoney asked.
"Well, I stopped on my way in, Captain, and checked the records of all the kids who got hurt and especially the two that died, and I couldn't turn up anything special. The only two who associated with each other outside the poolroom were one of the kids we released earlier and the Davis boy, and you know he's expected to die."
"Did you get anything out of the one you released?" Gazier asked sharply.
"No," Morales replied slowly, only his voice revealing the emotion he felt about this case. "The kid didn't have the slightest idea why they were jumped." There was a slightly baffled sound in Morales' voice that the captain was not used to hearing.
"You should have let me handle the kid you had," Gazier stated scathingly. "I might have been able to shake something out of him."
Mahoney stopped Morales' angry reply. "You'd better start trying to think, Gazier, instead of using your muscles. You might just find yourself out of the homicide division." The captain returned to his desk and snapped on his intercom. "Casey," he yelled, "get me the records department, and tell them to send out a pickup on Alfonso Clemente."
A young officer knocked on the door and entered. "I'm Daniels, sir," he said, "from the Third Precinct."
"Well, get on with it, man, you didn't come here just to introduce yourself," Mahoney growled. "Did you?"
"No s
ss-ir," he stammered. "This elderly gentleman stopped my partner and myself earlier this evening, and he told us he witnessed the fight down on the waterfront." The patrolman stopped and rubbed his forefinger nervously over his lip before continuing. "He says he saw three big guys with black leather jackets leading the crowd of hoodlums when they ran into the poolroom."
"Is that all?" Mahoney asked quickly.
"No," the officer answered, glancing down at his notebook. "He seems to think he saw a large `R' on the back of a thug's jacket, but he wouldn't bet on it." The officer pushed back his hair before adding. "Oh yes, the old guy says the kids got out of five different cars, but he can't say what kind they were."
"Well," Gazier growled, "that's a hell of a lot of help."
Mahoney asked, "You think the old guy might be able to identify any of these punks?"
"He says be believes he can identify the three big guys if he ever sees them again."
Morales, standing silently on the side, came alive at this news. "Just where is this old guy you keep referring to, and who is he?"
The officer blushed before stammering a reply. "I'm sorry, sir, the gentleman's name is Anthony Gazura, and he resides at 10995 Twenty-eighth, near Jefferson Avenue."
"Where is he now?" Gazier asked harshly.
"Why, we dropped him off at his house since he didn't have any more information."
"Were there many people watching when he accosted you on the street with this information?" Morales asked.
"No, it appeared to me as if everyone was afraid and was staying off the streets. There were only about six or seven young kids playing on the whole block, and the rest of the street was completely deserted."
Morales reflected for a moment. "Doesn't it strike you as being kind of queer that, if the parents were staying off the street, they would make their kids come in too?" Something kept nagging at his subconscious.
"What if the kids were from another neighborhood?" the captain said slowly.
Officer Daniels laughed. "These kids were only ten or eleven, maybe thirteen at the most. Hell, I could see them damn good; they were playing right around the car."
"What!" exclaimed Morales. "You mean to say one of those kids might have overhead what that old guy was saying to you?" It had come to him like a flash. The rumors he had been hearing about the consolidation of the various gangs in the city under the rule of one leader.
"I don't...."
Captain Mahoney interrupted the officer's reply, yelling into the intercom, "Casey, send out a call for the nearest car to pick up Anthony Gazura, at 10995 Twenty-eighth." He glanced at his pad. "It's near Jefferson Avenue."
"Have him send out a citywide pickup for any punks wearing leather jackets with an `R' on the back," Morales said, then added, "believed to be members of a gang called the `Rulers."'
Mahoney wheeled around and pointed his finger at Gazier. "You get the hell off your rump and get over to the north side and raid the clubhouse of the Rulers. Don't come back without any arrests. You," he added, pointing at the officer, "you go with him and the boys; I'll fix it up with your sergeant." He turned to Morales, "I got a lot to talk to you about, so make yourself comfortable."
As soon as the door closed behind the department men, Morales asked quietly, "Do you think these kids are that organized, Captain?"
"I don't know, Jim," Mahoney answered. Now that the two men were alone, they spoke to each other with an intimacy born of long association. "I just hope we can get to these punks before there's some more needless killing."
In another part of town a police car pulled up in front of a gray building. "Well, this is the address," the driver said, nodding towards the storefront with curtains over the windows. "They try to make it look a little like a home, anyway," he said.
"Keep the motor running, Al, it shouldn't take but a few seconds to pick the old guy up," the Negro officer said to his white partner as he got out of the car.
Two young men standing in the shadows cursed quietly. "Looks like we got to the set a little late," Tony said, watching the policeman walk up to the front door.
Racehorse turned and stared at Tony. "Dig, poison," he said, "Prince said he wants this cat blowed before God can get the news, man. If you dig it for what it means, baby, too soon won't be soon enough."
Tony laughed unpleasantly. "Well, let's get it over with then, because like you say," he repeated emphatically, "too soon won't be soon enough."
The two men stepped out of the darkness and split up.
The officer called Al turned and glanced at the young Negro speaking to him through the car window. "I don't think there's any such address around here, buddy," he replied to Racehorse's question politely.
"I ain't your goddamn buddy," the young man snarled, then added, "You're just giving me that bullshit because you're scared I'm going to pick up some blue-eyed blonde."
Al pushed back his police cap and stared. Anger began to overrule his usually patient manner. A slight warning crept into his mind, only to be brushed back by instinct.
He stared up at the well-dressed, immaculately manicured Negro. There was something wrong here, he warned himself. The man's appearance didn't match his attitude. No matter how hard you tried, he thought, it was impossible to meet some of these bastards with friendliness. "Why, you smart-ass black bastard," Al began, stopping suddenly as the barrel of a thirty-eight blue-steel automatic appeared in the black man's hand.
"Go on and finish," Racehorse said sarcastically. "I'm gettin' my kicks behind it, man, so you might as well get yours, pig, while you can."
Al's eyes desperately searched Racehorse's face for some sign of alcohol or drug use. But the rigid face, hands, and cold eyes were absolutely unreadable. "Hold it, fellow," he began anxiously, "I didn't mean no harm."
A door slammed, and Al relaxed with a sigh as he saw his partner coming towards the car with a small, gray-haired old man in tow. For a brief moment he appreciated the soundness of the plan to put a black man and a white man in each police car. Then panic gripped him as he saw a small figure come out of the shadows and advance on the two men from behind.
The street erupted with sound as fire leaped from both automatics in Tony's hands. As shot after shot exploded, a fresh burst of laughter came from Racehorse. It flashed through Al's mind in that instant that he would die, and he thought of the young wife he was leaving behind. This was something that happened to other policemen, something he had always thought could never happen to him. It was only reflex that made him grab for the pistol at his side.
Racehorse watched with diabolical joy the officer's feeble effort before pushing his gun into Al's face at point-blank range. Racehorse pulled the trigger, and as each shot went off, he yelled, "Die, honkie, die!"
An old lady ran out from the storefront, calling her husband's name over and over again. She dropped to her knees beside his body and picked up his head as blood gushed from the skull.
Racehorse, wheeling around from the car, pulled the trigger again, just as the old lady leaned over to wipe blood from her husband's mouth. The bullet caught her square in the head, killing her instantly. Racehorse turned and fled up the street after Tony. Reaching the car, he jumped in just as Tony pulled away from the curb.
"Why you gotta go and kill the old lady?" Tony asked incredulously.
"Why the old lady? Why, paisan, the same reason we killed the old man, baby, the same reason." Racehorse laughed loudly, relieving some of the tension.
"You're nuts, man," Tony stated flatly. "I mean you're really off your goddamn rocker," he said and burst out laughing. In a moment, both killers were struggling with the insane laughter of relief.
As the sounds of the speeding car died away, people began to open their doors and step out on the street. The sight of all the bodies sprawled around sent fear through them. Some of the men sent their women and children back into the house.
At the same time, on the west side, Lieutenant Gazier, with two police cars behind him, pulled up i
n front of the Rulers' clubhouse, the Roost. A young kid jumped down the steps as soon as he saw the police piling out of the cars. The teenagers standing at the bottom of the stairs, smoking reefer, fled through the opened door of the club as the kids pushed down among them yelling, "Raid!"
One young girl standing on the sidewalk was too slow to grasp the situation. She turned and ran down the steps with two policemen on her heels. Just as she reached the bottom step, the heavy door of the clubhouse slammed shut and she heard the sickening sound of a bolt being shoved in place.
Inside the clubhouse, young girls and boys were leaving in an orderly manner, following the orders of Shortman. His woman, Doris, small and dark-skinned with shrewd brown eyes, came to join him.
"Don't you think we ought to make it, daddy?" she asked. "The man is goin' kick the door off the hinges in another minute."
As the last of the kids hurried out the back door and window, he grabbed her arm and led her through the door. "Damn, daddy, you mean the man ain't hep to this back door action?"
"I guess not, baby," he replied hurrying her along. "They ain't busted nobody going out this way yet."
From the front of the Roost came a mighty crash as the police caved in the front door. Gazier rushed into the empty club with two patrolmen beside him. He stopped and glanced around in astonishment. "What the hell?" he said.
A young, well-dressed detective pointed to an open door leading to the rear. "Bring me that young tramp we picked up," Gazier ordered.
A big, red-faced officer half dragged, half carried a young Spanish girl forward. The closer she got the louder her Spanish cries became.
"Oh hell," Gazier said disgustedly. "Put her in my car and I'll take her downtown." Turning to another plainclothesman he said, "Tom, you and the boys check this place out and see if you can find any drugs or weapons." He turned and walked outside to his car, ignoring the girl sitting in the backseat between two officers.