American Gangster (17 page)

Celebrities were arriving in their limousines, including showbiz figures like Sammy Davis, Jr., and his wife, Altovise, and sports figures like Joe Louis and his wife, Marva. Some celebrity gangsters attended, too, like Nicky Barnes and Joey Gallo, all with flashy jewelry and flashier girls hanging off of them.

But one VIP couple—also likely belonging to the gangster category—Richie did not recognize. The beautiful Hispanic gal in a showy white dress—according to buzz among the press photographers around him—was a recent former Miss Puerto Rico. She stepped out first and basked in the flashbulbs, but then seemed to have to coax her escort from the backseat of the Lincoln Town Car.

“You want to miss the fight?” she was saying. “Come on, baby. You look
great
. . . .”

A black patent leather shoe poked out of the vehicle, followed by a tall, handsome black guy in a floppy wide-brimmed pimp fedora and full-length chinchilla coat so ostentatious, Nicky Barnes would've thought twice about being seen in public like that. Miss Puerto Rico, casting a dazzling smile on the media boys, hooked onto an arm of the chinchilla-coat character
like she thought her squire might make a break for it.

To Richie, the coat's owner seemed ill at ease, and yet there was something commanding about this presence, an undeniable charisma that had no trouble competing with the likes of Sammy Davis and Joe Louis.

In the arena itself, Richie was seated with the press photographers, so taking pictures of organized crime celebs with his long-lens Leica was no more suspicious than eating a bag of popcorn. He was intrigued to note that the striking, lanky dude in the chinchilla coat and ridiculous fedora had snagged second-row ringside for himself and Miss Puerto Rico, just behind the sportswriters.

Not just anybody got seats like that.

The odd thing was how uneasy the decked-out Nicky Barnes imitator seemed, like he'd rather be anywhere but next to a stunning woman in the best seat at the hottest ticket in town.

Filing that away, Richie and his camera roamed the faces of other prime ticketholders ringside, assorted celebrities, politicians, and organized crime figures . . . and of course stacked trophy dolls with platinum hair and plunging necklines.

To get a better shot of the mob figures, Richie got out in the aisle and, almost immediately, a massive figure brushed by, saying, “Excuse me.”

Joe Louis.

Stunned, Richie felt like a ten-year-old and managed to blurt, “Mr. Louis!”

The Brown Bomber in his black tux glanced at Richie as the eager figure moved alongside him.

Grinning like a fool but unable to do anything else, Richie let the words tumble out: “I'm sorry, sir, but I just have to tell you, you were my hero growing up, my absolute hero. To this day I still push elevator buttons
eight times
for the rounds you beat Billy Conn in. You know, for luck!”

Louis met Richie's face but not his eyes and something that might have been a nod—maybe an eighth of an inch worth—was all Richie got for his trouble before the great champ moved on to catch back up with his friends moving down the aisle.

Richie's smile froze on his face, his eyes glazing, his expression a death mask of disappointment, as a very old dream withered and passed away in the aftermath of his hero's disregard.

And so he got back to work, taking pictures of various Italian wise guys, including Dominic Cattano himself (and his bodyguard), edging into the third-row ringside, behind Miss Puerto Rico and her chinchilla-coat escort. Cattano and the handsome black dude spoke to each other, friendly—the mob capo even seemed to be kidding the guy.

Richie's surveillance-bred lip-reading skills confirmed as much, Cattano saying: “
Hey, Frank, you keep that hat on, I'm gonna miss the fight!
”

Somebody next to Richie leaned in to get his voice above the din of the arena: “Only in America, huh?”

Richie turned and Detective Trupo was grinning at him, the Zapata-mustached, devilishly handsome SIU cop resplendent in a black leather sportcoat.

Taking the bait, Richie asked him, “What is?”

Trupo nodded toward where the celebrities were seated. “That spade-in-chinchilla's seat is better than the guineas. Makes you wonder.”

And Trupo was gone, heading down the aisle, taking the identity of Miss Puerto Rico's date with him, if indeed the crooked piece of shit knew it.

But Trupo had a point. As Richie watched through the telephoto lens, he saw top Italian OC guys came over to the stranger in chinchilla and pay homage. So did various showbiz types and sports world figures, from Sammy Davis to Don King.

Then fate turned its knife blade in Richie's belly: Joe Louis himself came up to pay his respects to the man in the chinchilla coat, punching at him playfully, smiling warmly. Richie's hero, who hadn't had the time of fucking day for him, kissing up to some . . . some
what
?

As much as he'd studied the guy through his telephoto, Richie hadn't yet snapped any shots of Miss Puerto Rico's dream date, and he was about to correct that when a roar came up from the crowd and the lights went down but for a spotlight on the ring. An announcer's voice echoed throughout the massive arena unintelligibly. Then other lights found Ali and Frazier coming down the steps through the crush of fans and reporters, preceded by an honor guard of soldiers bearing American flags.

Between the lack of lighting and all those flags, Richie lost sight of that chinchilla-coat dude; but then, would you believe it? Ali himself stopped to shake the bastard's hand!

Flashbulbs popped throughout the arena as Robert Goulet sang the national anthem, while Ali in his corner pointedly did not sing along.

And dim lighting or not, Richie caught the chinchilla-coat dude in his camera sights and, focusing as sharp as possible under these conditions, snapped the shutter; and snapped it again, and again. . . .

On Monday morning, the
best photo Richie had snapped of this new player got tacked to the table of organization—low and off to the side with other puzzle pieces that didn't fit in just yet, other new faces needing names.

Richie handed a slip of paper to Spearman, seated on top of a desk, not his own.

“What's this?” Spearman asked. “A number you're hoping to hit?”

“Kind of. It's the plate on the limo Mr. Chinchilla climbed out of. Check with the company, see who rented it.”

Spearman smirked humorlessly, unimpressed. “What, you think there's a new Capone in town, a
black
one?”

Richie shrugged, smiled.

Spearman made a farting sound with his lips. “Just a small-fry with a big head. Supplier, at most, or just another fuckin' pimp. Otherwise we'da heard of his ass.”

Richie had started shaking his head halfway through Spearman's spiel. “No, Freddie, he's bigger than that.
His seats were phenomenal—better than Dominic goddamn Cattano's. I saw Joe Louis and Ali
both
shake his fuckin' hand.”

And Spearman, taking this more seriously, nodded over at the bulletin board and pointed at Cattano, up top, and the new face whose name, Frank Lucas, they did not as yet know, low, to one side.

“How do you get from down there,” the skinny, scruffy cop said, “to up there?”

Richie said, “I don't know. But we better find out. 'Cause Cattano was sitting behind that dude, and the dude did
not
take off his hat. . . .”

Frank Lucas took Dominic
Cattano's advice and did not let the “girl” get away—barely two months passed between Frank's presentation to Eva of the engagement diamond and a wedding day that, for a while at least, was so perfect his North Carolina momma might have conjured it in a dream.

In the biggest Baptist church in Harlem, his brother Huey at his side as best man, Frank—in a beautifully tailored sky-blue tuxedo—stood on the altar looking out at a sea of ladies' hats, all coral and pink. Eva's family and friends were on one side of the aisle, and the extended Lucas family on the other, Frank's mother gazing up at her eldest son with teary-eyed pride.

As expected, Eva was a vision in radiant white as her father escorted her down the aisle; then, in a blur, Frank was slipping the simple gold band on next to the honking diamond, and Eva was putting a gold band on
his finger. The minister pronounced them man and wife, Eva lifted her veil, and their first married kiss was to applause so resounding you'd have thought Jesus Christ himself had made his long-promised return visit.

Charlie Williams, Bumpy's old friend and a current associate, was at Frank's side when Eva threw her bouquet.

“Most beautiful bride I ever saw, Frank,” Charlie said.

“Only wish Bumpy could've met her,” Frank said. “And I wish she could've met him.”

Eva's father had given the bride away; but Bumpy, the man Frank thought of as
his
father, was in the ground. Maybe the great man had been there in spirit. . . .

A photographer took the official photographs of the wedding party on the church steps, and Frank would have been surprised to know an unmarked car shadowing the festivities held another photographer, snapping a different breed of official photographs.

On this happy day, Frank was blissfully unaware that he had finally registered on Richie Roberts's radar.

While members of Richie's
squad were attending the wedding that glorious fall afternoon, the narcotics squad leader himself was concerned with other photographs, surveillance shots dating back over the last two months.

Right now Richie was catching up his boss, Lou
Toback, on their progress. Stacked on the banquet table in front of the bulletin boards were documents Richie and his guys had gathered, including the car agency records where the Lincoln Town Car had been purchased (
not
rented); Frank Lucas's scant arrest record, including mug shots of a years-younger version of the suspected Harlem drug kingpin; and photographs of Lucas in his chinchilla coat and pimp fedora while holding court at the Ali/Frazier bout.

Toback said, “I've never even heard of this guy. And you say he's a
player
?”

“Originally from Greensboro, North Carolina,” Richie said with a curt nod. He was on his feet in front of the bulletin boards. “Couple arrests, years ago. Gambling, robbery, unlicensed firearm.”

“Small time.”

Richie shook his head. “Not really—Lucas was Bumpy Johnson's right-hand man.”

That perked Toback up, his eyes glittering now.

Richie allowed himself a smile. “Fifteen years, guy was Bumpy's chief collector, bodyguard and driver.”

“No shit. . . .”

“None. Fact, he was at Bumpy's side when the old boy fell down and died there on the street.”

Toback—in shirtsleeves and loosened tie, leaning back on a metal chair—said nothing, but he was clearly keenly interested now.

For the first time in all these months, Richie felt a surge of excitement and a sense of accomplishment.

He went on: “Five brothers—Frank's the oldest, and there's lots of cousins, all living up here now, spread
out around the boroughs and Jersey. On the street, they're called the Country Boys.”

“We got
names
on these Country Boys?”

“More than just names,” Richie said, and he began pinning up pictures as he introduced Frank's brothers to Toback, one at a time: “Dexter Lucas, in Brooklyn, operates a dry-cleaning establishment, where lately our guy Spearman has been doing business.”

“Spearman gets his clothes cleaned? Now that
is
a surprise. . . .”

Richie tacked another photo to the board. “Terrence Lucas in Newark—owns an electrical shop. Jonesy got a lamp fixed there, recently. . . . Melvin Lucas has a metal shop in Queens—Abruzzo bought a door there, last week. . . . I had my tires rotated a couple weeks ago in the Bronx, at a garage operated by Turner Louis. . . . Then later I got a nasty dent in my fender—funny what can happen when you kick a Dodge—but a body shop, out in Bergen County, fixed it up fine. Run by Huey Lucas, second oldest. When Huey isn't in grease-monkey workclothes, he's a Mack Daddy type in the threads department.”

“More than Frank?” Toback asked, with an arched-eyebrow nod toward the photo of the dude in his chinchilla coat and floppy hat.

“Except for the getup he wore to the fight,” Richie said, “Frank seems to keep it low key. Suit-and-tie-type, sharp but not exactly zoot. Leads an orderly and, outwardly, legitimate life . . . gets up early—five
A.M
. Has breakfast at the same midtown diner, usually alone. Then he goes to work.”

“Define work,” Toback said.

“Meets with his accountant, or one of his various lawyers. Drops in on several office buildings he owns.”

“What about nightlife?”

Richie shrugged. “Usually stays at home—who wouldn't, with that beauty he's marrying today . . . and turns out she
is
last year's Miss Puerto Rico.”

“And this year's Mrs. Frank Lucas,” Toback said dryly.

“When he does go out, it's with her—to a club or dinner. He likes Small's Paradise. Likes to hobnob with celebs and sports figures—Joe Louis, Wilt Chamberlain. Never with organized-crime guys.”

“You mean, never with
white
OC guys.”

“Right. He pals with the other Country Boys, of course. But I did see with my own eyes Dom Cattano and other top wise guys bowing down to him at the Garden.”

“Sit, would you?” Toback asked. “You're making me nervous.”

Richie hadn't realized he was pacing excitedly up and down in front of his newly revised table of organization.

Richie sat across from his boss. “That's about it—other than his Sundays.”

“What about his Sundays?”

“You'll love this,” Richie said with a chuckle. “He takes his little gray-haired momma to church.”