American Gangster (18 page)

“Fuck he does.”

“Every Sunday, rain or shine. Then he drives out to a certain cemetery and changes the flowers on a grave.”

Toback frowned. “
What
grave?”

“Bumpy Johnson's.”

“I may bust out crying.”

“Every Sunday. No matter what.”

Toback's eyes went to the pinned-up surveillance photos. “Not your typical day in the life of a dope kingpin.”

Richie flipped a hand. “What was a typical day in
Bumpy Johnson's
life like? And that motherfucker
owned
Harlem.”

“Bumpy had class,” Toback said reflectively, “for a lowlife shakedown racketeer.”

“And Frank Lucas learned from Bumpy. Was like a son to him, by all reports.”

Toback's eyes tightened, skeptically. “You think Lucas took over for Bumpy? His damn
driver
? That's a little far-fetched.”

Richie just smiled. “Is it? Everything Lucas does, he does like Bumpy.”

“Not everything.” Toback gestured to the Ali/Frazier photos again. “Bumpy never wore a goddamn chinchilla coat in his life.”

“We haven't seen that again—hat and coat from the Garden seem to've been retired to a closet.”

“Okay. So what do we have on him we can use in court?” Toback gestured to the stack of documents. “Because interesting as all of this is, Richie? You don't have anything that'll stick. You try this, without informants and confiscated powder? No one's going to jail, except maybe you, for contempt of court.”

Richie was shaking his head. “We won't get any
informants. Not inside Country Boy circles. It's like a Sicilian family—structured that way, to protect the Godfather.”

This annoyed Toback. “Where the hell'd Lucas learn that?”

“Where else? From Bumpy. Bumpy did big business with the Cosa Nostra crowd, remember. And Frank was always at Bumpy's side—enough so to learn how the guineas got things done.”

Toback threw a hand in the vague direction of the table of organization. “You're talking like Lucas oughta be up at the top of that chart. . . .”

Firmly, Richie shook his head. “He's not even the man I want. I want to know who
he's
working for—which Italians he's wired up with, which white faces are bringing in all this high-grade heroin.”

Toback leaned back, his eyes traveling over the new pictures, the array of black faces that had invaded the white chart they'd been assembling.

“Okay,” Toback said. “You're doing good.”

“Not sorry you put me in charge of this?”

His boss stood, the lanky man seeming to unfold himself, as he gave Richie a wry, rumpled grin.

“Not yet,” Toback said, and ambled out, leaving Richie to his work.

The reception at the
church was loud and fun and sentimental, with Frank and Eva dancing before the assembled guests and receiving another resounding round of applause, plus the requisite
ooohs
and
aaahs
.

When the bride and groom finally left the church, God played a trick and sent rain machine-gunning down on them, as they raced to the back of the Town Car. Then Doc was behind the wheel and the vehicle was pulling slowly out through the crush of happy faces below umbrellas, guests waving wildly and throwing kisses.

The downpour stopped as suddenly as it had come. A gentle blue twilight had fallen as the Town Car made its way along the rain-slicked streets, flanked fore and aft by security vehicles. In the backseat Frank and Eva held hands and cuddled and smiled goofily at each other, a couple of giddy kids. Neither of them saw the Shelby Mustang roll up alongside.

Doc instinctively reached for his rod, but then he saw the badge in the hand of the smiling, handsome, devil-bearded SIU cop: Trupo his own self, shaking his head gently,
no, boy, you wouldn't want to do that. . . .

Pulled over in Central Park, the Town Car, security vehicles and Mustang sat and idled, making clouds of gray poison.

“Stay in the car,” Frank told Eva, giving her the slightest reassuring glance when he saw her fear; then he was walking toward the man in the black leather topcoat. Doc got out, too, but Frank said, “I'll handle this,” and Doc passed the word to the other bodyguards, who were getting out of their vehicles, as well.

Trupo walked loose and confident across the damp grass, not far from the parked cars, and Frank met him halfway.

“Hello, Frank,” Trupo said, though they'd never met.

The two men stood facing each other.

“Detective,” Frank said with a professionally courteous nod.

Trupo glanced toward the Town Car. Eva's worried face was in the backseat window. The detective smiled at her, gave her a little salute, and she glared at him and turned her head away.

The cop sucked in his breath and hiked his eyebrows. “Hope you've done the right thing, Frank. Beautiful girl, no question, but seems to got an attitude on her.”

“Listen to me,” Frank said. His tone was even, the threat strictly in the words themselves. “Before you say another word about her . . . or about me . . . remember that you're saying it on the most important precious fucking day of my life.”

Trupo said, “Respect is a two-way street, Frank.”

“Meaning?”

The cop shrugged good-naturedly. “Meaning, guy walks around in a fifty-grand coat, and he never even buys me a cup of coffee? Something wrong there. Something out of balance.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

Trupo's smile would have been charming, in other circumstances. “You pay your bills, Frank?”

“You want to keep talking,” Frank said, an edge coming in, “talk to my lawyer—here's his card.” Frank gave it to the cop. “You call him, 'cause we're done here.”

And Frank started to go, but Trupo's gaze stopped him. “Do you pay your
bills
, I asked you.”

Frank stared coldly at the son of a bitch. “If you're not getting your share, it's not my fault. Go talk to your chief.”

Trupo's eyelids went up and something vaguely maniacal was in his expression now. “My share? What
is
my share, Frank? I don't think you even know me. How do you know I'm not a special case?”

“You guys all look alike to me.”

Trupo still had his shield in his hand and showed it to Frank. “See what that says? I know you can read. I know you're smart.”

Frank said nothing and did not look at the badge.

Trupo went on: “Special . . . Investigations . . . Unit. See, it's right in there, the word we're discussing:
special
.” With care, the detective took a business card from his breast pocket, under the leather coat. “I have a restaurant; little investment. Drop by anytime, and it's on me. . . . But first of the month? It's on you. Ten grand. Delivered to this address.”

Frank did not take the card. He regarded Trupo with open contempt. “Detective,” he said, “there are some things you don't do, unless you're a damn fool. This is one of them—you don't do this kind of business on a man's wedding day.”

Trupo's confidence buckled, just a little, his rhythm thrown by Frank's resolve. “Yeah, well, later then. . . . Have a nice honeymoon.”

And the detective saluted again and ambled off.

Truth be told, the
honeymoon got off to a rocky start. They weren't flying to Nassau till tomorrow, and this first night of their marriage would be at the penthouse, where—instead of carrying Eva over the threshold—Frank left her standing in the doorway, while he strode to the gas fireplace.

He lighted it with a match, then made a beeline to the bedroom without his bride and returned with the fifty-grand chinchilla coat, and threw it onto the flames. The floppy hat, too. The garments smoked and stank like hell, but they burned just fine.

Then he walked over to her and smiled and took her into his arms. She was a little afraid, but he kissed her, making it better, and they never spoke about it, the coat and hat and everything they represented now history.

But Eva Lucas would never again attempt to dictate her husband's wardrobe.

Huey Lucas's driver, Jimmy
Zee, had been given a rare reprieve by his cousin Frank, after Huey vouched for him, and after that Jimmy had really tried to straighten up and fly right.

And what happened to screw it all up, in Jimmy's view, wasn't his fault at all. It was that damn Darlynn. A man should never get involved with a goddamn junkie. A goddamn junkie will use up a man's dope her own self.

The TV was on,
Kung Fu
interrupted 'cause them damn hippies was protesting in Washington again or some shit, and Jimmy could not care the fuck less, all he wanted was his goddamn dope, and Darlynn wouldn't give it to him.

“Where
is
it, I said!” He was following her past the TV into the kitchen. They were both walking around with their shoes off.

“Fuck you,” she said, waving her hands like she was praising Jesus. “I ain't tellin' you.”

The kitchen table had all kinds of dope paraphernalia spread out on it, like a junkie's banquet except for there being no junk.

He got up in her face. “Where is my fuckin' dope, woman? You and your girlfriends take it again? You and your girlfriends
take
it again, I'm gon' fuckin'
kill
your skanky ass!”

Darlynn got a kitchen drawer open and found a big old knife and slashed it in his general direction, so he went off after his gun, and when she saw the .38 in his hand, she started to scream and ran for the door and went out down the stairs, still waving the knife.

Jimmy did what any reasonable man would do in that situation, which was chase her junkie ass out into the street, yelling questions at her, which she declined to answer.

But she could run faster than him, and the cement was cold on his damn feet, so he planted himself and raised his gun and popped a cap in her ass.

Right
in her ass: she went down on the pavement, clutching her left butt cheek, moaning.

Moaning was the order
of the evening in Richie Roberts's apartment, too, though nothing between him and his current girl friend had led to running out into the street or knives or gunplay.

Richie was in bed with his lawyer, Sheila, her
briefs filed who knew where, and he must have been distracted by the weight of work, because she was under him, urging him on: “Come on, Richie, fuck me like a
cop!
”

As opposed to a lawyer, which he was himself now, technically at least. Because he was still cop enough to answer the ringing phone on the nightstand even while Sheila was still pumping under him, moaning, “
Yes, Richie, yes
. . . . ”

This of course turned into “No, Richie, no!” when he reached for the receiver, still inside her, doing his walk-and-chew-gum-at-the-same-time best when Spearman's less than seductive voice whispered in his ear: “Richie, sorry to bother you, man, but the Newark fuzz just picked up one of our celebrities.”

“Celebrities?” Richie asked, still at it.

Sheila was saying, “No . . . no . . . no . . .” But her protests had nothing to do with the phone conversation Richie was managing, and in fact weren't protests at all.

Spearman said, “A face climbed right down off our Wall of Shame, Rich—Huey Lucas's driver, Jimmy Zee.”

“What
kinda
bust?”

“Attempted murder.”

“. . . Call our friends over there. Get him shaken loose into our custody.”

“Can we do that?”

“Get Toback on it, if we can't. I'll meet you over at the church in half an hour. . . .”

Which was all he needed to complete his attorney's case, and get his clothes and gun and go.

The narcotics squad HQ
may have been in an old church, but the basement was closer to hell than heaven, a dank, dark dungeon where Jimmy Zee had been sat down in a hard wooden chair. A naked bulb above threw Jimmy's angular features into stark relief, as Richie paced in front of their captive, whose handcuffed hands were in his lap.