Black Gangster (9 page)

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 sss-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 in 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.

A uniformed officer came hurrying out. "Sir," he began, "they had ropes in the alley to get over that large fence that made it a dead end. In fact, they even had a couple of broken-down stepladders. It looks like they been planning on a bust coming their way."

Gazier grunted and started up the car. He turned on the siren and sped towards police headquarters.

Captain Mahoney and Lieutenant Morales walked out of the interrogation room and stepped into the captain's office.

"Well, Mahoney," Morales said, "looks like that kid has knocked around with the law before this."

"He has," Mahoney answered. "But as soon as I get him out of the jurisdiction of the juvenile authorities, we'll get some of that smartness out of him."

"Well, I'll be damned!" Morales said hotly. "Just listen to this! Larry Drualle, age sixteen, arrested twenty-two times, found guilty on six misdemeanors, beat four felonies, given probation twice." Morales slammed the folder down on the desk. "No damn wonder these kids go out and commit every crime in the book. The killing part about all this is that the only thing we can pin on this kid right now, if he sticks to his story, is car theft."

"Car theft, hell," Mahoney roared. "We got that punk in there, the one with the leather jacket on, by his goddamn balls, Morales, and I'm going to make him confess to being at that goddamned rumble."

A fat officer with captain's bars on his shoulders stepped into the office. He removed a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the sweat from his brow. "That kid," he began, "still sticks to his story about dropping his girlfriend off up on the Heights before he was picked up."

Captain Mahoney asked sharply, "Did he give you the girl's name?"

"No, not yet. He still says he doesn't want to involve the girl because of her parents."

"Yeah, I'll bet," Mahoney mumbled.

"Captain Harris, do you believe Drualle is lying?" Morales asked slowly.

"Of course he's lying, but what can I do about it?" Harris replied, then hesitated for a moment to stuff his handkerchief back into his pocket. "That's one of the reasons I rushed over here, Pat. I want you and your boys to go easy on this kid. I guess you know he's not but sixteen, so that makes him a juvenile untouchable."

Mahoney swore angrily. "Untouchable or not, Harris, we got that punk this time, and I'm going to see to it that he gets his just rewards."

Morales picked up the kid's record from the desk and pointed the folder at the fat officer. "Captain Harris, do you know that any adult with such a lengthy police record would still be doing time instead of being allowed to run the streets?"

"Not only do I know it," Harris said, turning on Morales angrily, "but the kids are acutely aware of what can and cannot be done to discipline them. This is the first time you've come in contact with Larry, but it's not mine. I've been having problems with him ever since he turned the ripe age of eleven."

Morales slammed the folder down on the desk. "If he's been in your hair that long, why in the hell do you come in here telling us to take it easy on this kid?"

"Morales is right, Harris," Mahoney said. "Even if the kid was only ten years old, I would try to nail his hide to the door. This is nothing but a murder case, and that punk kid is up to his neck in it."

"With that kid's statement, we can blow the lid off of this thing," Morales said quietly.

"That's the damn truth, if you never tell it again," Harris replied. He removed the handkerchief from his pocket and nervously began to wipe his face. "You say you're going to blow the lid off this case-you're going to blow the lid off this town, Mahoney, if you don't take it easy."

"Well, that just might happen then, because I'm going to bust this case, and I'm not going to baby no damn punk while doing it," Mahoney replied sharply.