Juvenile Delinquent (11 page)

I
was
taking Stub to El Patio for two reasons. The first was that, except for the jail, I couldn’t think of a safer place in town to take him, both because of its structure and because of its personnel. The second reason was that I knew he’d be welcome.

Prior to being taken over by its present owner, Fausta Moreni, El Patio had been a gambling casino, and it had been constructed with the idea of making it invulnerable to both hijackers and raiding cops. Isolated in the center of a three-acre patch of ground at the extreme south edge of town, from the outside it resembled nothing so much as a medium-sized gray prison, even to ornamental but burglar-proof bars on the lower windows. The big bronze double doors at the front were always open when the club was, of course, but after they’re locked at night it would take TNT to get through them. The two side doors and the service entrance at the rear look like oak, but actually they are painted and grained steel.

On the off-chance that Buzz Thurmond or one of his pals managed to break into the building anyway, or the more likely chance that an attack might be made during the time the club was open for business, my old friend Mouldy Greene constituted a secondary line of defense. Mouldy had acquired his interesting nickname from army buddies because of a mild case of acne. His real name was Marmaduke.

When Fausta Moreni took over the gambling casino and converted it into a supper club some years back, she kept the bartenders, waiters and bus boys already working there, but summarily fired all the stick men, dealers and bouncers inhabiting the place. All but Mouldy, who had been the previous owner’s personal bodyguard up until the time the previous owner caught a hole in his head by unwisely getting it in front of a
.45
automatic.

Fausta’s decision didn’t stem from her recognition of Mouldy’s potential value to the club; it stemmed from her soft heart. Physically there aren’t many people more capable of taking care of themselves than Mouldy Greene. There isn’t an ounce of fat in his two-hundred-and-forty-pound frame, except possibly in his flat-topped head, and I’ve seen him lift grown men clear of the floor with one hand. But unfortunately the day they were handing out brains, Mouldy was AWOL.

As compensation for shorting him on brains, Nature gave Mouldy a heart of gold and an idiotic sort of charm entirely out of keeping with his paleolithic appearance. Fausta could no more bring herself to toss him out into a competitive world than she could have kicked an orphan out into the snow. She tried him at every job in the place, even as head waiter for one evening which still makes her shudder, before she discovered his latent talent.

Mouldy was now El Patio’s official customer greeter, a job which involved his standing just inside the big double bronze doors and welcoming all who entered in his own unique way.

At most supper clubs as expensive as El Patio you can expect a soft word and a formal bow as you enter. At El Patio you were met by the hideous grimace which Mouldy believed was a friendly smile, a boomed greeting, frequently insulting in a chummy sort of way, and a slap on the back which jarred you to your toes.

The more dignified the customer, the less formal Mouldy became. I have yet to hear him call a dowager anything more formal than “Babe,” and he was famous for the picturesque nicknames he coined for celebrities. A certain austere circuit court judge who frequented El Patio he always addressed as “Hanger” for example, and a much-married matinee idol he called “Bluebeard.” Both to their faces, of course.

He also had a captivating habit of asking interested questions, such as, “How are the bribes coming in?” to officials such as the district attorney, or, “Who’s your husband these days?” to movie actresses.

Once new customers get over the initial shock, they love Mouldy, for despite his earthy manner, it’s obvious he loves every one of them.

Fortunately for the sake of my spine Mouldy wasn’t on duty when we arrived at about eleven o’clock, as he didn’t start duty until the evening trade began to filter in. We found him drinking a beer at the cocktail lounge bar.

“Hi, Sarge,” he said, friendlily waving a hand the size of a catcher’s mitt. “Pull up an elbow and lean.”

The “Sarge” was a holdover from army days, when Mouldy was a basic in the company where I was first sergeant. I’d given up trying to break him of the habit for fear he’d coin me an even more picturesque nickname.

“I haven’t taken up morning drinking yet,” I told him. “Where’s Fausta?”

“Back in the office, I guess. Probably making up tomorrow’s menu.” He looked at Stub Carlson curiously.

“This is Stub Carlson,” I said. “Stub, meet Mouldy Greene.” I added quickly, “Don’t shake hands with him. It’s not safe.”

Mouldy gave me an aggrieved look and demonstrated how I had slandered him by taking Stub’s hand and giving it what he regarded as a gentle press. Stub winced, and when he got his hand back he stuck it in his pocket.

Mouldy tossed off the rest of his beer and led us back to Fausta’s office.

The front part of El Patio is divided into three parallel rooms running nearly the length of the building from front to rear. In the center is the lush cocktail lounge where we found Mouldy, through an archway to the left is the ballroom, and through a similar archway to the right is the room Fausta has billed as “The Dining Place of Kings” ever since the day a deposed European monarch nibbled a sandwich there. Fausta’s office is situated off a hallway behind the dining room.

We found El Patio’s proprietress behind her desk frowningly considering a newly-printed menu. As usual I had resolved that I wouldn’t feel any reaction when I saw her, but as always the familiar lump formed in my throat the minute she looked up.

Fausta Moreni was born in Rome, but her coloring is nothing like that of most Italio-American beauties. Instead of an olive complexion, her skin is the color of coffee with cream, and her hair it a vivid natural blonde. Nevertheless you would never mistake her for anything but a Latin. If her expressively liquid eyes didn’t give it away, her emotional explosiveness would.

She took one look at me, bounced out of her chair and threw her arms around my neck. Dutifully I dipped my head for a kiss, but got a surprise instead. Her sharp little teeth nipped the end of my nose painfully, then she backed off and gave me a gentle slap.

“You rat!” she announced. “You have deserted me for a whole month!”

Walking over to a wall mirror behind her desk, I examined the damage to my nose. The skin wasn’t broken, but there were plainly visible teeth marks.

“If you’re hungry, why don’t you phone the kitchen?” I growled at her. “Even this joint’s food is probably more edible than me.”

Fausta’s balled fists rested on her hips. “Aha, my ex-love! First you cast me aside like an old shoe, and now you insult my cooking. I am glad I have decided to marry another man.”

I glanced at her quickly. “You’re getting married?”

“Do you care?” she inquired interestedly.

“Naturally,” I said. “Where else could I find a woman with such delightful love-making technique.” I examined the reflection of my nose again and decided it wasn’t going to turn red. “Who’s the lucky man?”

“I have not yet decided. Except that he will not be you. Perhaps I shall advertise in a matrimonial column.”

Then she looked at Stub Carlson, who had watched the performance up to now with his mouth open. “Who is your friend?”

“Stub Carlson,” I said. “Stub, this is Fausta Moreni, the owner of this place.”

Stub said, “Pleased to meet you, ma’am.”

“How do you do?” Fausta said. “Do not look so alarmed. I only bite roués who toy with my affections and then cast me aside for other women.”

“Mr. Moon couldn’t of done that,” Stub said with unexpected gallantry. “Only a jerk would cast you aside, ma’am.”

Fausta gave him a dazzling smile. “You are sweet to comfort a woman with a broken heart.”

Rounding her desk, she resumed her seat and looked up at me resignedly. “What is it you want this time, my one? I know it is business, because love never brings you here.”

“It’s some of both,” I told her. “Mainly I came to see you because I missed having my nose bitten. But I happened to want Stub put in a safe place for a time, so I brought him along too.”

“Pooh, my transparent Romeo. It is the second reason only which brought you. Are the police after the boy?”

“Not the police,” I said. “About sixty juvenile gangsters and at least one adult hood. I thought Mouldy could put him up in his room off the kitchen and sort of keep an eye on him for a time.”

“Sure,” Mouldy said generously. “He can sleep on the floor.”

Fausta frowned at him. “Tell Romulous to set a cot up in your room,” she ordered.

It was typical of Fausta that she didn’t even question the advisability of harboring a kid who was sought by gangsters. But it was equally typical that she used my request as a bargaining lever.

After a moment she said, “There will be a consideration, of course.”

“What kind of consideration?” I asked.

“You will take me out one evening for each day I furnish room and board.”

“He may be here a week or more,” I objected.

“It would be distasteful to take me out seven or more times?”

She knew it wouldn’t. She knew my only objection was that once I started to squire her around, I hated to stop. And eventually I always had to in order to preserve what Fausta calls my pig-headed pride.

When Fausta was only nineteen and I was twenty-four, we had a violent romance which we both expected to eventuate in marriage. But during the years I spent in service plus a long stretch in a V.A. hospital, Fausta underwent considerable change. When I returned to civilian life I found a sophisticated woman well on the way to parlaying her culinary genius into a fortune in place of the naïve teenage youngster I had left behind. She affected me just as strongly as she ever had, but our relationship was changed in a way I couldn’t take.

I have an old-fashioned notion that the man should be the breadwinner in the family, and the richer Fausta became, the farther off I backed. Now that at twenty-seven she owned half the money in town, I had backed so far I was practically out of the picture.

For a time well-meaning friends, including Fausta, tried to convince me it didn’t make any difference whether the husband or the wife had the money, but it did to me. I frankly admitted I was pig-headed and intended to stay that way.

Both of us long ago accepted the fact that we aren’t going to marry, but Fausta likes to make a game of pursuing me and seems to enjoy seeing me try to struggle off the hook. It’s my own feelings I have to struggle against rather than Fausta, a fact she understands perfectly. Nevertheless she takes a perverse pleasure in watching me struggle.

I said, “You put Stub up and I’ll take you out twice.”

“Three times.”

If I had said, “Once,” she would have said, “Two times.” All she wanted was to win a point.

“Three times,” I conceded. “Starting next month.”

“Starting tonight,” she said firmly. “We will arrange the other times then.”

I gave up as I always do. “I’ll pick you up at nine tonight.”

Momentarily her eyes narrowed as she contemplated pushing for eight, but apparently she decided she had won enough concessions to give her a good score in the game we play. With the bargaining settled to her satisfaction, she returned to the original subject.

“Are these gangsters after you too, Manny?”

“Not the juvenile ones,” I said. “The adults don’t like me much.”

“Maybe you had better hide out here too,” she suggested. “There is a day bed in my upstairs apartment.”

She cocked an inquiring eye at me and I said, “I’ve got work to do.”

“Let the police do it. If gangsters are after you, just call them up and report it. I would not like it if you got all shot up and perhaps were made even uglier than you are.”

Mouldy Green said, “The kid will be safe enough here. Maybe I ought to tag along with the sarge for a while.”

“I’ve got enough troubles,” I told him. “You stay here and keep an eye on Stub.”

A
S IT
was now pushing noon, the four of us had lunch in the dining room. During lunch I explained to Fausta and Mouldy what the situation was in general. I also had Stub give them a description of Buzz Thurmond so that they could recognize him if he came nosing around.

“I don’t think there’s a chance in a hundred any of the Purple Pelicans would make a try for him here,” I said. “Even when they’re full of heroin. But keep on the lookout for purple jackets anyway. And I don’t want Stub leaving the building even to take a walk around outside unless you’re with him. Understand?”

“Sure, Sarge. Want me to lock him in my room daytimes?”

“Of course not. He’s not a prisoner. He’s just here for his own protection.”

“He’ll get it,” Mouldy promised.

He would too, I knew. Mouldy wasn’t long on brains, but he could follow orders to the letter. His main trouble was lack of flexibility. Since he would refuse to allow Stub to leave El Patio under any circumstances until I countermanded the order, there was the risk that if I dropped dead Stub would remain a prisoner for life. But at least I was reasonably certain he’d be safe. I was tempted to give Mouldy contingent instructions in case I did drop dead, but decided cluttering his mind with anything more would only confuse him. With Mouldy it’s best to keep things as simple as possible.

After lunch Mouldy walked with me to the front door, and I wasn’t quick enough to sidestep the friendly pat on the back he gave me in parting. His idea of a friendly pat on the back is to drop his oversized hand between your shoulder blades with approximately the force a hammersmith uses on particularly tough steel.

When I had recovered my balance and my breath, I said, “If Buzz Thurmond shows up, don’t bother to shoot him. Just give him a friendly greeting.”

“Why should I do that?” he asked puzzledly. “Ain’t he the guy after the kid?”

“That’s right.”

He shrugged agreeably. “If you say so, Sarge. I’ll give him a friendly greeting and then shoot him.”

“You’ve got the idea,” I said. “It’s best to be courteous about these things.”

Talking to Mouldy is a little contagious. I left before my mind began to slip too.

It was only a quarter of one when I arrived at Police Headquarters, and Warren Day wasn’t yet back from lunch. I waited in his office.

When he came in just at one, he looked suspiciously at the cigar I was smoking.

“It’s one of my own,” I informed him. “I only snitch yours when you’re looking.”

He checked his humidor to make sure, apparently having his stock counted. Then, instead of starting a fresh cigar, he searched his ash tray for a stub of adequate length to suit him, blew the ashes from it and stuck it in his mouth.

“What kind of trouble have you got for me today?” he asked around the butt.

“No trouble, Inspector. I’m bringing you some help in solving the Meyer kid’s murder.”

He glowered at me. “That’s solved, Moon. And the solution is in jail.”

“Joe Brighton says he didn’t do it,” I said mildly.

When he only snorted, I asked, “Don’t you even want to hear what I’ve got to say?”

“Not particularly. But you’re a taxpayer. I guess I’ll have to listen.”

“To start off, your estimate of the Purple Pelican’s size was way off. It has about sixty members.”

His eyebrows raised, but more in bored courtesy than in actual interest.

“There’s another kid outfit the other side of Lucas called the Gravediggers,” I said. “About the same size, as nearly as I can gather. A hood named Leroy Thurmond, alias Buzz Thurmond, acts as a sort of adult supervisor to the Purple Pelicans. Another one who goes by the name of Limpy Alfred, but whose full name is Alfred Lloyd Levanthal, acts in a similar capacity to the Gravediggers. Both of them have managed to convert their respective teen-age clubs into organized criminal gangs. They advise on burglary jobs and they’ve steered the kids to fences they control. They’re also doing their damnedest to get the kids addicted to narcotics. I don’t know what Limpy Alfred’s score is with the Gravediggers, but Buzz Thurmond has managed to get about a third of the Purple Pelicans hooked, plus a half dozen girls in the auxiliary.”

The inspector’s face darkened. “Peddling dope to kids, huh? I’ll pass it along to Narcotics. They love the rats who work on kids.”

“Thurmond and Limpy Alfred don’t peddle it themselves,” I said. “They just encourage the habit. The outlets are a barber on Sixth named Sam Polito and a pool shark named Art Cooney who hangs around a place called Harry’s Pool Parlor at Fourth and Lucas. Both reputed to take orders from Buzz Thurmond. The fence the Purple Pelicans use when they want cash instead of heroin, incidentally, is an auto-repair bandit named Harry Krebb at Seventh and Lucas. Also reputed to be an underling of Thurmond’s. I don’t have any evidence of all this, but it’s from a reliable informant.”

The inspector had been busily taking notes as I talked. “We’ll gather the evidence if the information is correct,” he said grimly. “Anything else?”

“Buzz Thurmond and Limpy Alfred are both believed by the kids to be merely lieutenants of an organized adult gang. Nobody knows the leader of this gang, but I’ve uncovered a connection both men at one time had with Bremmer Hotel. Which means the gang leader could be Sherman Bremmer. That’s only a wild guess, of course. I haven’t any information even suggesting it.”

“I’ll pass it along anyway. The Vice Squad would love to nail Bremmer on almost anything.”

Then he looked at me curiously. “This is all welcome dope, Moon, but I don’t see what bearing it has on the Meyers kid’s death.”

“Bart Meyers was trying to reform the Purple Pelicans,” I said. “A YMCA community-boy organizer named Reed had been working on him for a couple of months, and Bart was all enthused about turning the gang into a straight club. Which would have ruined Buzz Thurmond’s racket. It was quite convenient for Bart to get killed in such a way that the cops would catch the killer immediately without having to dig into the Purple Pelicans’ activities too much.”

The inspector frowned at me, but I could tell he was highly interested by the thoughtful expression in his eyes. “This just a theory on your part, Moon, or do you have evidence to back it up?”

“Not evidence directly tying Thurmond to the murder,” I said. “But pretty good evidence that he didn’t want me digging into his connection with the Purple Pelicans.”

I told him of the mass meeting the evening before, and how subsequently I had learned Buzz Thurmond was keeping the members of the Purple Pelicans hopped up on heroin and was attempting to inflame them to the point of killing Stub Carlson.

“He also let it drop that he or his gang intended to dispose of me,” I finished.

The inspector said dubiously, “Maybe he’s just concerned because he’s afraid your digging around will mess up his racket. That doesn’t necessarily mean he had anything to do with Bart Meyer’s murder.”

“I don’t think so,” I disagreed. “The only way I got my information about the gang and the racket setup down in that neighborhood was by promising to keep it confidential. When Stub Carlson explained what I was after to his friends, he made it clear I had no intention of upsetting anything either the Purple Pelicans or the adult gang was doing unless it concerned Bart Meyer’s murder. The youngster who ratted to Buzz Thurmond must have passed that on. I wasn’t a threat to Thurmond unless he had killed young Meyers.”

“Maybe he didn’t trust your secrecy.” He grinned a little sourly. “Apparently with good reason. You are violating the confidence, aren’t you?”

“Of course not. I got release from my informant.”

He looked at me thoughtfully. “Your informant was this Stub Carlson, I take it?”

“What difference does it make who he was? I have the kid stashed away in a safe place where neither Thurmond nor the Purple Pelicans can get at him. You intend to do anything about all this?”

“Sure. You’ve given me enough dope to keep Narcotics, Vice and Burglary busy for a long time just checking up.” He looked pleased with me for a change.

“I mean insofar as the murder is concerned.”

His expression grew less pleased. “We’ll go over Thurmond when the other boys are through with him. But without concrete evidence tying him to the murder, what do you expect us to accomplish? He doesn’t sound like the type who’d confess because of a bad conscience.”

I hadn’t expected him to do much more than give my theory careful consideration, so I was satisfied with his answer. Grouchy as Warren Day is, he’s not the type of cop who closes his eyes to any lead which points away from his prime suspect. I doubted that I had lessened his belief in Joe Brighton’s guilt in the slightest, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t follow up the theory I had dumped in his lap. And he’d do just as thorough a job of investigation as if he believed Thurmond guilty.

For once we parted mutually satisfied with each other.

At that point I could have followed Fausta’s suggestion and have holed up at El Patio while I waited for the police to clean things up. They had an adequate enough organization so that they didn’t need my help. Just tipping them off on what to look for was help enough.

I knew that as soon as Warren Day passed along the dope I had given him to the proper departments, whole squads of cops would begin a co-ordinated effort to smash the gang of which Buzz Thurmond was a member. Before that evening Thurmond, Limpy Alfred, Sam Polito, Art Cooney, Harry Krebb and Sherman Bremmer would be under twenty-four-hour surveillance. None of them could make a move which wouldn’t be relayed to headquarters and entered in a co-ordinated record on the whole gang. If Bremmer was the leader of the gang, as I suspected, the police would establish the fact beyond any doubt through the record of his contacts. From here on every bit of stolen merchandise received by Harry Krebb or the two dope pushers would be recorded, and each boy who brought stolen merchandise in to them would immediately acquire a shadow.

I gave the Purple Pelicans, the Gravediggers and the adult gang exploiting them another week before the police moved in for mass arrests and smashed the entire setup.

That didn’t necessarily mean they’d uncover any evidence concerning Bart Meyer’s murder, however. I was reasonably certain that if Buzz Thurmond actually had killed the boy and framed Joe Brighton for it, none of the Purple Pelicans knew anything about it. And unless one of the adults broke under questioning, there didn’t seem much likelihood of freeing young Joe without turning up actual evidence.

Instead of seeking the safety of El Patio, I decided to stick my neck out a little more. The Bremmer Hotel seemed to me to be the logical place to stick it.

The Bremmer Hotel was a three-story brick building on Ninth, at the very edge of the slum area. It was old, but it wasn’t a particularly disreputable-looking place. As a matter of fact it looked cleaner than most of the second-class office buildings and stores in the same neighborhood.

The hotel lobby was a bare but relatively clean room with only the faintest odor of antiseptic about it. A skinny old man in his seventies, who seemed to be in a semi-stupor, slumped in an easy chair behind the desk. When I put both hands on the counter and attracted his attention with a difficult cough, he opened bleary eyes to look at me, struggled out of his chair and breathed stale wine in my face.

“Single?” he asked.

“Yes I am,” I admitted.

For a moment he stared at me, then forced a dutiful chuckle. “Want a single room?” he asked patiently.

“No thanks. I have a three-room apartment. Buzz Thurmond in?”

He looked a little startled. “Buzz? He don’t live here.” At least the name was familiar to him, I thought. Which was more interesting than if Thurmond still made the hotel his residence. It seemed to indicate he frequented the place, and since it contained neither a bar nor a restaurant, there could only be three possible reasons for his visits. Either he patronized one of the girls, he had a friend who lived there, or he had business dealings with the hotel’s proprietor. Since it seemed doubtful that he’d use his own name if his visits were solely for the first reason, the odds narrowed to his visits stemming from one of the other two.

“I know he doesn’t,” I said. “I just wondered if he was around.”

The old desk clerk shook his head.

“How about Al Levanthal?”

This only got me a puzzled look.

“Limpy Alfred,” I elaborated.

The man looked startled for a second time. “He don’t live here neither, mister.”

“Can I help you?” a smooth voice said to my back.

Swinging around, I looked down at the moon-shaped face of Sherman Bremmer, the hotel’s proprietor.