The Amboy Dukes (15 page)

Leonard’s mouth hung slack. “I think you got something there. But I’ll bet you that round just to make it interesting.”

“Good,” Gallagher said. “How about you and Finch going out and picking up Goldfarb?”

“We’ll bring him down to headquarters when we get him.”

“Right. So get going. We’re booking these kids and taking them down to the line-up. Kramer,” he called to the policeman, “get these kids booked and take them back to the wagon. Then you better notify their parents to come down to court tomorrow morning and bail them out.”

“Yes, sir,” Kramer said, and motioned for the other policemen to help him.

With quiet efficiency that eliminated any attempts at nonsense the Dukes were individually booked for carrying concealed weapons, while Moishe Perlman had added to this charge the illegal possession of gasoline coupons that probably were counterfeit, and Bull Bronstein was charged with a narcotic violation in addition to carrying a large sailor knife. Black Benny and Crazy were booked on suspicion, and as they sat in the wagon and were driven to the line-up the Dukes did not speak to one another. For playing at being tough and putting one over on the cops was fun, but now they realized they were facing a real rap and that the bravado, the back-stiffening sneer, the cynical snarl which was supposed to intimidate the cops had not been noticed. Facing one another on the twin benches in the caged part of the patrol wagon, they were frightened boys who bit their lips to keep from crying.

Black Benny sat beside Crazy, who trembled and muttered incoherently to himself. Mitch sat on Crazy’s right and kept a restraining hand on him. Benny rocked as the wagon sped toward police headquarters on Raymond Street and wondered why he wasn’t lucky. Frank hadn’t been around and thus had escaped the raid. In fact, he was hardly ever around. Frank kept telling him that it looked suspicious for them to be together so much, but he couldn’t see it that way. Ever since last Saturday, when Frank had given Crazy the dirty deal, he hadn’t been around the club, Selma’s, or the poolroom. The only times Benny saw him were at school, and then he’d leave with some sort of whacky excuse about looking for an apartment for his family m East Flatbush.

It was plain as day to Benny that Frank was looking for an out, and he had to smile in the darkness as he reflected that Frank was in with him. Just as deep. Just as solid. He was fully implicated, and because he knew it he was avoiding him and the Dukes. Now they were all being booked, and Benny found little consolation that he had been weaponless when searched, for he was being booked with the others, and his parents would have to bail him out and they would give him plenty of hell.

Frank had to be lucky. Frank had to be the guy who was taking the beating, and if Benny would’ve known then what a rat he was he would’ve let Bannon give him the shellacking he deserved. Because he had tried to be a friend, a real Duke, he had shot and killed a guy for Frank, and now he was riding in the pie wagon while Frank was out somewhere horsing around with a babe.

Benny hated Frank. The gnawing hours of distrust and suspicion were now culminated in this newborn hatred, and Benny tried to think of some way of getting even. But he knew that he did not dare. He had to keep his nose clean and maybe if he would’ve been a smart guy he wouldn’t have been hanging around with the Dukes. In a pinch he was as good as Frank—he knew that—but when it came to thinking things out long-range he fell down.

As he walked across the brilliantly lit stage ahead of Crazy and stood blinded by the battery of lights that shone upon him it didn’t seem to be he whom the gruff strong voice was describing. Benjamin Semmel, known as Black Benny, age sixteen; height: five-six; weight: 147; distinguishing features: dark complexion and blackheads; residing at 16A Amboy Street; attending New Lots Vocational High School; in the official class of the late Mr. Bannon; booked on suspicion for consorting with dangerous juvenile characters. Black Benny was known occasionally to drive automobiles without having an operator’s permit.

“Anyone here recognize him?” the voice droned. “All right, step down. Next, Mitchell Wolf, known as Mitch, age seventeen—” The descriptions of the Dukes followed in rapid order, only halting as Crazy was dragged onto the stage by two policemen who held him as he screamed and cursed at the darkness beyond the lights.

Finally, still bewildered as they saw and heard themselves described as juvenile delinquents and not as mobsters, they were all off the stage and standing before the desk of the committing officer, who booked them before they were led away to their cells. As Benny waited to step before the desk he saw Frank being brought in by Leonard and Finch. Frank’s father followed them, disheveled and pale with fright and worry. Now Benny was glad. At least Frank wasn’t going to get away with it, for if they were going to sit in the can Frank would be keeping them company.

“Please.” Frank’s father held Leonard’s sleeve. “What did you bring him here for? He was coming home when you stopped him, and what has he done?”

“We just want to question him,” Leonard replied.

Mr. Goldfarb wrung his hands. “Then you’ll let him go?”

“We can’t tell you,” Finch replied. “Take it easy, Mr. Goldfarb, we just want to ask your son some questions. If he hasn’t done anything he’ll be out of here in no time. You know these boys are your son’s friends?”

Mr. Goldfarb looked at the Dukes. “Some of them I know.” He nodded. “The Sachs boy and my son’s friend there, Benny. One or two others.”

“You know that we’re holding every one of them for carrying a concealed weapon?” Leonard said. “Your son is hanging around with a fine crowd.”

Mr. Goldfarb bowed his head. “There’s nothing I can say.” His voice was hoarse and he swallowed. “Nothing I can say.”

“You better sit over there,” Finch said kindly. “We’ll let you know soon what we’re going to do with Frank.”

Leonard approached Gallagher and they held a whispered consultation. Gallagher nodded and Leonard walked over to Black Benny and tapped him on the shoulder.

“Come on,” he said, “we want to talk to you.”

Benny saw Frank already seated at the table in the small room adjoining the court chamber. He tried to grin as Frank winked at him, but his smile froze and he turned away.

Gallagher pointed to a chair at the table. “Sit down, Benny. Now,” he said as he sat down, “let’s talk.”

“About what?” Frank asked.

“Things,” Gallagher said. “Where were you tonight, Goldfarb?”

“I was dating.”

“Who?”

“Some kid on the block.”

“Who?”

“Some kid.”

“Stop stalling.” Gallagher’s voice sounded as if it were starched. “Who? What’s her name?”

“Fanny Kane.”

“That stinker!” Benny exploded and rose slightly from his chair. “That twelve-year-old jail bait!”

Frank’s lips drew back. “Shut your trap!”

“No rough stuff,” Gallagher interjected sharply. “So you were dating.” He turned to Frank. “Leonard and Finch here”—he gestured to them—“tell me they searched you and didn’t find a knife or other weapon on you.”

“Why should you think you’d find me carrying something?” Frank asked angrily.

Gallagher shrugged. “That’s what we want to know. You’re a member of the Dukes. So’s Benny here. We got out and picked up all your guys, and every one is carrying a knife or brass knuckles. All except that kid you guys call Crazy. So that’s what’s got us puzzled.”

“What’re you talking about?” Benny was glad he was seated, for he knew his legs could not support him.

“Because it’s odd.” Wilner leaned across the table and spoke with his face close to Benny’s. “All you boys were hipped except you and Frank. What’s the matter? Get scared after Mr. Bannon was knocked off?”

The color drained from Benny’s face and he looked wildly at Frank. Frank’s fingers were sticky and he felt as if the walls of the room were contracting and pressing upon him, squeezing him until there was no breath left in his body. They were trapped. It was all so simple. He saw Benny struggling to speak, to break the silence which stormed about them. Their innocence now only attested and emphasized their guilt. To be caught and trapped because they had not been guilty of a misdemeanor; it was too funny, even for the books.

“Struck dumb?” Gallagher’s voice attenuated the silence.

“You’re trying to pin a murder rap on us,” Frank choked. He saw an out.

“We aren’t trying to pin anything,” Wilner said. “We’re just curious why a couple of hard guys like you two weren’t carrying your gats.”

“We never owned gats!” Frank said.

“All right,” Gallagher agreed, “knives and knuckles.”

“We used to carry them,” Frank began, and noticed that Benny’s face was stiff with horror, “but we quit after Mr. Bannon was killed. You see”—he spoke rapidly to prevent Benny from interrupting him—“I carried a knife and Benny did too. But we never did anything with it. All the guys carried them. But after Mr. Bannon got killed we threw our knives into a garbage can because we knew we were in enough trouble already and we didn’t want any more. Why can’t you let us alone?” He began to cry. “We’re in enough trouble already and you’re never gonna let us alone just because we were fooling around that day! Now my father’s out there and you’re riding us when we didn’t do anything.” Frank bent over the table and sobbed.

Gallagher looked at Benny. “What’ve you got to say?”

Benny screwed up his face and began to cry. He didn’t want to cry, but he had to. Now his mind was clear and ticking like a metronome. As much as he hated and feared Frank, he had to admit that Frank had saved them. With every muscle and reflex he compelled himself to cry, and finally, as relief from the tension, the tears came voluntarily and he wept quietly and steadily.

Gallagher was disgusted and looked his annoyance. Finch and Leonard stared stolidly at the weeping boys. Wilner looked relieved.

“Snap out of it,” Gallagher finally said. “You’re going home.”

Benny raised his head. “You’re not booking us?”

“No.”

“What about the other guys?”

“They’re in.”

“They’re taking a rap because of us,” Frank said. “They wouldn’t have been in no trouble if it wasn’t for us.”

“You’re a pretty smart kid,” Gallagher said. “I guess your guys aren’t going to like you much.”

“Why can’t you give them a break?” Frank pleaded. “I swear by my mother and father they never done anything. Suppose they were carrying knives and knucks? We never done nothing. Carrying a knife and knucks is like wearing peg pants and a sharp hat. It’s like a part of a uniform,” he reasoned desperately. “And most of the guys used their knives when they were working.”

“Here we go again,” Leonard snorted.

“Let ’em go,” Benny begged. “The guys’ll have it in for us.”

“Maybe we could strike a deal,” Gallagher suggested.

Frank was wary. “What?”

“Tell us who shot Bannon.”

Frank looked at him as if he were insane. “We don’t know,” he said.

“Maybe Benny knows.” Gallagher turned to him.

“I don’t know either,” Benny said rapidly. “You guys are really giving us a hosing. Why don’t you let us alone? All of us? Let us alone!”

Gallagher opened the door. “Meeting’s adjourned. Go on home and stay out of trouble.”

“We stay out of it, but you put us right back in.” Benny continued to cry, for he found safety in tears. “And you wonder why we don’t like cops!”

Frank turned to Gallagher. “I want to wash.”

“Me too,” Benny said.

Leonard opened a door at the other end of the room. “In here. Make it snappy.”

Frank shut the door behind them and started to speak, but Benny put his hand across his mouth and pointed to the walls. For a moment Frank looked startled, then he nodded and they washed silently. Their eyes were red and their faces drawn and peaked. Within them the terror and fear of discovery glowed like a red light of warning and danger, and it was with an effort that they left the washroom.

Frank stopped as he entered the outer chamber and saw Stan Alberg sitting with his father.

“Don’t say nothing,” he cautioned Benny. “I’ll see you in school tomorrow. Hello, Pop.” He attempted to be flippant as he spoke to his father. “The bastards let us go.”

“What did they want?” his father asked him.

“Why we weren’t carrying knives or guns or blackjacks,” Benny answered. “I don’t know what to do about guys like those cops. They’re driving me nuts!”

“Let’s get some coffee,” Stan soothed him. “I got my car outside and we’ll go to Fulton Street. Then I’ll take you home and I’ll square things with your folks, Benny.”

“They’re driving me nuts,” Benny muttered.

“Don’t worry,” Stan reassured him. “I’ll straighten things out.”

Mr. Goldfarb opened the rear door of the automobile and stood with one foot on the running board. “What are we going to do?” he asked Stan. “All those boys locked up in jail. What’re we going to do?”

Stan sighed as he slid into the driver’s seat and pulled up his trousers at the knees. “I don’t know, Mr. Goldfarb. This thing is way over my head. If the police raid all the gangs and clubs in Brownsville there won’t be enough cells in the city to lock up all the kids they pick up for carrying concealed weapons and other things. They got two of your guys on other charges.” He turned around to speak to Frank. “Counterfeit gasoline coupons and narcotics. Two very tough raps.”

“God help us,” Mr. Goldfarb whispered, and turned to his son. “First we were poor because we didn’t have any money, and now we’re poor because there is no one home to look after you or the other boys. Frank”—he grasped his son’s arm—“tell me you’re not in trouble!”

“I’m not,” Frank said roughly. “Stop bothering me.”

Stan coasted to a stop before the White Tower. “Let him alone, Mr. Goldfarb. Get out, Benny.”

Mr. Goldfarb entered the restaurant first, and Stan spoke to Frank. “Lucky thing you got rid of that gun. Benny too.”

“Thanks,” Frank whispered.

“You’re a first-class suspect,” Stan said, “and I’ve got a feeling you’re not telling all you know. Remember, Frank, talking now might save you a lot of grief later on.”