The Amboy Dukes (9 page)

“You in trouble?” Mitch asked him.

“No!”

“Listen,” Larry said, “what’s the matter? You’re jumpy.”

“I know,” Benny agreed. “I must’ve eaten something.”

“You want a reefer?” Crazy asked him.

“No, thanks.”

“Then I’ll smoke one.” Crazy took a cigarette from his case.

“You’re smoking too many of them,” Larry said. “You’re high now.”

“I like them.” Crazy sucked in his breath and exhaled. “Boy, I sure feel wonderful when I’m smokin’.”

“He’s becoming a regular hophead,” Benny said.

Selma approached their booth, and they were silent as she wiped the table. As she turned around to walk away Crazy goosed her.

“You bastard!” She whirled about. “Someday I’ll cut your fingers off for that!”

“You know you like it.” Crazy leered at her.

“From you?” she sniffed. “Now I know you’re crazy!”

Crazy stood up in the booth, but Mitch pulled him back to the seat.

“Go on, Selma,” Mitch told her. “Don’t mind him.”

“Yeah,” Crazy said to her, “go on. Beat it. Now I’m not gonna get you the present I promised.”

“Stick your present up your you know what,” Selma spit at him, and went back to the counter.

“What were you gonna get her?” Larry asked Crazy.

“Somethin’ nice. A flask that fits over her bubs. I saw a nice one on Nassau Street that a guy in the store was gonna swap me for a roast. Now I won’t get it for her.”

“You’re right,” Mitch agreed, and looked meaningly at Larry and Benny, “she’s not good enough for you.”

“You’re my friend.” Crazy turned to him. “You’re the only guy in our gang that I like.”

“Don’t you like us?” Larry asked him.

“Sure, but not like I like Mitch. Mitch, you know who I think I’m gonna make my new girl?”

“Who?”

“Fanny Kane.”

“Her?” Black Benny laughed. “She’s only about twelve. Crazy, you’ll be saying good morning to a judge.”

“You’d better stay away from her,” Larry agreed.

“I like her,” Crazy insisted stubbornly. “She’s young but put together.”

“Does she like you?” Mitch asked him.

“Sure she does. When I say hello to her she says hello to me.”

“I guess she likes you then.” Mitch winked at him. “You’re just a sharp article with the women, Crazy.”

“Come on, Benny, snap out of it,” Larry said suddenly. “Say, I wanta ask you something.”

“What?” Benny squirmed and wondered where Frank was. Maybe Crazy was right.

Larry leaned across the table and whispered, “Do you know who knocked off your teacher?”

Benny fought to keep himself seated. “No”—he shook his head slowly—“I don’t.”

“Then why in hell are you so nervous?” Larry asked him.

Benny bit his lips to keep from screaming and he picked up Mitch’s water glass and drank because his lips were dry and thick. “Because I can’t get it out of my mind that if Frank ‘n’ me hadn’t horsed around that morning maybe Bannon would be alive today. He wasn’t such a bad guy, and I don’t know why anyone’d want to knock him off. Now Frank ‘n’ me got our pictures in the paper, and my old man would’ve given me a shellacking if Sam didn’t stop him. And cops make me nervous.”

“I don’t like cops,” Crazy said solemnly.

“If you don’t stop cutting guys up like you did on Monday you’re gonna see cops every day,” Mitch warned him.

“And Frank was grilled today before I was, and I don’t know what they asked him and I just gotta know, and the jerk isn’t here or anyplace. I’d like to kick him right in the ass.”

“Maybe his old man and lady are keeping him home,” Larry suggested.

“Maybe,” Mitch agreed.

“Well, he ought to get out someway,” Benny insisted.

“He’s a rat,” Crazy said again.

“Shut up,” Larry said.

“He’s a rat,” Crazy repeated. “A rat. A rat. A rat. Frank is a rat. Watch out for him, Benny. I’m warning you.” There was mockery and cunning in Crazy’s voice as he leaned across the table and whispered to Benny.

Benny looked at Crazy and said nothing.

Frank sat next to Benny on the uncomfortable high-backed bench in the anteroom of the Liberty Avenue police station and traced the crack in the green paint from the baseboard to the ceiling. The crack went across the ceiling, but it was uncomfortable leaning back to see how far it went, and he shut his eyes and tried to recite the alphabet backward. He squirmed and was uncomfortable and wondered whether their alibi would stick. He saw no holes in it. For two hours now the detectives had been quizzing the boys in his official class, and the cops had brought in for questioning the boys who had been troublemakers in Mr. Bannon’s other classes.

The boys slouched on the benches. Some rested their heads against the backs and balanced their hats on their foreheads and noses, pretending to be asleep and indifferent to the questioning, while others tried to read newspapers and magazines, smoked, or conversed in hushed voices. They hated cops impersonally and because cop-hating was the tough, right thing to do. If they walked along the streets and talked of innocent things they would instinctively break off the conversation as they passed a policeman or a scout car. Now they were waiting to be questioned and each one wanted to be tough, to tell the cops that he wasn’t going to talk without his lawyer, even if they gave him a workout, and baffle the cops by his silence and hardness. Somewhere among them was the killer, and by sitting in close proximity to him they derived a vicarious thrill. They wouldn’t tell the cops anything, and by being un-co-operative, vague, and ambiguous, they would be helping the guy who knocked off their teacher, sharing in the crime and putting one over on the cops, who were no good, who were always raiding their poolrooms and breaking up their crap games.

The door opened and one of the boys walked out. They looked at him and were disappointed, for he had not been beaten.

“You”—the policeman pointed to one of the boys at random—“come in.”

They watched the boy swagger defiantly into the room, and then the door closed and again they relaxed to wait their turn.

Benny nudged Frank. “How much longer before they call us?”

Frank followed the crack to the ceiling before he replied: “I don’t know.”

“What d’ya think they’ll ask us?”

“I don’t know.”

“Must we tell them about the car?”

Frank nodded affirmatively.

“Sam’s sore already.”

“We’ve got to tell them if they ask us. Now shut up.”

“You’re a hell of a guy,” Benny whispered. “Going to the movies with your sister last night while I’m sweating it out on the corner with the guys.”

“I had to do it. Stop worrying, Benny, and stop talking. You’ll get us in a jam if you don’t shut up. Relax.”

Benny sighed, tipped his hat over his eyes, and slid down on the bench.

When the door opened again and the policeman ordered Frank and Benny to come in together there was an electric stir along the benches, an undercurrent of movement and quickened interest, for until now the boys had been interrogated individually, and taking the two of them together meant something.

“Sit down, boys.” Detective Macon motioned to the chairs. He held out a pack of cigarettes. “Smoke?”

“No. Thanks,” they said in unison.

Macon waved his match to extinguish the flame. “Sorry to keep you kids waiting, but things like this take time.”

“Sure,” Benny replied.

“Now let me see,” Macon said. “Which one of you is Benjamin Semmel?”

Benny gulped. “I am.”

“Then you’re Frank Goldfarb?”

“Right.”

“My name is Macon. Louis Macon. And I want you boys to feel that I’m a friend of yours. I know you don’t believe that”—he laughed shortly—“and I guess you don’t like dicks. But we aren’t bad guys, and when you get to know me you’ll know that I’m regular. Now”—Macon loosened his belt buckle—“I’ll have to ask you some questions, and Miss Reid here”—he flicked his thumb toward the stenographer—“is going to take our conversation.”

“Shoot,” Frank said.

“Fine. Do you know who shot Mr. Bannon?”

“No,” Frank replied.

“And you?” Macon turned to Benny.

Benny could feel his voice leaving him. “No.”

“Did you shoot him, Frank?”

“No.”

“Benjamin—say, do the guys call you that?”

“They call me Benny.”

“That’s what I thought. Did you shoot him, Benny?”

“No.”

“That’s what I thought. You kids don’t look like killers.”

Frank did not reply. The trap was too obvious. If this was the way it was going to be they would have to step carefully if they expected to stay in the clear. For this dick was just playing dumb. He would have to be careful. Even though he had been getting the beating and Benny had shot Bannon, he would have to be careful. Careful for himself and careful for Benny. He knew that Benny was sore at him, but what could he do? He had to take care of himself, and the sooner he could cut himself loose from Benny, the better. Though any way he figured it he didn’t see an out. He was stuck, and so long as he was stuck he had to be careful.

“What did you boys think of Bannon?” Macon threw out the question.

“He was all right,” Benny said.

“Did you like him?”

“I guess we liked him as well as we liked any other teacher,” Frank replied.

Macon ground his cigarette into the ash tray. “Which means you didn’t like him.”

“I didn’t say that,” Frank replied.

“You didn’t,” Macon admitted. “Did you like school?”

“I’d rather be working,” Frank said.

“Me too,” Benny chimed in.

“But my father and mother want me to stay in school, and Benny’s do too. That’s why we’re here.”

“Sure.” Benny took a deep breath. “If we were working we wouldn’t’a been cuttin’ classes and horsing around and we wouldn’t be sittin’ here now.”

“You mean if you were working you wouldn’t be in trouble now?”

“Why are we in trouble?” Benny got his second wind. He wasn’t frightened any more. “What’ve we done? We were clowning like the other guys. That’s all.”

Macon leaned back in his swivel chair and rocked. “I guess I was running ahead of myself,” he admitted. “You mean if you kids had been working instead of going to school you wouldn’t be a part of this investigation?”

“That’s right,” Benny said. “Believe me, Mr. Macon, I’m getting plenty from my old lady because of this.”

“Your mom’s found out about your going on the hook?” He laughed.

“You can say that again.”

“Well,” Macon said, “you deserve it. What did you kids do after you left school?”

“Who do you want to talk?” Benny asked Macon.

“No difference to me.” He shrugged his shoulders.

“You tell him,” Frank said to Benny.

Benny hesitated for effect. To begin talking immediately would show the dick that this had been rehearsed. All he had to do was tell the truth, but to make the dick drag some things out of him.

“Well,” he began, “when we got out of the schoolyard we stood around for a couple of minutes and talked. Then me and Frank walked along Sutler Avenue and we went to our club—”

“You belong to a club?” Macon interrupted.

Frank nodded. “The Amboy Dukes. We got a clubroom in East Flatbush.”

Macon lit another cigarette. “Nice place?”

“Sure is,” Benny said.

“I may step around to see it someday.”

“The guys’ll love that,” Frank said dryly.

Macon grinned as he puffed on the cigarette, and his face twisted into a grimace of mock pleasure. “I bet they will,” he said. “Go on, Benny.”

“Well, we went down to the club and played the victrola and then we went to Davidson’s to eat. After one o’clock, wasn’t it, Frank?”

Frank thought for a moment. “I guess so.”

“Then what?” Macon prodded him.

“Then after we ate we walked around on Pitkin Avenue for a while looking in the windows and then we walked over to Lincoln Terrace Park and sat there. We were feeling pretty lousy about having to tell our folks about school.”

“Your fathers and mothers work?” Macon asked them.

Frank and Benny nodded affirmatively.

“Go on.”

“So we sat there, down in the dumps and feeling sorry for each other and cursing Mr. Bannon, though we’re sorry we did that now.”

“Sorry you did what?”

“Cursed him,” Benny replied. “What else?”

“Go on.”

“So then we called up our dates and told them we’d meet them about a quarter after nine, and we went to eat in Cohen’s Delicatessen on Pitkin near Douglass. Then we met the girls about the time we said, and say, Mr. Macon—”

“Yes?”

“These girls are good kids and we don’t want their names in the paper or things like that. So you won’t get them in bad, will you?”

“No,” Macon said. “Miss Reid”—he turned to the stenographer—“make a note that if we check the girls these boys were dating the reporters are not to be informed who they are.”

“Yes, sir,” she said.

“So that’s okay. Now go on, Frank, you take up from there.”

Frank cleared his throat. “Well, we went with the girls to Jacob Riis Park and sat in the parking lot and necked.” Frank’s face flushed and he looked embarrassed. “Gee,” he went on, “the girls’d be sore if they knew what we were saying.”

Macon winked at them. “Don’t worry. Then what did you do?”

“We took the girls home about eleven-thirty. Then we went home and told our folks about their coming to school.”

“When did you find out that Mr. Bannon had been killed?”

“The next day.”

“You didn’t see an evening paper?”

“No,” Benny said.

“Frank?”

“No.”

“Do you boys ever buy a newspaper?”

“Once in a while,” Frank said.

“So you didn’t even see the headlines Thursday morning?”

“I didn’t,” Frank said. “My mother was too busy bawling me out for me to do anything else.”

“I didn’t see a paper either,” Benny said. “Honest.”

“How did you boys get out to Jacob Riis Park?”

Now it was coming. “We got out there,” Benny said vaguely.

“You said you were necking in the parking lot. Who was driving the car?” Benny was silent.

“Come on,” Macon said to Frank. “Who was driving the car?”

Frank looked at the floor. “Were you boys in a stolen car?”

“What difference does it make whose car it was?” Benny asked.

“Honest”—Frank raised his right hand—“it wasn’t stolen.”

“Then why won’t you tell me who the car belonged to or who was driving?”

“I was driving,” Frank said suddenly.

“You?” Macon shuffled some papers on his desk. “You’re not eighteen. You were driving without a permit?”

“Yes.”

“I was driving too,” Benny said. This was working just the way Frank said it would. Frank was an all-right guy who had something between his ears. If only he were more certain that he could trust him.

“And you’re not eighteen either.”

“I know.”

“Oh,” Macon said slowly, “now I get it. So who does the car belong to?”

“You won’t get him in trouble?” Benny asked.

“I’m not making you kids any promises.”

“Then I’m not gonna tell you,” Benny said.

“Me neither,” Frank said.

“You want me to turn you in for driving without a license?”

“You’ll do it anyway,” Frank replied. “We know what you said about you trying to be our friend was a lot of cr—I mean—” He fumbled for a word.

“I know what you mean.” Macon nodded. “Now you’re trying to play on my sympathy. It won’t do you any good unless you tell me the truth about everything I ask you. Now I’m not going to waste any more time with you because I’ve got at least fifteen other kids out there that I’ve got to see, and I’ve got a home too. So if you’re not going to tell me I’m just going to have you booked and locked up overnight until you do. So make up your minds, and you haven’t even got two minutes to do it in.”

Benny looked at Frank and Frank shrugged his shoulders.

“It was my brother’s car,” Benny said. “Oh boy”—he put the palm of his hand to his cheek—“now I’m gonna get it!”

“What’s your brother’s first name?”

“Samuel.”

“And how’d you kids drive out to Jacob Riis?”

“Out Linden Boulevard to Rockaway Boulevard and then over to the park.”

“Miss Reid”—Macon swung around in his chair—“check and see if a Samuel Semmel owns a car. What kind of a car is it?”

“A Dodge.” Benny’s voice was weak. “A blue convertible—1941.”

“And check,” Macon instructed Miss Reid, “whether anyone remembers seeing a ‘41 Dodge convertible driving out to Jacob Riis. Are you boys good drivers?” he asked them.

“My brother wouldn’t have lent us the car if we weren’t. Please,” Benny pleaded, “don’t get him in trouble. I’m in hot enough already, and Sam’ll really fan me if I get him in trouble.”

“I’ll see,” Macon said. “In the meantime I’m warning you not to do any more driving.”

“I won’t,” Benny promised. “Honest.”

Frank also raised his hand. “Me too.”

“Now tell me the names of the girls.”

“Must we?” Frank asked helplessly.

“Yes.”

“Betty Rosen.” Frank decided that he had to see Betty that night. Benny had to tell the cops they had gone to Jacob Riis by another route because there was always the chance that the cops might drag the channel for the gun. And suppose they decided to drag underneath the Flatbush Avenue Bridge? Frank shut his eyes to prevent Macon from observing the way they narrowed. It didn’t look like the perfect setup any more.

“And yours?” Macon smiled as he questioned Benny.

“You promised not to give it to the reporters,” Benny reminded him.

“I know. What’s her name?”

“Ann Kleppner.”

“Did you kids go right to your club after you left the school?”

“Aw, what the hell,” Frank interjected, “you’ll get it out of us anyway. We stopped off and bought a pint and we drank it down at the club.”

“So you kids got high?”

“No,” Frank went on, “we didn’t get drunk.”

“Regular drinkers.” Macon rubbed his hands together. “And where’d you buy the bottle?”

“On Sutter near Junius.”

“Check if there’s a liquor store there,” Macon said to Miss Reid.