The Amboy Dukes (10 page)

“So you don’t know who might’ve had a grudge against Mr. Bannon?”

Benny wrinkled his forehead and squinted. “I don’t know. That Wednesday was the first time Mr. Bannon really got sore at us.”

“What about Frank?” Macon asked him.

“I don’t know.”

“If you knew would you tell me?”

Frank and Benny were silent.

“You’re through.” Macon dismissed him. “You’ll report back if we need you, and stay out of trouble.”

“We’ve never been in trouble,” Benny said.

“That’s fine. Just stay out of it.”

Frank and Benny stood on the steps of the station. It was almost six o’clock, and they wondered when the guys they’d left waiting in the station would get out. Frank wanted to get away, but Benny stuck to him, for although he tried to forget what Crazy had said about Frank he could not. He didn’t dare. It wasn’t a question now of feeling sorry for what he—no, they—had done. Now it meant keeping in the clear, and as they walked up Rockaway Avenue past the furniture stores with their elaborate displays of mahogany and walnut period furniture embellished, grained, and swirled to the saturation point of decoration, Benny wasn’t going to take a chance. Not if he had to stick to Frank every minute of the day and night.

“That wasn’t so bad,” he began the conversation. “I said it wasn’t so bad,” he repeated when Frank did not answer.

“I know.”

“What’re you doin’ tonight?”

“I’m stayin’ home.”

“How about seeing the girls? You know we didn’t go out to Riis Park like we told that dick. And the babes better be tipped off.”

Frank wished that Benny would be quiet, that he had never seen or been friends with Benny. All this talk and being careful of what he said and weighing each word so that there wasn’t a chance of being tripped up was winding him up, making him want to scream and curse and kill Benny. And things were coming too easy. If only he could be sure that their alibi would stick. Maybe someone saw them get on the bus and ride back to the school, or go into the school, or come out of the school, or walk away from the school. Maybe there was someone who might suddenly remember having seen them near the school, for there was always the chance that a casual and even disinterested reader would recognize their pictures in the papers—then good-by to the perfect setup. Maybe someone saw them go over the Flatbush Avenue Bridge, and although he was certain that no one saw Benny throw the package into the channel, still he was not sure. And he knew that Benny no longer trusted him. Benny was a lousy actor and unable to conceal the fear and misgivings that consumed him. He was cold and metallic in the police station, but the calmness was engendered by a desperate determination to stay alive, and that frightened Frank. For he knew that Benny would not think twice about getting rid of him if he felt that Frank might crack, and walking along the avenue with a guy who had killed one man and might do him in thinned his blood and drained the color from his face.

“Why the hell don’t you answer me?” Benny asked him angrily.

“I was thinking,” Frank replied, “about what’re we gonna tell the kids about our wanting them to tell the cops if they have to about our driving out to Rockaway a different way.”

Benny dug his hands deeper into his jacket pockets. “You got something there.”

“Maybe we ought to tell them they’ve got to trust us and not ask any questions,” Frank suggested without hope.

“Don’t be a sap!” Benny flung at him. “And another thing”—he pulled Frank close to one of the store windows—“can I trust you?”

“Let go of me,” Frank said quietly.

“Answer me.” Benny shook him. “Can I trust you?”

“You’ve got to,” Frank said. “We can’t help ourselves.”

Benny laughed nervously and rubbed his face with his hands. “Geez, I’m jumpy. Come on, let’s forget it. Let’s call up the kids and tell them we’ll meet them. We’ll take them dancing tonight at Roseland and we’ll figure out what to tell them. You wanta call Betty?”

Frank nodded. “You call. And tell them we’ll meet them in front of the Fox. I’ll meet you there too. About nine o’clock.”

“Where you going?”

Frank stared at him. “Listen, Benny,” he finally said, “let’s get some things straight. You can’t go tailing after me like a cop. I’m in this with you. I’ve got no out. The only way I get away is if you get away, and the way you don’t trust me, I’m worried about you shooting off your big trap. You jerk, don’t you realize that if we hang around together every minute somebody is gonna get wise? We’ve always been good friends, but not like this, with you hanging onto me and wondering where I am and what I’m doing. We gotta be natural, and if we aren’t”—he shrugged his shoulders—“then we’re up the creek. So I’ll meet you in front of the Fox at nine, and let’s stop acting like Siamese twins.”

“Save the crap,” Benny said abruptly. “I’ll meet you at nine.” Then he walked into the crowd and was gone.

Roseland was a riot of noise. On the stage in the center of the ballroom, Mad Monk and His Cats were beating it out as the hot blonde in the flame-red velvet gown swayed before the microphone and sang “Straighten Up and Fly Right.” The dancers were locked in a tight swaying mass in front of the platform, while in the middle of the floor wildly gyrating couples whirled as the beat of the music increased in intensity. The revolving spotlights of sick green, red, and blue distorted and twisted the dancing shadows on the floor and walls and ceilings, and a blue pall of smoke drifted about the ballroom, fouling and contaminating the little fresh air that was left. With sweat running down their cheeks and their eyes and lips twisted in a rapt ecstatic grimace, the dancers spun through the intricate maddening routine of the lindy, pausing only as the band slackened its beat before passing the lead from the trumpet to the sax and then to Mad Monk, who pounded on the drums with a fury that made the dancers in front of the bandstand whistle and shriek. The sticks beat on the snare drum in two seemingly solid arcs while he pounded the bass wildly with the foot hammer. With a final rapid-driving tattoo, a whirring crash of the cymbals, and a shrill insane note from the trumpet, the number was over.

Now the whistling ceased as Monk signaled the musicians to get ready for the next number. Frank stood on the floor with flexed knees, waiting for the first bars of music. His collar was wet, and small beads of perspiration glowed on his forehead. He held Betty’s left hand loosely and at the first crash of the cymbal sent her into a spin. Betty minced on her toes in a light tap step and twirled toward Frank, who passed her hand over his head and sent her into another spin. They glided together for a moment, moving rapidly from side to side with the swift beat of the music, and again they went into a half spin, with free arms flung out, before Betty whirled toward Frank. Now they broke again, and Betty clapped her hands as she swaggered saucily toward Frank. With her buttocks thrust back and her breasts high and jiggling as she moved her shoulders, she strutted toward Frank, and Frank felt the blood rush to his face. As she came close to him he kissed her swiftly and they whirled about rapidly, lost in the blue haze, the shifting lights, and the insistent beat and rhythm of the band. Now Mad Monk took the lead again. First he worked the drums with the brushes so that the taps were low and soft, and as the whirring of the brushes grew louder and more rapid he changed to drumsticks. Monk’s body was bent low over the drums, and his tongue flicked out to lick his lips as he shifted from drum to tom-tom and back to drum. Now the cymbals crashed, and with a press of his feet Monk switched on the dim red light that glowed inside the bass. “Beat it! Beat it out!” the crowd milling around the bandstand shouted. “Beat it, Monk!” And Monk bared his teeth and grinned.

So fast that Frank knew it was only the marijuana that enabled him to keep up with the music, he led Betty through the maze of swift shuffling dance steps as his jacket began to soak through with perspiration. Betty danced with eyes half shut and lips parted. With a last violent surge of notes Monk smashed the cymbals and the dance was over, and from the milling mob on the floor there arose a short sigh as the orgasm of frenetic music expended itself. Frank and Betty swayed for a moment, and then Frank locked her in his arms and stood rocking on the dance floor.

“I’m beat, kid,” he said to her.

“Me too.” Her breath whistled.

Frank wiped the perspiration from his face with his hands and gave Betty his handkerchief. “Let’s sit out the next one, Betty.”

“Get me a coke,” she said.

“When you cool off a little. That Monk is a killer.”

“Solid.”

“Some nights he’s absolutely out of the world, and keeping up with him is like running a hundred yards in ten seconds over and over again.”

Betty returned Frank’s handkerchief and stretched her legs as she sat down. “Now get me the coke?” she asked him.

“Sure. I’ll be right back.”

Betty watched Frank thread his way through the crowd, and she waved as she saw Benny and Ann approaching her.

“Where’s Frank?” Benny asked her.

“Getting me a coke.”

Ann clutched Benny’s arm and squeezed. “That’s what I want, sug. I’m dying from thirst!”

Benny hurried toward the refreshment stand. No matter what Frank said, he didn’t like to leave that guy alone for a minute.

“Frank,” he shouted until he attracted his attention, “get two more bottles! I’ll pay you back.”

Frank nodded, turned again to the counter, and yelled to be waited on. Clutching the four bottles and straws, he shoved his way through the mob to Benny.

“Why the hell don’t you get your own?” he said as he put Benny’s coin in his pocket. “I only got two arms.”

“Stop your beefing. You speak to Betty yet?”

“No.”

“So what the hell’re you waiting for? We seen you breaking your ass on the floor. What’s more important, getting this thing fixed or dancing?”

“I’ll talk to them now.”

“Sure. That way it’ll be better. I hope it works.”

“It’s got to,” Frank said. “Everything we do is gotta work. We can’t make any slips.”

“You’re not lying.” Benny’s voice was menacing and desperate.

They sipped the cokes as they sat in the crowded lounge and watched impatiently for a couple to leave who were necking in a dim corner which could accommodate four persons. Finally the couple came out of their clinch and Frank and Benny raced across the lounge to the corner.

“Now everybody get comfortable,” Frank addressed the girls, “’cause me and Benny wanta talk to you.”

“Talk?” Ann scoffed. “You come here, Benny”—she stretched out her arms—“and we’ll kiss and swap spits.”

“Later.” Benny rubbed his hand along her thigh. “But we wanna talk to you. Honest.”

“About what?” Ann asked.

“Well”—Frank scratched his nose—“we want you kids to help us. It’s this way. You know we’re in that class where our official teacher got killed, and the cops’ve been grillin’ us.”

“Cops are bastards,” Betty said.

“You’re not tellin’ us anything.” Benny nodded.

“So the cops’ve been asking us all sorts of whacked-up questions about what we did on the day our teacher got plugged and everything,” Frank continued. “And we had to tell them we were out with you.”

Ann looked frightened. “You told them our names?”

“We had to,” Benny said. “But they’re not gonna bother you, and it’ll never get in the papers. Didn’t the dick promise it would never get into the papers?” He appealed to Frank.

Frank held up his right hand. “He swore, and you got nothin’ to worry about because all the guys had to tell the dick where they were on Wednesday, and plenty of guys had dates. And if they had dates they’ll want to check on the names of the babes to find out if the guys’re lying.”

“I shouldn’t want them comin’ to my house,” Betty said slowly.

“Honest”—Benny tried to sound confident but failed—“you’re not in no jam. We were with you Wednesday night, weren’t we?”

“Yes.” Ann nodded.

“So”—Benny flung out his hands—“we’re telling the truth. The only thing is that we want you to do us one small favor.”

“What?” Betty asked.

“You tell them, Frank,” Benny said.

“It’s really nothing at all. You see”—Frank held Betty’s hand—“when they grilled us they shot the questions at us fast. We had to tell them what we did every minute of the day, and then the dick would go back and ask us the same questions later on to try and trip us up. One of the questions we was asked was how did we drive out to Jacob Riis, and they got us so screwed up for a minute that we said we drove out Rockaway Boulevard instead of over the Flatbush Avenue Bridge. Now we know we didn’t go that way, but we couldn’t say different.”

Betty shook her head quizzically. “Why?”

“Because cops are funny,” Benny replied. “Out of a little thing like that they can pin a rap on you, and we got twisted up and we don’t want no trouble. Because some crazy bastard plugs our teacher is no reason for us to get into trouble. You know we ain’t got a license, and my brother is gonna be sore enough about the cops finding out that he lent us his car when we didn’t have licenses without our worrying about the cops making it hotter for us because they got us balled up and we didn’t tell them the right way on how we went out to Riis Park. Understand?”

“We’re in trouble now for driving without licenses,” Benny added for emphasis, “and we don’t want to make things worse for us, especially when we didn’t do anything. Boy”—he looked rueful—“we got plenty of trouble home without getting into any more.”

“Sure we’ll help,” Ann said, “won’t we, Betty?”

“Of course.”

“Good.” Frank squeezed Betty’s hand. “Now everything’s fine. Now if the cops question you, don’t get rattled, and all you’ve gotta say if they ask you how we went out to Rockaway is that we went out Linden Boulevard and the way the busses go to Rockaway. Make believe you don’t know the names of the streets.”

Ann laughed. “We don’t.”

“That’s better yet,” Frank went on. “The only thing is this. If they ask you whether you went over a toll bridge, the answer is no.”

“But think for a second before you say no,” Benny added. “Don’t get rattled or act like we made this up.”