The Amboy Dukes (14 page)

“Frank better watch out,” Mitch broke the silence. “Crazy’s one guy I wouldn’t want to hate me.”

“I know,” Benny agreed.

“Crazy’s liable to kill him someday.”

“I know,” Benny said. Maybe Crazy would kill Frank. That would be the best way out for him.

The hum of conversation ceased as Detective Lieutenant Macon walked into the conference room at the Liberty Avenue police station. There were approximately ten uniformed policemen and thirty-five detectives in the room, and they filed into the straight rows of seats as Detective Macon slid into his chair behind the desk on the raised platform. Behind him on the blackboards were two chalk drawings of the New Lots Vocational High School. One drawing was an aerial view of the ground plan of the school, showing the schoolyards and the entrances to the school. The other drawing was a floor plan of the second floor of the school.

“All right, men,” Macon began the discussion, “you know why we’re here. The mayor and police commissioner have given us orders to break this case or else. And”—he cleared his throat—“I don’t want to think about that or else while pounding a beat in Staten Island.”

Macon waited for the movement of laughter to subside before he continued. “Now what’ve we got? One tough high school and one murdered teacher and plenty of motives for killing him. The kids in his classes were tough—I know, I’ve talked to them—and he had a time keeping order. But so did the other teachers in the school. I’ve talked to them too. But this guy Bannon had trouble with his official class the day he got it, and since”—he referred to one of the cards he had on the desk—“there are thirty-seven students in the class, we only get thirty-seven first-class suspects.”

Macon silenced the groan. “I know, it’s tough. The mayor wants the killer. And we’ve got to find him. And we haven’t much time. School lets out the end of June, and then we’ll really be in a spot. So that’s why”—Macon gestured with one hand—“the commissioner has assigned you men to the case. We’ve got to find the killer. Probably a kid that’s been in here, that we talked to, and hasn’t even got a record. We talked to about two hundred and fifty kids, and”—again he referred to his cards—“there were only fourteen who’ve been in a reformatory or before the juvenile court. So now you know what the newspapers know, and we’ll go on from there.”

“Can we ask questions?” one of the policemen asked Macon.

“Any time.” Macon nodded. “Just get my attention. Now let’s see.” Macon stood up and went to the board. “The teacher was killed by one bullet, a .22. Our ballistics people say that there weren’t any regular rifle marks on the slug, and so we know that it must’ve been fired by one of those homemade pistols. We fired some slugs with some of those pistols, and they looked like the bullet that killed Bannon. So we’re pretty sure that he was killed by some kid. Nothing was taken out of his pockets and his clothing wasn’t disturbed, so we’re pretty sure that robbery wasn’t the motive. Bannon had been in a fight. Before we go on, see if there’s a reporter snooping around outside,” Macon ordered one of the detectives in the last row of seats.

He waited until the detective opened the door, peered into the corridor, shook his head negatively, and sat down.

“Now we come to what the papers didn’t have. Bannon had been in a fight, and we’ve got reason to believe that two kids are implicated in the murder instead of one. You see”—Macon paused for effect—“the autopsy showed that Bannon had been struck in the back of the head with some sort of weapon, maybe the gun. But the blow wasn’t hard enough to knock him out. So he must’ve been fighting with someone else, from the bruises he had on his face, and maybe he was giving some other kid a licking. So we’ve got two kids to look for. Of course,” he went on, “there’s always the chance that it was one kid. But we don’t think so.”

“Did you find out what kids were friends?” one of the detectives asked.

“We did,” Macon said, and took another card from the pile on the desk. “I’ll write their names on the board and you can copy them.”

When Macon had finished he turned to the group and said, “You all know that Benny Semmel and Frank Goldfarb were the direct causes of the riot in their official class. That makes them first-class suspects, except”—Macon paused for breath—“that their punishment wasn’t any more drastic than that of the other boys. All the kids in the class have good alibis; some I’ve checked, and I’ll tell you which ones, and they click.

“You see”—Macon sat on the edge of the desk—“what makes this so tough is that these kids aren’t criminals yet, and we can’t find holes in their alibis. I don’t have to tell you what we’re up against. They’re getting wilder and tougher every day, and our jobs are going to get tougher. But to get back to these kids, they all did about the same thing. They hung around the school for a while. Then some went home, some went to the movies, some went to their clubrooms, and some went to the poolroom, to the park, or just walked around. That’s what makes it tough. The kids with court records—well”—Macon pulled up his trouser leg—“we checked them too. We can’t break their alibis.”

“You sound plenty pessimistic, Lieutenant,” one of the detectives said.

“I know,” Macon agreed, “but we’ve got this to go on. I’m sure two kids knocked off Bannon. And I’m willing to go along on the premise that they were friends. First we’ll concentrate on them”—he pointed to the grouped names on the board—“and then we’ll work on the others. Now,” he continued, “another thing. You see that a lot of these kids belong to clubs. All right. We’re going to raid their clubs. Maybe we’ll pick up something and maybe we won’t. Maybe the ones that did it will’ve told the guys in their gang, and if we quiz them, we’re liable to break them down. And then”—Macon raised his hand—“we’re liable to pick up some kids in the clubs on other charges. Carrying concealed weapons, counterfeit ration coupons, stuff like that. If we hold them, the kids in the clubs are going to be sore at these kids.” He pointed again to the names on the board. “And in that way somebody is liable to crack up. Remember, these kids try to look tough, and they hate cops and dicks”—Macon smiled as some of the men twisted their lips wryly—“but they’re not old enough to know all the ropes. We’ll get the killer or killers for that reason. We’ll scare them, and that way we’ll get them.”

“Suppose we work on these suspects and nothing turns up?” a detective in the front row asked.

“Before we close this meeting,” Macon said, “you’ll have the names of everyone in Bannon’s official class, his other classes, the clubs or gangs they belong to, and anything else we know. You’ve all seen the kind of guns these kids carry. We pick up at least a dozen every day all over the city. So if there aren’t any more questions we’ll go over the ground plan of the yards and the floor, and then we’ll pass out mimeographed sheets with the names of Bannon’s former students.”

For more than an hour Macon led the discussion and oriented the assembled men in the physical features of the neighborhood, the location of the school, and possible entries to and exits from the school. He stressed again that there were no witnesses who saw or noticed anyone suspicious entering or leaving the school, and that this lack of witnesses complicated the case.

“So there it is,” Macon concluded. “Now you know what we know. The first thing to do is to get after the gangs. Decide what you need and see Sergeant Fuller, who will keep a record of your activities and get anything you need. Good luck.”

The four detectives, Gallagher, Leonard, Finch, and Wilner, who were assigned to check on Benny Semmel and Frank Goldfarb, read the files of both boys, quickly noted that they had been driving a car illegally and that they belonged to the Amboy Dukes.

“They hang out on Amboy near Pitkin,” Wilner read from the report. “I know that corner. Pretty tough.”

“Used to be a lot of trouble back there in ’34 and ’35,” Gallagher agreed. “Some of the boys on that block were mobsters for Abe Reles and Buggsy Goldstein.”

“I sure wish I wasn’t on this case,” Wilner said. “I don’t like putting the rap on kids.”

“Some kids if they knocked off their teacher.” Leonard laughed and bit off the end of a cigar.

“Well,” Gallagher said, “let’s get started. Two of us’ll go down their club with a wagon and pick up as many as we can, and you can pick the others up on the corner. Better take some cops with you. How about you coming with me, Finch?”

Finch nodded. “Suits me.”

“We’ll pick them up about ten o’clock tonight,” Gallagher said.

“Wilner and me’ll get those on the corner at ten,” Leonard said. “Let’s see”—Leonard reached for the report—“they hang out between Pitkin and Sutler on the east side of the street in front of a candy store. See you guys tonight. Come on, Moe,” he said to Wilner, “let’s get something to eat. We’re working tonight.”

Crazy Sachs and Bull Bronstein were the first ones to notice the patrol wagon coast to a stop in front of the candy store, and before they could run the police had run two squad cars onto the sidewalk on both sides of the store, completely blocking any attempt to escape. With quiet efficiency the police rounded up the Dukes who had vainly attempted to break through the cordon and ordered them into the patrol wagon. Five minutes later the squad cars backed off the sidewalk and accompanied the wagon back to the Liberty Avenue station.

“All right.” A policeman opened the rear door of the wagon. “You gentlemen can unload.”

“Ain’tcha got a plush carpet for us?” Larry Tunafish asked.

“Get out,” the policeman said, “before you get a slap in the mouth.”

“What you brung us in for?” Crazy wanted to know. “We ain’t done nothin’.”

“Come on,” the policeman said impatiently, “get moving.”

Muttering and grumbling, the Dukes entered the police station and filed into their assigned benches. They were frightened, for although most of them knew they had not been implicated in any misdemeanor or felony, they were all armed, and a concealed-weapons charge could mean a stiff sentence.

“Don’t answer any questions,” Larry Tunafish whispered to Bull. “We can ask for lawyers. Pass the word.”

Bull tried to wink confidently and whispered Larry’s advice to Mitch. Mitch passed the word to Crazy, who sat next to him, and Crazy passed the message to the boy on his right. Soon they were all winking at one another, and Bull began to grin and twist about to wink at the other Dukes.

They turned in their seats as they heard the doors behind them open and saw more of the Dukes being ushered into the room.

“Hey,” Crazy said, “they got all our guys! Don’t say nothin’ without seein’ your lawyer!” he shouted to them.

“Shut up”—Detective Wilner approached him—“or you’ll get a fanning.”

“Don’t mind him,” Mitch interceded. “Crazy’s a little nuts. He don’t know what he’s doing.”

Wilner looked at Crazy and photographed him mentally. “All right,” he said, “just keep him quiet.”

“Get into those benches there,” Finch ordered the Dukes who were entering the station, “and behave until we get to you. Who’s the president of the Dukes?”

No one spoke.

“Maybe you didn’t hear me,” Finch said sarcastically. “Who’s the leader?”

Larry stood up. “I am.”

Gallagher counted rapidly. “We’ve got seventeen of you. Now, you,” he said to Larry, “are all your guys here?”

Larry looked around, and Gallagher prodded him. “Don’t take all night,” he said.

“One guy’s missing,” Larry said.

“Who?” Gallagher asked him.

“Frank Goldfarb.”

Wilner clicked his teeth. “Oh.”

“What you got us here for?” Larry asked them. “We didn’t do nothing.”

“Who said you did?” Detective Leonard asked them. “We just want to ask you some questions.”

“Suppose we don’t talk?” Larry asked.

Leonard shrugged his shoulders. “We’re not going to beat you up, if that’s what you want us to say. But you’ll talk. Step out here.”

Larry did not move.

Wilner beckoned to him. “Step out! If you don’t step out you’re resisting an officer and I’ll drag you out.”

Larry stepped into the aisle.

“Now get up front,” Wilner ordered him, “and put your hands over your head.”

Larry walked sullenly to the front of the room and slowly raised his hands. He glowered as Detective Finch went through his pockets, removed his wallet, sun glasses, handkerchief, small change, cigarettes, and unsnapped his key chain. Finch ran his hands along Larry’s body, feeling for a gun, and then turned Larry’s hat inside out. Then, as if it were almost an afterthought, he raised Larry’s trouser legs and from the sheath strapped about his right calf removed the hunting knife.

Finch straightened up and hefted the knife in his hand. “I suppose you use this to clean your fingernails?” he asked Larry. “I guess you can give yourself or some other guy quite a manicure with this? What do you work at?”

Larry did not look at him. “I’m a shipping clerk,” he said.

Finch looked at the other detectives and the policemen. “Another one,” he sighed. “I suppose you use this to cut cord and paper?”

“I do,” Larry said.

“Maybe the judge will believe you,” Leonard said with mock solemnity. “Kramer,” he called to one of the policemen, “book him for carrying a concealed weapon and get ready to take him over to the line-up.”

The Dukes were stunned, unable to believe what was happening. Forty-five minutes ago they were sitting around the club or hanging around the corner, and now they were in deep water. Each one was ordered to the front of the room and searched, and the collection of knives and blackjacks grew larger. Only Black Benny and Crazy were weaponless, and they were held on suspicion.

Gallagher called together the detectives and spoke quietly. “We got quite a haul, and you noticed that this kid they call Black Benny wasn’t carrying anything?”

“So what?” Wilner said. “That Crazy kid was clean too.”

“It’s a hunch,” Gallagher insisted as he shook a cigar at them. “I’ll bet you guys a round of beers that if we get this other kid, Goldfarb”—he snapped his fingers—“we’ll find nothing on him.”