As Ruddy had progressed in his police work, he had found, to his amazement, that it was this hidden sense of guilt that aided him in ferreting out breakers of the law, and the more lawbreakers he caught, the calmer he became. How the two guilts, the outward and the inner, fitted together! When he nabbed the guilty, he felt a deep degree of moral satisfaction. When he pounced upon the guilt of others, he felt that he was stilling the silent raging of his own secret, hot guilt. Indeed, his being a policeman had been the paying of a kind of debt to society, a debt which he had gladly paid. Could old Ed ever suspect a thing like that? And there was Ed talking of emotional illnesses! All you had to do was master yourself; others could do what he had done. It was easy. And so confident was he that he could say, with deep satisfaction, when looking at a black man gone wrong: “There but for my watchfulness, go I!”
And there had been none of that standing outside of society, which Ed had said was the secret hallmark of the criminal rebel; for even when he had been yearning to take a smashing potshot at society, he had wanted to be a part of that society. “No, I was never feeling like a criminal,” he comforted himself. “The proof is that when they gave me a chance to enforce the law, I did, by God!”
He glanced anxiously at his watch; he could go in now. He rose, pushed through the swinging doors, and faced a gum-chewing Mary Jane at the switchboard.
“Hi,” he greeted her. “Can the commissioner see me now?”
“He’s still tied up,” Mary Jane said, smiling, glancing at the big green door over which was stenciled: COMMISSONER OF POLICE—WILLIAM J. KING.
“This is the first time I’ve been called in at this hour in years,” he commented, trying to evoke some information from her.
“There’s a first time for everything,” Mary Jane said.
“Too bad about Branden,” he murmured.
“Wasn’t that awful?” Mary Jane echoed. “I couldn’t believe it. I still have goose pimples.” She sighed and looked at the ceiling. “How do you policemen stand it? That Cappy Nelson was a mad dog, if ever there was one.”
“He should’ve got the chair the first time,” Ruddy said.
“We’re too easy on ’em,” Mary Jane complained.
“What’s cooking in there?” He shot his question quickly, trying to take her off-guard.
“Ruddy, you know better than that,” she chided him. “Me? I don’t leak anything. I’m a boneyard.”
“You sure are,” he told her. “But the Bible says that bones will speak someday.”
“Not these bones,” she said. “Take it easy. Everything will come out all right, Captain Turner.”
He stared. The inflections in her voice had been teasingly meaningful. She had not called him Captain Turner in years.
“Mary Jane, you’ve been around here a long time,” he said.
“You came on the force in the year in which I was born,” she told him significantly.
“You’re smart,” he complimented her. “How do you know that?”
“We keep records in the police department,” she told him.
Aw, she knew why he had been called in. His curiosity was now at fever heat. Why would she not just give him a hint?
“I guess I’ve goofed something.” He spoke with simulated despair.
“Don’t be a dope,” she said.
Well, at least it was not bad news. And his record had been taken out and pored over. But for what? He paced slowly to and fro.
“How’s Agnes?”
“Fine. Fit as a fiddle.”
“Men are funny,” Mary Jane said. “When they are worried, they pace the floor. And they are worried about their wives having babies and their work.”
Yes, he had been called in about his work. Some irregularity? But it was useless to ask Mary Jane. She would not let a word slip that could be construed as having told. Yet she had bade him be of good heart.
“Thanks,” he said, pulling down the corners of his lips.
“You’re welcome,” she sang, turning to answer a buzzing on the switchboard, listening intently, then plugging switches into electric holes.
“The crowd’s leaving now,” she announced.
“Through the other door?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Public figures?” he asked, cocking his head.
“You’re warm,” she admitted.
At that moment the big green door swung open and Commissioner King’s huge bulk filled it. He was a man over six feet in height, lean and hard as a rail, yet with a florid complexion, blue eyes, bushy white hair, and a hawk-like face dominated by a long nose. He wore an expensive gray suit, double-breasted, a polka-dot tie with a diamond stickpin, and carried a cigar with an inch of ash in his left hand. His blue eyes widened gladly at the sight of Ruddy and his mouth flew open in a wide, soundless greeting. He rushed forward, shooting out his right hand. Ruddy was on his feet, his face lit with expectation and smiles.
“Ruddy, you old skunk! Been ages since I’ve seen you,” the commissioner exclaimed.
“It’s been a while,” Ruddy admitted. “My, but you look like a million dollars.”
“I’d better look it, for I’ll never make a million in this lousy job,” the commissioner said. “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.”
“It was nothing. I’m at your orders, Commissioner,” Ruddy said.
“You’re at my orders, Ruddy?” the commissioner asked with meaningful inflections.
“That’s right.”
“Well, I’m ordering you to march straight into my office and sit right in front of my desk,” the commissioner declaimed.
“Right,” Ruddy said, walking ahead.
“And I’m ordering you”—the commissioner pointed to Mary Jane—“not to bother me until I’m through with Ruddy.”
“I understand, sir” Mary Jane said.
When Ruddy overheard those words, he knew that he was in for an exciting session, whether it meant ill or good for him. He advanced toward the commissioner’s desk, sat as ordered, and glanced around. Commissioner King was standing and watching him. He crossed to a cabinet, took out a bottle, and said: “I now order that both of us have a drink.”
“I always obey.” Ruddy smiled and watched the amber fluid flow into two glasses.
The commissioner handed Ruddy his glass and then lifted his, intoning: “Ruddy, here’s to you, one of the finest officers we ever had on our staff.”
“You’re a wonderful man to say that,” Ruddy mumbled, overcome, rising.
“No. Stay in your chair, Ruddy,” the commissioner said. “Because I’m going to tell you something that will make you hold onto your seat.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Here’s to friendship among true men,” the commissioner said, tilting his glass.
“And here’s to the finest officer I ever served under,” Ruddy said.
They drank.
“How’s the wife, Ruddy?”
“Fine, Commissioner,”
“Ruddy?”
“Yes, sir.”
“From this moment on, my name is Bill.”
Ruddy started; his eyes grew misty. God, what’s this?
“Thanks, Bill.”
They both rose and shook hands.
“H-how’s your family, Bill?” Ruddy asked.
“Wonderful, except my wife, Kitty, is a bit sick,” the commissioner said. “Say, I’ve been hearing some wonderful things about that son of yours. Seems like he’s burning up those classrooms at the University of Chicago.”
“He’s going ahead, Bill,” Ruddy said. “I’m so proud of ’im, I’m kind of scared. Didn’t think I could have a son like that.”
“Be proud of ’im,” the commissioner said.
“I want to be worthy of ’im,” Ruddy said with a thick voice. Deep down, he wondered why so many were asking about his son these days. He felt a keen pang of guilt for not having seen and appreciated Tommy’s great qualities.
“Ruddy?”
“Yes
, Bill.”
“I want to tell you something that’s going to change the whole of your life.”
“Yes, Bill.”
“From this moment on, you are the Chief of Police of Brentwood Park,” the commissioner stated in slow, ponderous tones.
Ruddy’s breathing stopped. For a split second, a kind of paralysis went over the whole of his body, then he felt a kind of heat glowing on his skin. Good God! A promotion to the very top! Brentwood was the suburban area in which poor Mo Branden had been police chief until tonight. And already the wheels had turned, and he had been selected to fill the slain chief’s shoes. Gratitude flooded him; his eyes not only misted this time; he wept; he felt tears coursing down his cheeks.
“No, Bill,” he whispered hoarsely. “I’m not worthy of that. That’s not for me. Just let me retire and—”
“If you keep babbling like that, I’m going to get up from here and clip you one hard on your goddamn chin,” the commissioner threatened.
“I-I…you s-see…Bill, I’m colored…and I will be the first…You s-see….”
“Shut up, dope.” Bill soothed Ruddy by placing his arm about his shoulder.
“But I’m not w-worthy of that kind of job or honor,” Ruddy protested.
“Are you questioning the wisdom of the community?” Bill asked. “If we say we want you there, then there you go. If we say that you’re the man for the job, then you’re it.”
Ruddy tried to answer, but his lips were twisted.
“All right. Cry it out. I know this is a shock. And I know that this was the last thing on earth you expected,” Bill went softly on. “But now, I want you to dry those eyes, get into your new uniform, and start enforcing the law in Brentwood Park. I want a swift and hard cleanup out there. I want this kidnapping wave stopped. I want all this molesting of young children by perverts stamped out. I want housebreaking cleaned up. I want the streets of Brentwood Park so calm that a six-year-old girl can roll her hoop down the main street without fear, singing her little nursery song. I want every hoodlum and pander and crook run out of that area, Ruddy. I want it so that a housewife can go to the grocery store and leave her door unlocked. Can you do that for me, Ruddy?”
Ruddy’s lips opened twice before words came. Then he whispered fervently: “Bill, I’ll do it for you or die trying.”
CHAPTER 3
An hour later, Bill and Ruddy were sitting side by side upon a huge brown leather sofa before which was a table holding the bottle of Scotch and half-filled glasses. The tension and excitement had gone out of Ruddy, and now he was the officer of old—alert, eager, attentive—his hard black eyes staring into the blue mist of cigar smoke, his quick brain grasping the situations which Bill was now swiftly outlining. On the left wall a round clock ticked slowly, its pendulum moving with ponderous grace; on the right wall was a map of Chicago, showing the various wards outlined in bright red. Behind them was a glass case in which were revolvers, machine guns, and shotguns captured from slain gangsters. The commissioner’s desk was far in front of them and, to the left of it, was a teletype machine from whose slitted mouth a tape of white narrow paper regurgitated and curled itself in a pile upon the dark, blue-green rug. The whirring noise of the teletype emphasized the quietness of the huge room.
“Ruddy, I want to give you a rundown on Brentwood,” Bill began with squinched eyes. Now, the DA’s office and the police files are full of the goings on out there, but those files do not tell the whole story and—”
“Oh!” Ruddy exclaimed softly.
“You’ll know why later,” Bill told him. “The Brentwood crowd is not my kind or your kind. They are rich, with a sprinkling of artists and professionals: bank presidents, plant managers, corporation heads, newspaper owners, some politicians, and a lot of social register fools. For the most part, they do as they like in their big houses surrounded by their servants. There are a lot of children out there; I’ll come to that later. The rich can afford a lot. But the children out there are more in visible evidence than in a Chicago ward. They run wild. But, as I said, I’ll get to that later.
“Ruddy, those folks are powerful. All of their brushes with the law are not contained in the official records. That’s the way they want it. They don’t want their daughters’ misdeeds written down in black and white to be used against them later. And when a rich son out there gets in trouble, there’s a million dollars to help him get out of it. So, officially, Brentwood is one of the nicer areas in America—spotless, clean, ranking high in all the vital statistics. But there is another and unwritten record about Brentwood, and that record is in our heads. We police officials remember what they do not wish us to write down. And, for the most part, police officials respect their wishes. And why not? Those people can make you or break you.”
“But, Bill, why do you want me to go there?” Ruddy asked with deep concern. “I’ve got six strikes against me. I’m new, colored, unknown…”
“That’s just why I’m insisting that you go there,” Bill said emphatically. “Look, Branden was married into that crowd. He was a good officer. Don’t overlook that. But he was too close to them. I don’t think Branden ever did anything wrong, except maybe now and then he closed his eyes to something he ought to have looked straight at. It’s hard to move against your friends or to see them objectively. That was Branden’s trouble. It was not all of his making, but now that I’ve a chance to change all that, I’m doing it—in the interests of society—in the interests of those people out there.
“Ruddy, when a rich man’s in trouble, he comes running to the law, demanding help, action,” Bill outlined. “But when he breaks the law, he will stare you right in the eye and dare you to touch ’im, reminding you that he can hurt you. Most times, that trick works. The law is made for everybody, and the whites and the blacks, the poor and the rich, native-born and foreign-born ought to observe it. That’s my view, Ruddy.”
“That’s mine, too, Bill,” Ruddy concurred.
“And that’s why you’re going to Brentwood.” Bill underscored his determination.
“What are they bothered with out there—housebreaking?” Ruddy asked.
“That’s the question of a good officer,” Bill approved. “And housebreaking is what you’ll see written in the official reports. But housebreaking is not what is wrong in Brentwood. Look, most of the housebreaking out there comes from aggrieved servants who are no longer in their employ. We’ve established that. They know where the valuables are, and they sneak back at night and get them. But we trace almost all of that stuff. That’s kid’s play. They can’t sell the stuff without our putting our fingers on it, and once the stuff is spotted, the nabbing of the thief is not far off.
“Strangely, the turnover in servants out there is heavy,” Bill went on. “Why that is, I really don’t know. But our questioning of their maids and cooks and butlers makes me feel that the servants feel out of place out there. In the last six months, there were eighteen cases of housemaid pregnancy—eighteen were reported. How many really took place and did not come to us, we’ll never know.”
Ruddy whistled. “Rape?” he asked.
“Ruddy, when a rich man does something, it’s done in a manner different from what a poor man would do,” Bill recited. “There’s liquor, presents, parties—too much of everything. Wives sleeping around with everybody. Is it any wonder that the husband or son gets the notion of tumbling the maids? A dress, a ring, a twenty-dollar bill, plus a bit of alcohol, and a maid is in bed with her clothes on, not quite knowing what is really happening to her. We can’t call it rape. It’s just delinquency. Ruddy, I call it crime.
“But that’s not what is really wrong out there,” Bill said, twisting down his lips. “If it were, I wouldn’t be wasting time talking about it. The big crime in Brentwood is the sexual violation of children—”
“What?”
“You heard me,” Bill snapped.
“But I thought that that took place mainly among poor folks, sleeping six in a room,” Ruddy br
eathed.
“No—it takes place in families where there are five people sleeping in sixteen rooms too.” Bill’s voice was rasping and cynical.
“Jesus Christ,” Ruddy sighed.
“You can say that again,” Bill agreed.
“No leads on the perverts?”
“Plenty.”
“Aw…Influence. Protection. Higher-ups.”
A Father’s Law Page 5