“Don’t be too sure of that,” Ruddy had warned. “I’m not too good at head work.”
“I know that. All you’ll need in this job is a strong back and good feet. And the ability not to look scared. I think you have those qualities. Here’re the papers. Show up at that address after a good night’s sleep and do your best. If you hear from the exam, come and see me. The rest will be arranged.”
And that was how it had all started. When Ruddy had gone that morning to take the examination, he had felt more like a criminal himself than a man who was seeking the mandate to track them down. The examination had been easy, so easy that he had felt that the examiners were slighting him and he was sure that he had failed. “I’ll never get into this game,” he had consoled himself. Yet, while waiting to hear the results of the examination, he had had several nightmares. He dreamed of men tracking him down, of his facing black roustabouts who wielded razors at his throat, of his trying to arrest prostitutes who laughed at him and refused to follow him.
Just what frightened Ruddy about the job, he was never able
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to tell. He was a colored man, poor, alone, not too well schooled; and he felt that the world in which he lived was so much better than he was. How on earth could anybody ask him to help run and protect that world? Then there had been times when he had been a boy when he had hated the authority of that world, had thought several times of violating its laws. Though he had never been arrested, he had been with gangs of boys who had raided school premises at night, just for the hell of it. He had played hooky from school to go fishing; he had ridden the roads from Memphis to New Orleans and back again; and somewhere down in a far Arkansas town he had left a girl with a baby. He felt guilty, and yet he knew rationally that those foolish boyish pranks could not and did not make him a criminal. Literally, he had had no life before him when he had taken the examination for the police force, and the sheer void of his existence was a thing that made him feel more guilty than any deed he could remember.
But there was another and deeper buried kind of guilt that slumbered in him, a guilt which now he could not think of without sweating. He had been seethingly race-conscious in those days, and while hunting jobs that did not exist, he used to curse the look of a world that excluded him, damn it to hell for the mental tension it evoked in him, and he used to long to collar the smooth, smug, clean-shaven white men who passed him with their well-fed bodies. He had had wild daydreams then; he was the head of a black invading army who would conquer a city like Chicago and then as the head of that army he could be merciful and inform the population that his sole aim was racial equality for all people. And maybe there would be a few diehards who would reject his regime and he would have to order them shot at dawn. Yet Ruddy knew while he was deep in these hot daydreams that nothing like that would ever happen, but there was left in him, nevertheless, a sense of guilt. This was a guilt for deeds he
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had never done but had wanted to do. And he knew in his heart that that was the worst kind of guilt, for he could never tell anybody about it. It sounded too silly, too much like the talk of children. He had never confessed these things to his Church; in fact, while talking to the priest in the confessional, no such “crimes”
had ever occurred to him to confess, and, had he done so, the priest would perhaps have been shocked. How did one talk of a guilt that came from not doing the things that one wanted so much to do? Each day during those years a drop of guilt dripped into his emotions until they were full like a dam; but there was no leak, no way to drain off the rising tide of guilty poison. And this guilt was nameless, without a face, without solidity. That was the awful thing; one could not speak of it to one’s friends. Yet one felt it in the pores of one’s skin; it sweated itself out in the blackness of the night; it shimmered in one’s nerves when one was alone; it hovered invisibly tense when one was performing one’s duty.
How well he had hidden that guilt during all of these long years on the police force! Of that he was proud. He was known far and wide as a fearless police officer. Yet the containment of that tension had been his greatest achievement, an achievement greater than his having aided in the capture of Cappy Nelson, greater than his single-handed capture of the gang of silk thieves during the early part of 1934, greater than the cold-blooded decision he had made to give that kidnapper the third-degree until he had confessed. Yet no decorations had ever been given to him for that silent and enduring courage, for it could not be seen or guessed.
He was its only audience, and only he could tell the price paid to maintain a front of calm, of smiling cooperation.
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
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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.”
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“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 signifi cantly.
“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 b
een 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 fi ddle.”
“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?
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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 fl orid 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, sound-less 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 infl ections.
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“That’s right.”
“Well, I’m ordering you to march straight into my offi ce 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 fl uid flow into two glasses.
The commissioner handed Ruddy his glass and then lifted his, intoning: “Ruddy, here’s to you, one of the fi nest offi cers 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 fi nest officer I ever served under,” Ruddy said.
They drank.
“How’s the wife, Ruddy?”
“Fine, Commissioner,”
“Ruddy?”
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“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 com -
missioner 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 fi ll the slain chief’s shoes. Gratitude flooded him; his eyes not only misted this time; he wept; he felt tears coursing down his cheeks.
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“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, sing-ing her little nursery song. I want every hoodlum and pander and crook run out of that area, Ruddy. I want it so that a house-wife 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.”
C H A P T E R 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 offi cer of old—alert, eager, attentive—his hard black eyes staring into the blue mist of cigar smoke, his quick brain grasping the s
ituations 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—”
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“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 sprin-kling of artists and professionals: bank presidents, plant man-agers, 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 . . .”
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