Savage Streets

by William P. McGivern

  Ward lit a cigarette and put out the match with an exasperated snap of his wrist. “You’ve got a point, John, but are we going to sit on our duffs and do nothing at all, for Christ’s sake?”

  Farrell said, “What about it, Lieutenant? You think my objection makes sense?”

  “Sure it does,” Jameson said, somewhat to Farrell’s surprise. “I don’t want to lie to the boys. This is their first experience with cops. First look inside a police station, I imagine. I wouldn’t want them to get the impression it was all done with mirrors. But I can’t hold Duke and Jerry without their identification.”

  “So we do nothing then,” Ward said. “Our kids are forced to lie and steal, they get slugged right in broad daylight and we can’t do a damn thing about it. Isn’t that a rosy picture of the good life in the suburbs?”

  There was a knock on the door. Jameson looked up and said, “Yes?” Sergeant Cabella stuck his head in and gave the lieutenant a quick wink. “Mr. Garrity is outside, Lieutenant.”

  “Tell him I’m busy.” Jameson’s normally expressionless face had tightened with irritation. “Ask him to take a seat.”

  “He don’t want a seat, Lieutenant.” Cabella’s eyes were masked but there was a definite significance in his gently lowered voice. “He’s walking around and he’s full of beans.”

  “What’s on his mind?”

  Cabella nodded toward Ward and Farrell. “This business. He wants in on it. As a friend and committeeman of the accused, he’s got...” Cabella almost smiled. “Certain rights.”

  Jameson drummed his fingers on the desk. “All right, send him in.” When the door closed he said, “You’re going to have the privilege of meeting Mr. Timothy Garrity, chairman of the Hayrack Voters’ Club, Committeeman of the Seventh District, a man — in the sergeant’s phrase — with certain rights.”

  A knock sounded and the door opened before Jameson looked up. A big man in a camel’s hair coat swept in with an air of good-humored importance. Jameson said, “Come in, Mr. Garrity,” a bit drily and Garrity laughed and said, “Sorry to presume on your good nature, Tom, but I’m in a bit of a rush today. Now I don’t think we need make a Federal case out of this matter. There’s been a misunderstanding, obviously. Can’t we settle things in the pleasant old-fashioned way which — I’m sorry to say — seems to have lost support and favor in these modern nervous times? You know when I was practicing law a million years ago, the magistrates tried to apply a little bit of sympathy and common sense to the unfortunates who stood before them at the bar of justice. There’s a little good in the worst of us, and a little bad in the best of us, and it ill behooves the rest of us to damn forever any of us.’ That old saw may be a bit before your time, Tommy my boy, but it’s still got good clean teeth in it. In a misunderstanding like this, handshakes are a thousand times more useful than handcuffs. Men make mistakes but only mules refuse to admit them. The law stands for justice, it doesn’t sit down to gossip and guess. Now, Tom, let’s have it straight: what are you holding those two lads for?”

  Lieutenant Jameson said, “I’d like you to meet Mr. Ward and Mr. Farrell. I believe they’re as concerned with this matter as you are, Mr. Garrity.”

  “It’s a pleasure, gentlemen.” Mr. Garrity shook hands with them firmly, making the gesture meaningful with a big warm grip. “Let me say in all honesty, I sympathize with you and I sympathize with the youngsters, and I’m outraged that this thing could have happened in our community, a bit of God’s green earth I perhaps value above its mere worth in wood and brick and stone.”

  “We’re not pleased about it ourselves,” Farrell said. He had Garrity down as a preposterous windbag. Physically the man was tall and broad and stout, a great mass of pink and well-fed flesh stuffed snugly inside a gray flannel suit, a white silk shirt and a vast, tentlike camel’s hair coat. He had thick gray hair, the candid eyes of a baby, and smooth pink cheeks that were covered with a fine blue lace of ruptured veins.

  “Now here’s the thing,” Garrity said, in a suddenly businesslike manner. “I know the Resnick family. I know the Leuth family. Honest, God-fearing folks, all of them. Humble, it is true, of modest means it may be stated without shame. This morning about eight o’clock — that’s right, isn’t it, Tom? — the police knocked on their doors. Their sons were waked, ordered to dress, escorted to jail.” Garrity breathed deeply, puffing out his cheeks; his voice rose slightly. “Here these lads were locked up as felons. No charges were preferred against them. They were not slated in the House Sergeant’s arrest book. They were not told what crimes they were suspected of committing. Later they were brought upstairs to this office, confronted by your sons. For what purpose remains a mystery: your youngsters had never seen Duke Resnick or Jerry Leuth before in their lives, and they were honest and frank enough to admit this. I may say, gentlemen, their conduct reflects credit on you, and credit on their dear mothers.” Garrity paused and turned to face Jameson, and in that instant he didn’t seem quite so preposterous to Farrell; his eyes were colder and his big pink face was set in the expression of a man accustomed to exercising his will with assurance. “A mistake’s been made, Tom,” he said. “Are you intending to compound it by holding those lads without slating them?”

  It seemed to Farrell that Jameson was controlling his temper with an effort. “Just one minute,” the lieutenant said. “I am running this Detective Division, Mr. Garrity. I think we’d better get straight on that.”

  “Well, of course you are, Tom,” Garrity said pleasantly. “But with reason, I trust, and the best interests of the community at heart. The families of these lads are upset, understandably so. It’s a mark on a lad to be picked up by the cops, even if he’s charged with nothing more seditious than throwing a wrapper of gum into the street. Now if you’d just tell the families — or authorize me to tell them for you — that this was a mistake for which everyone is sorry, well, it will put their minds at ease.”

  “Well, goddammit,” Ward said suddenly. “You want us to apologize to those young hoodlums? Is that what you’re leading up to?”

  “Mr. Ward, I referred to this matter as a misunderstanding. That’s a euphemism. In fact, a wrong has been done these lads. Now examine your heart for a moment: is it too much to ask that a word of apology be tendered?”

  “You’re damn right it is,” Ward said, and Farrell felt a sudden respect and affection for him as he leaned over and pounded a fist on the lieutenant’s desk. “Those punks whose praises you’re singing beat hell out of my son, after turning him into a thief. Now you listen to me,” Ward said, as Garrity raised both hands in pained protest. “My boy is nine years old and weighs seventy or eighty pounds. Those louts who worked him over are grown men. You can’t soft-soap me into patting them on the back for that piece of work. I’ll pat them on the skull with a baseball bat first.”

  “I understand your feelings, Mr. Ward. But I must ask you this: why didn’t your son identify these lads as the perpetrators of these outrages?”

  “He was scared, that’s all,” Ward said. “And so was Farrell’s boy.”

  “Please, Mr. Ward. Is that likely? They were under the wing of the police, detectives and patrolmen surrounding them by the score, their own fathers standing protectively at their sides — why should they be frightened under such circumstances? And of whom? Two teen-aged lads who, I must point out, were manhandled for innocently inquiring the nature of the charges against them.” He glanced sharply at Jameson. “More on that later, Tom, but I understand you made no protest when Sergeant Cabella struck Duke.”

  “The sergeant acted with my full approval,” Jameson said. “As you say, more on that later.”

  “Now that may be an important admission, Tom.”

  “Just one minute,” Farrell said. “Mr. Garrity, I don’t understand your interest or position in this business. Are you a lawyer or bondsman or what?”

  “That’s a good and fair question,” Mr. Garrity said, smiling at him. “I’ve known these lads a good time and
I intend to make sure they get a fair shake. You live in Faircrest, Mr. Farrell. A lovely and luxurious community. They live in Hayrack which is neither. I wouldn’t like to see the police, or any other official agency discriminate against them simply because they’re not quite as happily blessed with material things as the youngsters in Faircrest. The poor need friends and the rich need tax counselors, Mr. Farrell. I do not happen to be a tax counselor.”

  “I’ll bet you’ve got a good one,” Ward said.

  “I’m truly sorry we’ve let our tempers get short,” Mr. Garrity said smilingly. “But I respect a man like yourself, Mr. Ward, who holds his beliefs firmly and speaks up for them with heat, for warmth in discussion — it may be hoped — will lead finally to warmth in the heart.” With a plump hand on his stomach, he gave them each in turn a small graceful bow. “Now I must be running along. Lieutenant, I have always trusted your judgment. I know you’ll do nothing to make me feel this trust was misplaced. Gentlemen, it’s been a pleasure. I sincerely hope we will meet again under more pleasant circumstances.”

  After he had gone Jameson lit a cigarette and looked at Farrell and Ward with a faint cold smile. “We’ll give Duke and Jerry a stiff talking-to before we let them go. And we’ll keep an eye on them for a while. I’m sorry, but that’s all we can do.”

  Farrell drove home in silence. It was Saturday morning, clear and sunny with late fall colors in the trees, and traffic was heavy. Supermarkets were surrounded by ranks of brilliant station wagons, and Whiting Boulevard’s miracle mile was solid with cars. Farrell was relieved to have the business of driving to occupy himself; he could think of nothing to say to Jimmy, who sat huddled beside him staring straight ahead with narrow, worried eyes. When they turned into Faircrest he saw Sam Ward on the sidewalk talking with Bill Detweiller. Detweiller wore a red sweater and jeans, and had obviously been performing the Saturday morning ritual of polishing his two-toned hardtop convertible. Farrell pulled into the driveway and cut the motor. In the silence that settled he lit a cigarette and glanced at Jimmy. “Well, it’s not the end of the world,” he said.

  “I know,” Jimmy said in a distant voice. He twisted uncomfortably. “Can I go in?”

  “In a second. I don’t quite know what to say to you, Jimmy. I know you didn’t tell the truth this morning. You recognized those boys, and I can’t understand why you didn’t speak up. Do you know why?”

  “Well, Andy wasn’t sure, and that made me...” He paused and Farrell heard him swallow with a dry little noise. “Then I wasn’t so sure either.”

  “Did you think it would be unfair to identify them? Try to be honest with me. Did you feel that it was like being, well, a tattletale or a stool pigeon?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t think about it.”

  Farrell sighed and opened the door. “Hop out,” he said, and rubbed Jimmy’s thin stiff back. “Find the gang and have some fun.”

  “Can’t I just go inside?”

  “Well, whatever you like.”

  When Farrell got out of the ear Detweiller strolled down the sidewalk, a chamois cloth trailing in one hand. “Well, it’s a temptation not to say I told you so. Ward tells me it was a complete bust.”

  “It was a bust all right,” Farrell said.

  “So they’ll turn these young gangsters loose with apologies.” Detweiller shook his head. “Great, isn’t it? Democracy at work. What the hell is happening to America anyway, John?”

  “I don’t know what’s happening to America, Mr. Bones. I haven’t looked lately, I guess.”

  “Maybe you’d better take the trouble,” Detweiller said. With big hands resting on his hips, he nodded down the block. “There it is, right under your nose.”

  If that was truly America, Farrell thought, it was very pretty; the sun was splashing against thinning trees, sparkling on picture windows, painting lawns and shrubs with pale golden strokes.

  “You take Wayne Norton for instance,” Detweiller said. Norton, a few houses down, was on his knees trimming the row of stocky little evergreens he had planted alongside his terrace. Other husbands, Farrell knew, would now be cleaning basements, painting bookshelves, raking leaves, cutting hedges, repairing toys. That’s what Saturday morning was for, it was generally agreed; keeping even with the obsolescence factor.

  “Norton’s taking care of what’s important to him,” Detweiller went on. “Do you see what I mean? That’s America. He’s got a kid, and he’s expecting another, but those kids aren’t just accidents. They’re planned for, they’re wanted, and they’re not going to be booted out into the slums to fight for survival like wild animals. I’ll bet you Wayne has already got those kids set with college insurance. But the trouble is too many of the wrong kind of people are having kids. We’re going to wind up as a country that made it too easy for the worst kinds of people to survive and get along.”

  “Det, you sound like a fool,” Farrell said.

  “You think so? Just keep on looking down the block for a second. See the Sims family piling into their car? Well, five will get you ten they’re taking the kids to the zoo or a museum this morning.”

  “It’s a safe bet,” Farrell said. “They don’t do much else. John Sims has a museum fetish. Queer for mummies...”

  Detweiller looked pained. “Make gags if you want to, but what I’m saying is that this neighborhood, this group of people, are what’s important in my life, and it irritates the be-jesus out of me that those hoodlums from Hayrack can walk in here and kick us around like a bunch of rusty tin cans.” Detweiller took a deep breath; he seemed to have come to a conclusion. “Look, John, a guy by the name of Malleck stopped by this morning to talk to Norton and me. You don’t know him, I guess.”

  “Malleck? No.”

  “Well, he’s a solid joe, for my money. Funny, I met him last year when I was serving time on that membership committee at the club. He walked in out of the blue and asked if he could join the club. Said he had a couple of kids who’d enjoy the pool, and he and his wife were thinking of taking a crack at golf now that they were out in the suburbs. Well, my first thought was that he was hardly our cup of tea, if you know what I mean. He’s rough-looking and he gives the English language a real bouncy ride. Of course he wasn’t eligible to join the club because he didn’t own a home in Faircrest. I explained that to him and he took it just fine. I mean he wasn’t embarrassed, didn’t tip his hat and scrape his feet on the carpet. He’s got dignity without class, if you know what I mean.”

  “One of nature’s gentlemen?” Farrell said.

  “That’s it,” Detweiller said. “Well, he’s heard about the trouble we’re in because his sons go to Rosedale Consolidated. And Malleck by the way owns some trucks that operate in the garment district of New York, and I get the impression he’d shove back fast and hard if anyone tried to push him around.”

  “So what was on his mind?”

  “He’s willing to help out, that’s all.”

  “Help out? Help out with what?”

  Detweiller looked rather embarrassed. “Well, first of all, he suggested that we don’t talk too much about it. Keep it in the club, so to speak. But if we need help, Malleck is with us.”

  “The mist rises,” Farrell said. “So he wants to join the Faircrest vigilante and popover society.” He sighed. “Are you still playing around with that idea?”

  “Damn it, I don’t want trouble for trouble’s sake. You know me better than that. It’s only that...” Detweiller ran a hand through his hair. “Well, nobody’s going to push me around.”

  “You’re not being pushed around,” Farrell said irritably. “And let me give you a piece of free, unsolicited advice: tell this character Malleck to mind his own damn business. He sounds like a fine species of genus busybody to me. He smells a brawl and he wants to get into it. I’d suggest you tie a can to him and forget this other nonsense — that’s a buzz saw you’re reaching for, Det.”

  Occasionally Detweiller responded amiably to blunt criticism; it seemed to
Farrell that he enjoyed playing the turbulent youngster in need of a firm hand. It probably made him feel youthful and irresponsible, he thought, a yeasty buck in a pasture of timorous jades. Now Detweiller smiled ruefully and said, “Well, maybe you’re right, John. But it’s the old Detweiller curse — we’re just not cut out to be spectators when trouble comes along. We’re the dummies who aren’t smart enough to play it cozy and look the other way when somebody yells for help.”

  “Well, our family curse was liquor,” Farrell said. “So how about coming in for a beer?”

  “I’ve got to finish putting a high gloss on this heap. It’s more the finance company’s than mine, so why I bother I don’t know. Anyway we’re seeing you and Barbara in the morning — brunch around noon. Chicky cued Barbara and it’s all set.”

  “Fine. Many thanks.”

  Farrell went into his house. He was in a disturbed, worried mood, and when Barbara called to him from the second floor he realized there was a curious, vague fear twisting through his thoughts.

  “Hi there,” he called up the stairs. “I’m just about to open the first of what may be an innumerable number of beers. You want one?”

  “Don’t be silly. I’m coming right down. I want to hear about...” Her voice faded away as Jimmy came out of his room. Farrell dropped his coat and hat in the study and sat down with the morning papers. He thought about the beer but decided he didn’t feel like it.

  Chapter Four

  Farrell slept late the next morning. He had coffee and orange juice at nine, a cigarette and then another hour of sleep. When he woke Barbara was looking through her clothes. “What shall I aim at?” she said, glancing over her shoulder as he sat up in bed. “Glamor or worthiness? Red toreador pants with black felt slippers, or my nice little PTA suit?”

  “What’s so special about this party?”