Savage Streets

by William P. McGivern

  “I’ll do that,” Farrell said.

  “Excuse me a second,” Jameson said. Then, “Can you hang on for a while?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “I won’t keep you long.”

  Farrell lit another cigarette. Colby glanced at him and Farrell smiled and said, “Sorry, be right with you.” The room was hot and stuffy. Eight or ten men and two secretaries sat around the long table. The ashtrays were overflowing. Weinberg was talking about the differences between security foods and status foods. “Caviar or terrapin, for instance, are obvious status foods to most people. They don’t satisfy hunger, they satisfy ego. On the other hand, beef stew with dumplings, steaks and french fries, things like that are usually security foods, associated with warm pleasant memories of home, with Mom making sure that all the kids were well fed, and so forth. Now in our campaign we might...”

  “Mr. Farrell?” Jameson said.

  “Yes?”

  “I’ve just been talking to Sergeant Cabella. I asked you to hang on because he’s been checking out a lead related to this trouble with the Chiefs. You remember the old quarry near the golf course? The one kids used as a swimming hole.”

  “Sure — it was filled in last summer.”

  “That’s right, on a complaint lodged by a committee of Faircrest residents. It was an eyesore, dangerous for youngsters and so forth. And the Rosedale Council condemned it.”

  “What’s that got to do with our problem?”

  “I’m not sure yet. The quarry was used almost exclusively by boys from Hayrack — the Chiefs among them. Faircrest condemned it. So — the rumor has it — the Chiefs decided to levy a quarry tax against kids from Faircrest. Sort of an indemnity. Fifteen bucks a head — which was the amount figuring in each of these extortions. If we can prove this I’ll haul Duke and Jerry back here fast. And this time we’ll get some results.”

  “They’re wasting their time as delinquents,” Farrell said. “Anybody who can figure out a new tax has a fine future as a politician. But do you think you can prove it?”

  “My guess would be yes. In their cockeyed view, they probably think they were justified in doing what they did. So it shouldn’t be too hard to stampede them into defending their actions. People enjoy claiming they’re virtuous, that’s all it amounts to.”

  “Which still leaves us with the fact that one of the Chiefs got banged around by a pair of adults — who probably felt they were justified too.”

  “Frankly that worries me more than anything else. Well, thanks, Mr. Farrell. I’ll let you know how things come along.”

  Farrell returned to the table and tried to pick up the thread of the discussion. Someone had suggested that it might be a good idea to put a refrigerator in a medieval castle, and Weinberg was arguing that such an image would be completely irrelevant to his thinking. “We want to evoke the warmth and security that comes from food,” he said passionately. “The shudder of pleasure a child feels in knowing he is to be fed — not because he’s earned it or even deserves it, but because someone loves him and wants to make him comfortable.”

  The pencil broke in Farrell’s fingers and he realized with a start that he hadn’t been thinking about what Weinberg was saying; he had been thinking about Malleck.

  Chapter Eight

  After dinner Farrell settled down in the study with the papers. Angey and Jimmy were in the living room dancing to a portable radio. She was trying to teach him rock-’n’-roll. “Can’t you listen to the music?” she said shrilly. “You just flop around, for Heaven’s sake.”

  Barbara looked up from her book and smiled at him. “This is for his own good, you understand.”

  “Hurts her more than it does him, eh?”

  “Actually he’s pretty hopeless right now. I think that’s why she keeps at it. The challenge. Daughter of mine or not, she’s an awfully good little dancer.”

  “Yes,” he said, and put the paper aside. He looked up at the ceiling. There was a crack near the molding above the bookcase and he wondered if he should have someone come in and take a look at it. He could hear the plasterer saying: “Well, you let a thing like that get out of hand, and you got real trouble.”

  “What’s the matter?” Barbara asked him.

  “I’m getting stale.” He hadn’t told her of Lieutenant Jameson’s call. “The caged commuter tugging at the leash. Tired of the rat race, to put it in a fresh phrase.”

  “Oh, that old thing. Would a cup of coffee help?”

  “I don’t think so,” he said, and stretched his arms above his head. “I’m going to take a turn around the block. Lean against a lamppost with my coat collar turned up and smoke a significant cigarette.” He stood up and patted her smooth brown head. “Maybe some girl will show up in the fog, a dark-haired thing with a wild, wounded mouth, fleeing from the East India Combine.”

  “Well, if your lonely strollings take you as far as the Boulevard buy us some cigarettes, okay?”

  “Anything else?”

  She smiled up at him. “Wild and wounded mouth indeed, flurry back.”

  Farrell put on his topcoat and walked down the block to the Detweillers’ home. The lights were on in the living room, softly muted by the draperies pulled across the picture window. He went up the steps and rang the bell. Detweiller opened the door and said, “Well, howdy, neighbor.” He held a highball glass in his hand and seemed in high spirits; his handsome beefy face was flushed, and there was an expectant look around his eyes. “Come on in,” he said, slapping Farrell’s shoulder. “It’s a cold night. Let’s put some alcohol in the radiator.”

  Malleck was sitting in the living room. He got to his feet when Farrell entered, his big raw-boned hands hanging quietly at his sides. “Well, it’s nice to see you again, Mr. Farrell,” he said, in his soft easy voice.

  “I forgot you guys had met,” Detweiller said. “What’ll you have, John?”

  “Something light — with a lot of water.”

  Malleck was in his shirt sleeves, his collar open. He looked big and awkward against the pastel, feminine tone of the room. There was a bottle of beer on the table beside his chair. He sat down and lit a cigarette, watching Farrell with an inquiring little smile.

  “The Missus and family well?” he said.

  “Just fine,” Farrell said.

  “I’m glad to hear it.” The smile flared briefly, lighting the hard angular planes of his face. “In this day and age that’s something to be thankful for.”

  “Where’s Chicky?” Farrell asked Detweiller.

  Detweiller hesitated before answering. He stood at the bar with his back to Farrell, busy mixing a drink. “She went into town for the day,” he said, turning to hand Farrell a glass. He grinned then, his hard, full cheeks squeezing his eyes into bright points of light. “The day and night, I should say. One of her old pals from college — a gal who’s a buyer from some store in Chicago, is in on business — and she talked Chicky into playing hooky for the night. She didn’t have to do much talking. You know Chicky. They’re going to a play and then repairing to this gal’s suite for a hen session. Their mutual pals will get a good working over, I’ll bet.”

  “It sounds like fun,” Farrell said.

  “Of course it is,” Detweiller said quickly. He laughed. “Chicky likes to let off steam — she’s got a low boring content, as the gag goes. Not that she isn’t perfectly happy out here — hell, you couldn’t drag her back to the city to live — but occasionally she torches for the bright lights. So what’s wrong with that? We get enough of it during the week, and we forget the girls need a change of scene. Barbara likes to run in every now and then, doesn’t she?”

  “Of course,” Farrell said.

  Detweiller sat down and sipped his drink. Malleck looked at the backs of his big raw hands. A silence settled in the room.

  Farrell said: “Det, I had a call from Lieutenant Jameson today.”

  Detweiller’s eyes flicked to Malleck, and there was a suggestion of complacence in his quick
little smile. “Jameson, eh?” He regarded Farrell innocently. “The cop in Hayrack, eh? I’d forgotten his name. What was on his so-called mind?”

  “Didn’t he get in touch with you?”

  “Me?” Detweiller reached for his cigarettes. “I haven’t talked to him since I reported that Bobby stole my gun. Obviously they haven’t done anything about it. Or if so, they haven’t bothered to tell me about it.”

  “Oh, they’ll find the gun all right,” Malleck said, watching Farrell. “They’ll find it after some punk has killed somebody with it. That’s how they work. They don’t stop trouble. They just come around afterward and sweep up the dirt.”

  “So what did Jameson want?” Detweiller said. “Was he trying to sell you tickets to a police benefit or something?”

  Malleck smiled brightly; it was as if a flare had exploded on the chiseled planes and angles of his face. “That’s about the only time the cops do get in touch with ordinary citizens,” he said.

  “What’s your gripe against the police?” Farrell asked him. “You sound as if they might have given you some trouble in the past.”

  “Now that’s not what I’d call a friendly remark,” Malleck said. He filled his glass carefully, tilting it to keep the foam from rising. “I didn’t figure you as an unfriendly man, Mr. Farrell. You struck me as a man who wants to be sweet and kind to everybody in the world, irregardless of how they treated you or your family.”

  Farrell ignored Malleck’s baiting tone. He said to Detweiller: “I think you know why Jameson called me. A youngster was beaten up in Hayrack early this morning by two men. I don’t know if you were involved or not. But if you were, I’ve got the right as a friend to tell you that you made a dangerous and foolish mistake.”

  “As a friend?” Malleck said quickly, his voice dry and sarcastic. “You and I probably wouldn’t agree on what a friend is, Mr. Farrell.”

  “Now just a minute,” Detweiller said, pointing a finger at Farrell. “I’m not saying whether your guess is right or wrong. I don’t think it’s any of your business. You’re sitting this deal out — fine. If I decide to do something about it...” He held up a hand. “Remember, I’m saying if — well, that’s fine too. I told you in the beginning where I stood. You thought I was wrong. That’s your privilege. But it’s my privilege to back up my convictions. If you can’t see that, you’re blind.”

  Malleck said quietly, “That’s good plain talk. Right on the fine, no hiding around behind big fancy words. Seems to me, Mr. Farrell, it’s even simple enough for you to understand.”

  Farrell ignored him. He said to Detweiller, “You can back your convictions to the limit as long as you don’t walk over the other guy’s rights. Damn it, can’t you see you’re thinking like a lynch mob? Deciding who’s guilty, deciding the degree of guilt, deciding the kind of punishment to hand out. Do you seriously think that’s your right, your privilege?”

  “Well, I’ll tell you what I think,” Malleck said. “I think you’re just a little bit short on guts, Mr. Farrell.” He stood and hitched up his belt, then put his hands on his hips and looked down at Farrell. The pose spread his big knobby shoulders, making them flare like thick, awkward wings above his hard, flat waist. In the soft lamplight the crevices in his face were dark with shadows, and Farrell could not guess at his expression; all he could see were the cold bright eyes, the heavy forehead topped with coarse black hair. “Yeah, that’s what I think, Mr. Farrell,” Malleck said. “I think there’s a place in your spine where a canary might camouflage himself.”

  Farrell looked at him and said evenly, “Did you hold the boy’s arms? Or did you do the slugging job? As you guessed, we wouldn’t agree about friendship. And we sure as hell wouldn’t agree about courage.”

  “I guess we wouldn’t at that,” Malleck said, grinning faintly, contemptuously. “Take one man: his kid is made to lie and steal by a pack of human scum, and all the man does is talk about how everybody’s got rights and how you can’t solve these problems by doing anything direct about them. Take another man: his kid runs into the same trouble and the man goes to his defense as prompt and mean as he knows how, and he puts a stop to it. Quite naturally, we wouldn’t agree on which one of those men has guts, and which one is a coward and a fool.”

  “Yes, were miles apart,” Farrell said. “It’s a comfortable feeling.”

  “You’re awfully cute with words,” Malleck said, shaking his head slowly. “When you get through everything is right back where it started from, nothing settled, nothing finished. You puff ’em out like smoke until nobody can see what they’re talking about.” He sat down with his huge knobby hands hanging limply between his knees and regarded Farrell with what seemed to be honest bewilderment. “I don’t get you at all, Mr. Farrell. You got a nice home, a fine wife and children, but you treat me like I’m some kind of animal for wanting to help you protect them. I went to your home Sunday in a friendly spirit. My boys aren’t in trouble. They’re big kids and can handle themselves, but I learned of what was happening to your youngsters and I felt you’d welcome some help. I knew you wouldn’t get it from the cops. I’m in the trucking business and I know how they work. I saw right away that you and your wife were smart, educated people. Smarter than I am in some ways maybe.” Malleck stared at Farrell, his eyes sharp with shrewd intelligence. “I also saw I wasn’t exactly the kind of guy you and your wife would have in your home for a social occasion. Well, that’s okay with me. I don’t push my way into places I’m not wanted. Now listen!” He pointed a finger at Farrell. “My wife’s a fine woman, make no mistake about it. But I’ll tell you something. Last winter she wanted me to take her to the Stork Club for our anniversary. She’d read about it, I guess. I could afford it. Maybe a little better than lots of people who do go there. But I told her hell no. A place like that isn’t for our kind of people. I like to eat in peace, pick up a bone in my fingers if I want to, and I don’t want some damned snooty waiter looking down his nose at me because I grab the wrong fork.” Malleck’s breath came faster. “And a place like the Stork Club don’t want people like us around, even if we can afford their prices. So we went to a steak house, had some drinks and a fine meal. It was a good time, a fitting time, you know what I mean?” The words came thickly and awkwardly, as if they might be resisting his attempt to dig them out of his mind. “You understand, don’t you?” he said, his voice rising in anger. “I know my place, that’s all I’m trying to tell you.”

  “Well, that’s okay,” Farrell said. “A man can choose his place if he wants to. But he can’t choose a place for other people.”

  “The hell he can’t,” Malleck said. “Now listen: I moved out of where I lived on Eighty-seventh Street because it was filling up with people I don’t care to have around me or my family. If they had an ounce of pride in their goddamn woolly heads they’d respect my feelings and keep away from me. Like I keep out of where I’m not wanted. But they keep crowding against me and my family. So if they don’t know their place, by God I’ll tell ’em where it is. Now this same kind of scum is pushing against me out here — against you, Farrell, and your family. And you got the gall to high-hat me because I’m offering to help. I go back to what I said first: you’re just a little bit short in the guts department. But there’s some of us who aren’t.” He glanced sharply at Detweiller. “Right, Bill?”

  “Well, I don’t think there’s much use in any more talk,” Detweiller said casually. He seemed very pleased with himself, Farrell thought; pleased to be associated with Malleck’s blatant virility. He had proved something last night and whatever it was he was apparently happy about it. “You see, John,” Detweiller went on, a contented and insinuating smile on his lips, “there’s a job to be done. But it’s a job for a certain kind of guy, if you follow me. So I don’t blame you for steering clear of it.”

  “Dauntless Det, eh?” Farrell said. He smiled. “Come on, let’s not be childish. I still think...”

  “Don’t make smart cracks,” Detweiller said,
moving forward to the edge of his chair. “I’ve listened to you because we’ve been friends. But don’t crowd me, John.”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Farrell said. “Will you knock it off?”

  “I’m warning you, John,” Detweiller said, and got slowly to his feet. “Don’t sit there sneering at me and treating me like some kind of joke. I don’t take that from anybody.”

  Malleck said quietly, “I guess you’re treating us both like a big joke, Mr. Farrell. And come to think of it, I don’t take that from anybody either.”

  Farrell turned his glass slowly in his hands, studying the light sparkling on the surface of the liquid. Finally he said, “Det, I think it would be awfully silly for you and me to get into a brawl about this thing.”

  “Peace talk,” Malleck said, grinning. “The minute you come up against something tough the brotherly love starts to ooze out of your pores. Well, I’ll tell you this: there are people in this world damn well worth hating. And a man who wants to hug those people in his arms is just covering up the fact that he’s afraid of them. My dad told me that a long time ago. It takes guts to hate things that need hating. And this talk about tolerance and good will for everybody is just so much scared piss. And here’s another thing you...”

  “Oh shut up,” Farrell said wearily.

  Malleck stood up and said, “A man who says that to me had better be on his feet, Farrell. Are you getting up or do I...”

  “Hold it!” Detweiller said sharply, and glanced toward the foyer; a key had sounded in the lock. High heels tapped crisply against the silence and Detweiller said, “Chicky? Is that you?”

  “Hi!” Chicky said, coming into the room. She was bright and slim in a snug beige suit, with a corsage of camellias pinned to her shoulder. “What’s wrong?” she said, and stopped as if the tension in the room were a physical barrier. “You look so grim — or is it disappointed? Have I crashed a stag party?”