“Did you try—” Lillian started to say, but Adam interrupted her.
“Leave it alone, Carl,” Adam said to me.
“What?” I stared at my brother, unbelieving. Lillian seemed to know where Jonesy might be. Why wouldn’t Adam let her tell me?
“Why did Jonesy need money? Why was he stealing?” I said.
“Gambling,” Lillian said before Adam could stop her. Her lower lip stuck out in a pout. “That gambling ring by the waterfront. You know ’em, Adam. They’re the ones who—”
“Shut up, Lil!” Adam’s faced reddened and Lillian cringed, as if she’d been slapped. I stared at Adam. Telling a girl to “shut up”? We hadn’t been raised that way.
“Tell me about the gambling ring,” I said to Lillian.
Giving up, Adam slumped back in his chair as Lillian folded her hands in front of her and answered. “It’s run by some fellow from San Francisco. He has his own club on the north side,” she said. “We used to go there. Good music. Good booze. And craps and poker. Some other games, too. What were they, Adam?” She looked at him but he didn’t answer, so she continued. “They were real nice at first. If you lost money, they loaned some to you—said you could pay it off with your winnings later.”
Adam snorted with disgust and spoke up. “Yeah, ‘later.’”
“But then they got real mean if you didn’t pay up. And they set up these payments that were just awful. Lots of extra cash—interest—on your loan. Adam had to pay some off.”
Adam didn’t look at me.
“Is that what you used my money for?” I asked Adam, my voice rising. “You didn’t gamble with it. You paid off old gambling debts!”
He scowled and didn’t answer.
“Most of them,” said Lillian.
Knowing I wouldn’t get the truth from Adam, I continued, to Lillian, “So Jonesy was in debt to these fellows. Where are they?”
“They shut down,” Lillian said.
“At least the gambling part,” my brother added.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
Lillian shuddered. “They only do the enforcement now—the loan enforcement.”
“If you don’t pay, they make life real uncomfortable for you,” Adam said.
“They hurt people,” Lillian explained. “They cut off Billy Ramone’s little finger.” Shivering, she ran her hands up her arms. “I can’t think about it.”
That would certainly explain why Jonesy, if he were a poor man, would steal to pay off his gambling debts. But he was rich. And these loans—were these the loans Bernard Peterson was so concerned about? And what did they have to do with the bank?
“Why didn’t Jonesy just get the cash from his family?” I asked.
“He did—part of it,” Adam told me. “But his father said he had to earn the rest of the money himself. They didn’t understand what these guys were like. They thought if Jonesy just treated it like an ordinary debt. . .”
“. . . he wouldn’t be hurt,” Lillian finished.
“Where is he now?” I asked, again looking from one to the other.
Adam remained silent while Lillian fidgeted in her chair. She knew something. They both did. Yet Adam wouldn’t tell me. He wouldn’t help me, even though it could clear my name, and even though I’d been working so hard to clear his. He was as bad as the rest—as bad as Officer Miller. Adam wouldn’t put me away, but he wouldn’t help me, either.
Then I thought—had Adam been gambling in Baltimore? Is that why we had to leave? Is that what Esther had meant in her letter when she’d wondered where Adam was? Did she know he was a troublemaker, that he had to escape his debts? Crap. I couldn’t even think about that now. That Adam would steal my home from me. . . No, it couldn’t be. All this time, all this longing for home. . .
Over the past few weeks, I’d come to the sad realization that my brother had stopped being a good person. Now, I had to take in another painful lesson—he’d stopped being a good brother, too. No, worse than that—maybe he’d never been the good person or the good brother I’d imagined. Maybe he’d always been like this but I hadn’t seen.
I could barely look at him. But I had to.
“Adam,” I pleaded, “if I don’t find him, the police might come after me!”
He let out a cynical bark of a laugh. “They’ll come after you anyway. The whole Klan’ll be after you, just like they were after me. They’ll say you shot down a pillar of Portland society, a good Christian boy, not a mongrel like us. You could have had Jesus Christ himself as witness and it wouldn’t matter. Take my advice, Carl. Get out of town. . . and quick.”
Stunned, I sat back. My head began to throb from the steady beat of the jazz drummer, the cigarette smoke, and the lingering effects of my illness. I gave up on Adam and looked at Lillian, whose mouth opened as if she was about to speak.
“Please,” I said, “tell me where you think he might be.”
A sharp glance from Adam silenced her.
I didn’t stay much longer—just long enough to learn that Adam was hiding out at Lillian’s place. She rented a room in a boarding house not too far from the speakeasy. During the day, she worked at a ladies’ dress shop near Meier and Frank’s. Adam stayed in the room while she worked, and it sounded like they went out a lot at night, looking for good times or poker games where Adam could try to win some cash to pay off his debts. I got the impression Lillian thought they’d get married someday. Adam didn’t say much during that part of the discussion.
It was nearly midnight when I left them. By then, fatigue had folded over me like a wet blanket. Before I left, I looked at Adam and wanted to ask him why he wouldn’t help me. I wanted to say goodbye. But all I did was nod my head at him, as if nothing had changed and I’d see him at home soon.
In the cool night air, I looked up and down the street, wondering where Reginald Jones could be if he was still in the city. His family was well-to-do, so he probably lived near the Petersons, or maybe in Vincent Briggs’s neighborhood. Maybe if I kept a lookout by the Briggs house, I’d see him coming and going. But I was far too tired for that—too tired and wrung out.
As I took my first step toward home, a voice whispered from the porch of the speakeasy.
“Pssst! Carl!” It was Lillian. Turning, I saw her standing alone, holding a flimsy silk purse in front of her and glancing over her shoulder. I went to her.
“Adam’s paying our tab,” she explained, then looked down with an embarrassed grimace. “Well, he’s paying, but I gave him the money.” A door opened inside the speakeasy and she glanced over her shoulder. Speaking fast, she said, “Look, Jonesy might have left town. But he might be at a house on Third. His father owns it and it’s empty. You could look there.”
Third Street! That was the house Adam had hidden in weeks before. Of course—Adam must have learned about it from Jonesy!
“Thanks, Lillian. Thanks so much.” I touched my hat and ran off into the night, turning left at the end of the empty road, heading southeast toward the abandoned house on Third.
I no longer felt tired.
Although I was still a little weak, I couldn’t stop. If Jonesy hadn’t hit the road already, he’d surely do so soon. After all, he’d killed a man.
As I ran down the dark, empty streets, I thought about the night of the killing. There had been an argument and a scuffle. I’d heard but not seen it. And Bernard Peterson had been slightly drunk. Jonesy hadn’t shown up at that meeting intending to do harm, but Bernard had. It was now clear to me what had happened—Jonesy had grabbed the gun in their fight and killed Bernard in self-defense.
If I could convince him to talk to the police, he could get off. He came from a good family and had a good name. He wasn’t Catholic—I was. And I could be heading to the gallows if Jonesy didn’t come forward.
A block from the house, my breath caught and I started to cough. Stopping, I bent over and sucked in air. That only made it worse. Coughing consumed my whole body, shaking me to the core. My ears rang an
d head throbbed while I barked into the night like a wounded dog. Gasps of air kept me from passing out, but each intake only fed the sickness. Holding onto a lamp post for balance, I gagged and choked. To a passer-by, I must have looked like a drunk at the end of a bad binge. I thought I was going to die.
At last, as tears streamed down my face, the coughing stopped. Sucking in a slow, tentative breath, I waited. No cough—it was gone. I could breathe. Wiping my mouth, I felt dark and strangled.
Walking slowly now, I wondered if I should just turn around and forget about everything. Maybe Adam was right. Maybe it wasn’t worth it. Maybe I should collect my next paper route paycheck and head back home to Baltimore. If I didn’t have enough money for train fare, I could jump a train and ride for free in a freight car. I’d seen some hoboes doing that on our way to Portland.
I saw myself in a small row home in Baltimore like the one we’d left, coming home from a hard day at a nearby factory. I saw Esther there, waiting for me, smiling over a steaming pot, asking me how my day had been.
But before I could enjoy this dream, memory intruded. Again, I saw my mother telling me—yes, me, not Adam—to “look after” my brother. She’d seen what I hadn’t, that Adam was weak, that he needed someone to watch over him. She hadn’t feared for my future, but for his. I couldn’t go home to Baltimore until I saw to both our futures.
I stood before the “hideout” house—dark and still, looming above, and shutting all intruders out. I saw no evidence of life. What was I thinking? Jonesy would be crazy to hang around town after what he’d done. He was probably long gone. He wasn’t stupid. Unlike me, he wasn’t trying to fight injustices and right wrongs, looking and hoping for the best in everyone. I felt another cough tickle my throat. Soon I’d be bent over, gagging again and raising the alarm for blocks. Darn it.
Turning, I coughed softly into the shadows. Swallowing hard to control my hacking, I bent forward. A sliver of light flickered above. Whipping my head up, I saw a glow behind the shade in the room my brother had stayed in. Jonesy hadn’t left town. He was still here after all.
Chapter Nineteen
Sometimes, bad things can turn into good ones. If I’d arrived at the house a few minutes earlier, I might have knocked, gotten no answer, given up, and gone on my way, never seeing the light upstairs. But because I’d been delayed by my coughing fit, I now knew Jonesy was here, whether he’d answer the door or not.
But now what? Somehow, I didn’t think he’d be impressed by a fifteen-year-old “kid.” If only Vincent Briggs was with me. I could see the tough reporter in my mind, persuading Jonesy to tell the true story. Come on, boy, I know you didn’t mean to do it. Better to tell me than the police, right? They’d be ashamed to arrest you after all of Portland reads the truth about Bernard Peterson.
Vincent Briggs was self-confident and smart. He’d probably fit in anywhere. No wonder he could get people to tell him their deepest secrets. He could be strong and intimidating, or warm and kind, whichever would work best. I couldn’t imagine him ever feeling the doubt I felt in that bank, or at the train station—as if everybody else knew what they were doing but me.
I wished he was here with me, or at least I wished I could ask him how to do his job, but he wasn’t here. I had only myself. And I had Reginald Jones nearly in my grasp. I couldn’t walk away now—I’d worked too hard and come too far.
I patted my pocket and found some of the “Sister Lucretia” posters I’d crammed in there the other day. I folded them over so only the blank sides showed. I didn’t have a pencil on me, but I’d borrow one. After smoothing my sweaty hair under my cap, I strode toward the door and pulled myself up. Then I knocked, using the special speakeasy pattern—the one I’d used with Adam when he’d hidden here.
I heard a rustling above and then the light went out. I knocked again. In a forceful voice, I called out, “Reginald Jones, open up. It’s Carl Matuski from the Telegram.” I knocked again. Still no answer.
What had Briggs said in the sandwich shop? He’d said he could use the information I provided to “squeeze” the truth out of the bank officers. Maybe I could do the same.
“Listen, Jonesy,” I said, “we already know what happened. It was an accident. We know Bernard Peterson was trying to kill you that night.” I deepened my voice. “He was stealing from the bank and you knew about it. You were going to tell the bank and he tried to stop you. If you don’t talk to us, the police will think you killed him in cold blood.”
Seconds passed. Would he come? Finally, a shuffling gait grew louder and closer. The door creaked open and I was staring Reginald Jones in the face.
What a sight he was! Several scratches marked his right cheek, and his right eye was swollen and bruised. His dark hair was unevenly cut, with a patch near his forehead shaven close to his skull, revealing a crusted scrape. His long face looked permanently set in a scowl, with thin lips drooping downward and the swollen eye half-shut.
“You’re kind of young to work for the Telegram,” he whispered, looking over my shoulder to make sure I was alone. “You Adam’s brother?”
Affecting a self-assurance I barely felt, I said, “Yeah. That’s what got me interested in all this. I work with Vincent Briggs, the Telegram’s top reporter. Me and Vinnie are real close.”
Jonesy, staring hard at me, said nothing. His hand still gripped the door and it was clear he was considering shutting me out.
“Talk to me,” I said quickly. “Tell me your story. You deserve to have your side told.”
Through narrowed eyes, he looked me up and down. One hand was hidden behind the door—I wondered if it held a weapon. Should I run? Was I in danger? After all, Reginald Jones had killed a man. He might want to get rid of anyone who knew.
I didn’t care anymore. I stood my ground and waited, daring him to throw me out. This plan had to work.
“You don’t look good,” I said in a soothing tone. “You need to sit down. C’mon, let’s go upstairs and talk.” I pointed at the steps.
“I’m tired,” he said to no one. “I’m just tired.”
Jonesy turned and walked up, and I followed close behind. He limped, his right leg straight and unbending.
“Bernie beat you up pretty good, I see,” I said in a friendly voice.
“I’m not well,” he muttered, again to himself more than to me. “I’m sick.” He sounded like he was whimpering.
“He must have hurt you bad,” I offered, hoping to keep him talking. We were near the second floor now.
“Kicked me in the shins.” Surprise colored his voice. The beating still stung him.
Upstairs, I followed him into the front bedroom. The only furnishings were a mattress and lamp on the floor and a small table and chair along the wall. He eased himself onto the mattress. I took the chair.
“How do I know you’ll help me?” he asked, rubbing his sore right leg.
“I don’t help anyone but the truth,” I said, repeating a line Vincent Briggs had used on me. It sounded hollow in my voice, though, so I cleared my throat and tried again. “And the truth is Bernard Peterson tried to kill you.”
“That’s it,” he whispered, his eyes wide, his voice absent.
“You just need to tell me the details,” I said. He was so disoriented I was afraid he wouldn’t be able to tell me anything worthwhile. I had to keep him focused and on track. “What do you remember?”
“I’m not staying here long,” he said, “so if you want the story, you better get it quick.”
The story—I pulled out my piece of paper and let out a pretend chuckle. “Forgot my pencil. Got one?”
Jonesy didn’t flinch. He grabbed a jacket from the end of the mattress and fished a pencil from it. After tossing it to me, he sucked in his breath.
“Let’s start at the beginning,” I said, my mind racing. What exactly was the beginning when a reporter covered a story? Were there rules to this job? Was there a “first question” I should ask? Before I had a chance to formulate one, Jonesy s
poke.
“It was an accident,” he said in a small, high-pitched, quivering voice. He sounded miserable. “The gun went off accidentally. I didn’t mean to shoot him. I just didn’t want him to shoot me. He said he had to get rid of me, that he couldn’t risk what I’d say or do. He said he’d been thinking about how to do it for a long time. . . He wasn’t right in the head. . .” He didn’t look at me when he talked, and kept rubbing his leg.
I wrote everything down quickly, exactly as he’d said it.
“Peterson was doing something wrong at the bank,” I began.
He looked at me eagerly. “Yes,” he said, “embezzling. Bernie needed a lot of cash. . .”
“. . . to pay off the gambling ring,” I said.
Nodding, he continued, “And, just like me, he couldn’t borrow any more from his father. If he’d known how much he owed, his father would have disowned him. So Bernie came up with this plan. . .”
“Involving loans. . .” I scribbled furiously, unsure if my writings would be worth anything later, but it was the only way to keep Jonesy talking.
“Yes, he’d fill out these phony loan applications, making up names. He only did a few, but it was enough to raise the money he needed.”
“Didn’t the bank wonder when nobody paid off the loans?”
“The bank would call a loan if somebody missed three payments. But if the loan officer—Bernie in this case—made special arrangements, more payments could be missed.”
“Wouldn’t the bank catch on eventually?” My pencil hovered over the paper.
“Sure, but Bernie figured he’d have the cash by then to pay the bank. He was desperate for money, though, because of—”
“The gang,” I finished. “I know about Billy Ramone’s finger.”
Jonesy nodded. “They’re pitiless, cold-hearted—” He didn’t finish that thought. “And they find you no matter where you hide. You’re never safe.” He looked up at the ceiling. “Why’d I ever get involved with them?”
The Case Against My Brother Page 15