Juvenile Delinquent

by Richard Deming

  “You think Joe did it?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t thought about it much. I’ve been …” Her voice drifted off, as though she had forgotten what she started to say, then she said inconsequentially, “I didn’t go to school today.”

  She was still too much in the grip of shock over her boy friend’s death to get much out of her, I realized. I had hoped to talk to her about Bart’s campaign to reform the club, but in view of her apparent state of mind, I thought I’d better stick to one or two more important questions and let it go at that. I also decided her attention was too much on her own thoughts for any kind of a subtle approach to work on her, and decided to use a frontal attack.

  I asked bluntly, “Stella, did you phone the police at nine forty-five last night?”

  Surprise formed on her face, but no alarm. “Me? No. Phone them for what?”

  “Do you know of any girl who did?”

  She shook her head, eyeing me puzzledly, but still not particularly interested. It was obvious that nothing aside from her grief could hold much interest for her.

  “What’s Joe Brighton’s girl’s name?” I asked.

  “Ruth Zimmerman.”

  “Live around here?”

  “Around the corner on Tamm. Six forty-six. Why? Has Ruth done something?” She asked the question out of politeness, and not because she really cared.

  “Nothing I know of,” I said, rising. “I just want to talk to her. I won’t bother you any more now, but could I come back and talk to you sometime when you’ve gotten over the shock of this a little?”

  “Sure,” she said without enthusiasm, her tone indicating she never really expected to get over the shock.

  As I went down the smelly stairs, it occurred to me Bart Meyers had probably been the girl’s first love. Most people gradually outgrow their first loves and eventually look back at them with a mixture of self-mockery and nostalgia, but Stella Quint hadn’t been given the chance to outgrow it. I tried to imagine what emotions a sixteen-year-old girl would feel at the death of the boy she loved, but it was beyond me.

  But I had the uncomfortable feeling that the tragic effects on the girl would be more permanent than if both of them had been adults.

  8

  RUTH ZIMMERMAN’S home was little different from Stella Quint’s, except that the four rooms were in the shape of a square instead of being strung out like railroad cars. Her mother was a harassed-looking woman of indeterminate age and, like Stella’s mother, she showed no curiosity whatever as to why a grown man wanted to see her teenage daughter. She merely told me to come in.

  But this time I only got as far as the hall. The doors to all four rooms plus a tiny bath opened off the hall, however, so I got at least a sketchy view of the whole flat. There seemed to be a kitchen, front room and two bedrooms, all with their doors open.

  When Mrs. Zimmerman raised her voice and yelled, “Ruth!” there was a general stirring in the front room and I got the impression of at least six youngsters of varying ages. I wondered where they all slept.

  A girl of about sixteen came out of the front room with an inquiring look on her face. She was a black-eyed brunette, pretty in a sharp-featured sort of way, and already possessed of a fully developed body. She wore a tight gray sweater and equally tight gray skirt which emphasized her prematurely lush figure, and her long black hair was gathered into a pony tail by the usual purple ribbon.

  Her mother said, “Gentleman to see you, Ruth,” then before I could say anything, a baby howled in one of the bedrooms and Mrs. Zimmerman rushed off after muttering something I took to be an apology.

  In the front room a television set was going full blast, immediately over our heads a radio was trying to drown it out, and the baby’s cries increased the general din to bedlam.

  In a near shout I said, “I’m Manville Moon, a friend of Joe Brighton’s.”

  “Moon?” the girl asked. “Joe’s Uncle Manny?”

  I nodded, this being easier on the vocal chords than shouting.

  The girl said something I didn’t catch and disappeared into the second bedroom. Almost instantly she was back, zipping up a purple jacket as she reappeared.

  “We can’t talk in this nut house,” she yelled in my ear, and pushed me toward the door.

  As she went down the stairs ahead of me, I noted her development of co-ordination hadn’t kept pace with her physical development. She had the body of a woman, but her movements still possessed the awkward charm of adolescence. The sinuous sway she attempted to give to her full hips made it obvious she was both extremely conscious and extremely proud of her body. But instead of creating the sensual effect she must have intended, the combination of physical ripeness, adolescence and consciousness of sex gave her a curiously defenseless air.

  When we reached the street, she asked, “Want to go anywhere in particular?”

  “My car’s over there,” I said, pointing. “Suppose we sit in it.”

  Without comment she went over and climbed in the front seat.

  When I had seated myself behind the wheel next to her, she said, “Joe’s told me lots about you. About the three hoods you killed and everything.”

  “That’s a fine thing for him to brag about. He tell you any of my gentler characteristics?”

  “He didn’t mention any,” she said seriously. “Have you seen Joe? He send a message to me?”

  “Yes and no. That is, I’ve seen him, but he didn’t have time to send any messages. I was limited to a ten-minute visit, and we had too much else to discuss.”

  She didn’t look particularly disappointed. “Why don’t we ride around while we’re talking?” she asked.

  As I started the car, she closed her eyes and leaned her head against the back of the seat. When we had cruised a slow block, she rolled her head sidewise, opened her eyes and asked in a sultry voice, “How is Joe?”

  “Scared,” I said.

  “Scared?” she repeated in a more normal tone, surprise making her forget for the moment that she was a femme fatale. “Joe?”

  “Oh, he doesn’t show it,” I reassured her. “It’s all underneath. Wouldn’t you be scared if you were in jail charged with murder?”

  “Me? I’m just a girl. But Joe’s not afraid of anything.”

  The remark depressed me, because it was so indicative of one of the motives which made youngsters like Joe Brighton develop into juvenile toughs. You had to impress your friends, and particularly your girl, that you were tough and daring and fearless. So through sheer bravado you performed antisocial acts you wouldn’t dream of doing if your social environment didn’t put a premium on toughness.

  When we reached Fourth, I turned right and drifted toward Lucas. “You think Joe killed Bart Meyers, Ruth?”

  Her shoulders moved slightly. “I guess. Didn’t he? Some of the kids think he was framed because he never before used a knife, even though he carries one. But he was caught right there.”

  Her attitude didn’t strike me as very touching faith.

  I asked, “Aren’t you supposed to be Joe’s girl?”

  “Sure,” she said in surprise. “What makes you ask that?”

  “Just checking. Think a lot of him?”

  “Naturally.”

  But her tone didn’t match the word. It was uttered almost casually, the tone of a woman of the world who has lost a man, but isn’t going to cry about it because another man would be along soon. Maybe I was reading too much into a single word, but I couldn’t help getting the impression she had already written off Joe Brighton before he was even convicted. Her whole attitude indicated it: her lack of disappointment that Joe had sent her no message, her seeming acceptance without question that he had committed the murder, and her overt attempt to impress me with her physical charms just as though I were any casual man instead of Joe’s foster uncle.

  I said bluntly, “You think he’s going to take this rap, don’t you?”

  Again there was a slight movement of shoulders. “I hope not. B
ut from what the kids say, I can’t see much chance of him beating it.”

  “What do the kids say?”

  “That the cops have got too good a case. Even if he’s innocent, he’s cooked.”

  We reached Lucas and I turned right again to start the third leg of a square. Because her attitude struck me as entirely too pragmatic for a sixteen-year-old, and was beginning to get under my skin, I wasn’t even as gentle with my next question as I had been with Stella Quint.

  I asked, “Why’d you make that call to the police last night, Ruth?”

  Her eyes opened wide and she sat up straight. “What?”

  “The call to the police,” I repeated. “Didn’t you know they can trace calls?”

  “I didn’t…. What are you talking about anyway?”

  “Don’t you know?”

  Slowly she shook her head. Her expression was puzzled and faintly disturbed, but if she was flustered, she knew how to conceal emotion better than I would have thought she could.

  “Some girl phoned in and said she was Joe’s girl friend,” I said, distorting the truth a little. “Naturally I thought it was you.”

  “Some other girl? Well, that’s a nerve! What’d she want? Permission to see Joe?”

  Apparently she thought I meant the call had come after Joe’s arrest. Since I doubted that she would have the subtlety to make such a perfect parry on the spur of the moment, I decided she couldn’t know anything about the call.

  “I suppose,” I said, wanting to kill the subject. “When the police wouldn’t give out any information, she hung up.”

  She sat back in the seat again, but this time didn’t assume a provocative pose. She merely sat with her hands in her lap, brooding.

  She continued to brood as I turned right at Eighth, right again at Tamm and cruised slowly back toward her home. Possibly I should have been more tolerant of the fickleness of a very young girl whose premature physical development probably got her so much male attention, she could hardly be blamed for some of it going to her head. But I couldn’t resist experiencing a mildly sadistic satisfaction at having touched her vanity. She had written Joe off, but it upset her to think she might not have been the only girl in his life.

  When I parked, she snapped out of it enough to turn to me. “You don’t know this girl’s name, huh?”

  I shook my head.

  “Well, I guess it doesn’t matter, long as she didn’t get to see him anyway,” she said philosophically. “You want to come in for a while?”

  “I don’t believe so, thanks.”

  “What am I supposed to call you?” she asked. “Mr. Moon?”

  Despite my growing irritation at the girl, I couldn’t help grinning at this obvious attempt to put our relationship on an adult-to-adult basis. “Mr. Moon, Uncle Manny, plain Manny. Take your choice.”

  “I’ll call you Manny, if you don’t mind,” she decided. “Will you come take me for a ride again sometime?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  “Some evening?” she asked inquiringly.

  “Sure,” I said again.

  She got out of the car, closed the door and leaned down to the window for a moment to give me a lingering good-by smile. “Bye, Manny.”

  “Good-by, Ruth.”

  As I drove away I couldn’t help feeling vaguely uneasy about Ruth Zimmerman’s probable future, even though her attitude toward Joe had irritated me. I was twice her age, yet she had deliberately insinuated she wouldn’t be averse to going out with me. She wouldn’t have to insinuate that to many older men before she found one unscrupulous enough to take her up.

  I was glad I didn’t have a daughter.

  9

  MY NEXT stop was one I didn’t look forward to, but had to get over sometime. And since I knew the police couldn’t have released Bart Meyer’s body from the morgue yet, as an autopsy is routine in murder cases even when the cause of death is obvious, I thought I’d better get it in today. While the boy’s mother undoubtedly would still be stunned by grief, I was afraid if I waited another day I might interrupt her in the midst of funeral arrangements.

  Mrs. Meyers lived on Third only a block from where Ed Brighton lived. Her flat, like his, was a two-room walkup on the second floor of a building which looked as though it should have been condemned years ago. I found her at home and alone.

  The woman was only about thirty-five, which meant she must have borne Bart when she was only eighteen. She was thin, but not unattractive in an undernourished sort of way. Her features were a trifle pronounced and her narrow shoulders a little bony, but she had a clear complexion, neatly waved black hair and an erect posture which made her thinness less evident.

  When I told her who I was and that I was a friend of Joe Brighton’s, she invited me into her kitchen and asked me to have a seat. The place had all the earmarks of poverty : worn linoleum, an old-fashioned gas range on legs such as has not been manufactured for over twenty years, and an ice box instead of a refrigerator. But it was scrubbed spotless.

  She sat across from me at the kitchen table, folded her hands in her lap and dully waited for me to speak.

  I said, “I know you must not feel very kindly toward Joe, Mrs. Meyers, but he claims he didn’t kill your son and I’m inclined to believe him. I’m trying to find out who did, if Joe didn’t, and I’d appreciate your help.”

  For a time she just continued to sit there. Then she said, “Joe Brighton’s been in this house lots of times. Him and my Bart was friends since grammar school. How could he do a thing like that to Bart?”

  “You convinced he did, Mrs. Meyers?”

  She turned slightly glazed eyes at me. “He was caught right there, wasn’t he? And I know something even the police don’t know. Bart’s girl friend told me this morning. Stella Quint. Bart and Joe met to have a fight last night.”

  “I knew that too,” I admitted. “But that sounds worse than it is. I’ve gotten a pretty good briefing on the Purple Pelicans from one of its members, and there didn’t seem to be any animosity about these arranged fights for leadership. They were a standard part of club procedure, following definite rules of honor just as duels used to in the old days. The contestants weren’t necessarily mad at each other. Maybe it sounds silly, but I have an idea both boys still regarded the other as a friend when they arranged the fight, and would have continued friends afterward regardless of the outcome.”

  When she made no reply whatever, I said, “If Joe is innocent, you wouldn’t want him punished, would you?”

  She shook her head. “Of course not.”

  “But you would want the real killer punished, wouldn’t you?”

  Her face turned directly toward me. In a suddenly vicious tone she said, “I been a widow fifteen years, Mr. Moon. I was left at only twenty with a two-year-old baby. He’s all I had this whole time. I’ve worked like a dog in hash houses and doing laundry and even scrubbing floors to bring him up and get him through high-school. Twice we was even on relief. Lots of times Bart wanted to quit school and get a job so we could live better, but I made him stick it out. One more year and he’d of graduated and been able to get a start in life. He wasn’t always a good boy, but he was better than some, and of late he’d been getting over some of his wild ideas and starting to settle down. He’d of made a success in life. He’d of gotten a better job than I ever had, or his old man had, or his old man’s father ever had. He’d of married some nice girl like Stella Quint and raised a family in some nice part of town. He’d of done everything I’ve dreamed for him, if only he’d had a chance. Somebody ruined all that. They killed a boy who never did nobody any real harm, and they canceled out fifteen years of slaving and starving I did. I might as well of drowned him at two and had a good time for myself and maybe got married again. Whoever did it, I hope he burns. And that includes Joe Brighton, even if he is your friend.”

  “Joe has a parent who loves him too,” I said gently. “And I don’t think Joe killed your son.”

  Her bitterness expired an
d she said wearily, “I don’t wish no harm to anybody but the killer. I always liked Joe before this happened, and I’d be glad if he was really innocent. I’ll help you any way I can.”

  “Fine,” I said. “It might help if you happened to know of any enemies your son had.”

  Bart didn’t have any enemies, she assured me positively. Everybody liked him. Once on the subject, she seemed to have a compulsion to keep talking about it, and words literally spilled from her. It was like a funeral dirge; all the memories which must have been going through her mind ever since she heard her son was dead gushed forth in a monotonous and hopeless chant. I listened without interrupting to the story of the boy’s life from the time he began to walk until the final evening he left the house.

  As she talked I gradually formed an impression of the boy which was at considerable variance with the previous picture I had had of a tough juvenile gang leader. Granted that it was a mother’s-eye view, and further sugar coated because fresh grief always makes people recall the virtues and forget the vices of loved ones, it was still rather surprising. Even after discounting a good portion of the panegyric, Bart Meyers took shape in my mind as a basically nice kid.

  He had always been an organizer, his mother told me. Even in his earliest teens he was the neighborhood leader in games. She admitted he got in fights with other boys; in fact that at one time or other he had whipped every kid in the area. But she blamed this on the neighborhood, where children either had to fight or be labeled sissies, and insisted that essentially Bart was a good-natured boy.

  He was a loving son too, she told me with some pride. She said that many of Bart’s friends had been openly contemptuous of their parents, but her relationship with Bart had been everything a mother could want. He never left the house without kissing her good-by, and he never returned without offering her the same token of affection.

  She knew he had been president of the Purple Pelicans, but she knew nothing about the organization, assuming it was merely a teenage social club. She said Bart had never had a regular after-school job, but frequently picked up odd-job money and turned it in at home. When I asked what kind of odd jobs he did, her vague reply convinced me she had no idea. It seemed never to have occurred to her that Bart might have been raising money illegally.