He drained the remnants of cold coffee from the cardboard container, swallowed hard to keep from choking on some coffee grounds, then lifted a folder from his desk. He fingered the typewritten report, which he had previously read thoroughly, then leaned back in his swivel chair and dug his long bony fingers into his tired eyes. What was being done? A hell of a lot was being done, had been done, since Billy Everett was killed yesterday morning. God, had it only been yesterday? Reardon must be working his people to death. He tried to absorb the conflicting reports and come to the same conclusions the DA had reached. This whole notion of a Secret Nation; it was so ludicrous. And so explosive. Yet there were Police Department reports confirming a great number of senseless, profitless killings and other crimes of violence.
The Mayor reached a long arm across his desk and his fingers located the typewritten list of names submitted by his Commissioner of Equal Employment Opportunities. All these boys and girls had been recommended by the Church of the Kingdom Here and Now. They all had satisfactory performance records and good follow-through. Were they all potential assassins? No. That wasn’t what Reardon had said. The Mayor tried to think calmly but he knew that exhaustion tended to increase his edginess (or, as the press liked to call it, his “snappishness”). Reardon maintained that the Church of the Kingdom Here and Now was a front and, like all fronts, to a certain extent it operated on a legitimate basis. The youngsters who were trained and employed through the various poverty programs were the “window dressing.” They gave the church the respectability of community support and involvement, and behind that façade the Secret Nation operated. The Mayor had been skeptical of the whole thing last night. The Police Commissioner had accused him of being naïve.
And now this new development: the worst potential development of all. On the basis of information Reardon was collecting from his undercover people, he had come out flatly, not twenty minutes ago, with a completely new theory. Reardon stated that the Secret Nation was a front, just as the Church of the Kingdom Here and Now was a front. He spelled out a theory of corruption and double-dealing so intricate that the Mayor could scarcely follow him. But the PC had followed Reardon, and the two men had shouted across the room at each other. The PC demanded to know Reardon’s sources of information. Reardon accused the PC of not having competent people around him to keep him apprised of the situation within his own Department.
The Mayor silenced both men, ordered Reardon to explain what he was talking about. Reardon stated that the members of the Secret Nation had been duped into believing that they were to be advance troops who would establish this Secret Nation, starting in Harlem and moving outward to all parts of the city, when they were, in effect, merely the instruments of a large crime syndicate, strong-arming hoods who wouldn’t fall in line.
The Police Commissioner, dangerously red-faced, was furious at the implications of police involvement and insisted that, to the best of his knowledge, the Secret Nation thing was strictly on the level, dedicated to terror and violence for the sake of terror and violence.
“Now who’s being naïve?” Reardon demanded. The Commissioner had insisted that Reardon be made to turn over any proof in the matter to his confidential squad, and Reardon’s reply had been “Like hell I will. I have people working on it and when my case is ready I’ll let you know!”
The Mayor did not know what to believe. However, there was the one real piece of information Reardon had presented: the fact that the Church of the Kingdom Here and Now had an incredible number of real estate dealings, all duly recorded.
The Mayor leaned back and closed his eyes and after a moment, with a sense of shock, he thought of Billy Everett. The death of Billy Everett seemed to be getting lost in all of this. He had conferred with the boy twice and had been tremendously impressed by him. He was an unusually intelligent and bright young man, calm and reasonable and articulate, and the Mayor had made a note about Billy Everett for future reference. He would have made an excellent addition to his staff of young people. But he had been killed Thursday morning and there had been two outbreaks of violence on the streets of Harlem and the city was on riot alert.
Reardon had presented him with a biography of Billy Everett, tracing his life from birth in a small private hospital in Brooklyn, through his elementary, junior-high, high-school, college and law-school education. There was a complete rundown on every organization Everett had ever joined and/or led; every petition he had ever signed or authored; every academic honor and award; notes on every speech he had ever made; transcripts of every television interview and public statement. The Mayor had accepted the report with a sudden angry resentment: “Is Billy Everett suspect? Why all this background information?”
Reardon had shrugged. It was the way his staff conducted an investigation: touch all bases.
And this patrolman, Nicholas Linelli. The rundown on him was just as complete but scarcely as favorable. No derelictions while in the Police Department; just an average police officer with an average record. The Mayor believed that Patrolman Linelli had not shot Everett. There was enough technical evidence to clear him of the charge. Yet he could not stand up to public scrutiny. This business of joining a protest group against his kids being bused out to another school.
Oh, hell. The Mayor wished he could call a press conference and state categorically that Patrolman Linelli was a member of CORE or at least of the NAACP, that he had been in the vanguard of a group of liberal white parents who voluntarily sent their children into a minority school. The Mayor tapped his fingers on the surface of his desk. That wasn’t fair. Linelli was just an average guy with average personal problems and he was trying to cope with them. He had been set up. Yes, the Mayor believed that now; but he wished to God someone closer to a saint had been picked at random. It would have made things easier.
One of the most disturbing reports had been delivered to him less than an hour ago. The Bureau of Special Services of the Police Department, working with some of Reardon’s people, had compiled a list of names: 106 city employees who were members of the Secret Nation organization. Transit Authority employees, civil service clerks in various departments, policemen, firemen, teachers, a librarian, an engineer in the Department of Public Works, and so on and so on and so on. The organization was not illegal. Membership—if it could be proved—would prove nothing. There had been city employees involved in other questionable organizations: far left, far right, lunatic fringe. Some very questionable rifle clubs, semimilitary organizations.
He glanced at his appointment calendar and wearily anticipated his first meeting Saturday morning. His special group of community representatives: twenty-eight people, who were well known and accepted by the Negro community. They were probably out working on the streets right now, through the night. He would keep the meeting brief.
The news-media people were scheduled for 10:00 A.M. The Mayor’s jaw tightened. Those bastards, sharpened by their own exhaustion and the demands of their editors, had lost all restraint and all pretense of courtesy, demanding to know all those things they knew damn well he could not, under the present circumstances, reveal. Where was Patrolman Linelli? What direction was the Police Department’s investigation taking? When would a presentation be made to the grand jury? Was he pressing for an indictment? Then they would refer to his refusal to answer as another example of his “snappishness” under pressure.
And what about all those eyewitnesses? That was what he heard constantly from the contingent of civil rights leaders. What more do you need for an indictment, Mr. Mayor? What are you waiting for? You have all those eyewitnesses.
Well, the Mayor would leave that to Reardon. That was his job—to break the solid wall of testimony. Reardon had his one witness: that girl, Detective Opara. She had always seemed competent. Let Reardon build his own case; that was up to him.
The next notation on the calendar was terse: “12:30—Everett body.” The autopsy on the murdered boy would be completed by then and the body would be released to his p
arents. The Mayor had some fragment of information which indicated that the parents planned to have the body laid out in their own home. Seemed it was a family custom to mourn their dead within their own walls. He would have to pay a quick, unpublicized visit to the Everett home sometime tomorrow afternoon.
The notation following “9:00 P.M.—Saturday” was the one that threw the Police Commissioner into a near fit. But it was the one appointment that the Mayor intended to keep, come riot or uneasy peace. The Mayor was going to take to the streets. More specifically, 124th Street and Lenox Avenue. He was scheduled to be one of the speakers at the Freedom-for-All tribute to Billy Everett. It was going to be his one real opportunity to keep things cool. He and his colleagues and his community people were going to walk the streets, and talk, and listen, and show the Harlem community and the people of the City of New York that their Mayor was as concerned as they were.
Let the Police Commissioner worry about protecting the person of the Mayor of the City of New York. That was his problem.
EIGHTEEN:
FAT MAN TOMLIN CARVER tried to settle into the hard straight chair with as little commotion as possible, yet it seemed as though his very presence broke the silence of the room. It was a damned spooky room, dark heavy drapes on every wall, shutting out the streetlights and holding in the coldness that some hidden and soundless air conditioner produced in chilling waves. Fat Man felt the perspiration down his neck and along his body but it had nothing to do with heat.
He had been in this room several times before and yet the same tenseness filled him that he had experienced on his first visit. It was all a put-on; hell, he knew that more than anyone else. Like the big Catholic churches he and Darrell used to go to in the old days in Chicago, creeping along behind the large dark shining pews on their empty bellies, reaching up with hands quick as candle flickers, grabbing the pocket-books of those mumbling old white ladies. Even then, Darrell had told him that the dimness and the statues and the eeriness were just a put-on to scare the people into doing whatever the priests told them. They had been just little guys—nine, maybe ten, years old—yet Darrell had always seemed the older. Not physically, because Tomlin was Fat Boy even then, yet Darrell, wiry and small and hard, had a way of talking, of controlling things, of taking charge, and not Tomlin or anybody else would think of challenging him. There was something desperate and terrible born in Darrell, and even when he was a little kid you knew.
Fat Man tried to rest against the ladderback chair, but a low creaking sound stopped him. He leaned his elbows heavily on his knees and tried to see through the gimmicks in the room. There were two dim spotlights aimed at the large deep plush-upholstered chair: the throne of the Royal Leader. Fat Man wiped the backs of his large fleshy hands over his heavy cheeks, then wiped the moisture along the sides of his trousers. It was a put-on all right, but it worked. And, damn it, it shouldn’t work on him, because he had known all about it right from the very start.
Some twenty years ago they were doing seven and a half to ten on a narcotics thing, each determined to be real careful and get the minimum. Fat Man kept cool, as he had done in all the other Illinois institutions: the home for delinquent and neglected boys (Darrell neglected, Tomlin delinquent); reform school (both caught on a mugging job); prison (narcotics). But Darrell had paced around like a tight little bundle of dynamite, whispering things to himself, his mind leaping and figuring and scheming. Then suddenly he got interested in the prison library, and every time you saw Darrell he was bent over a book or taking notes or writing letters. Even got himself transferred to the library and took to seeing the prison chaplain, and they were always talking about the Bible and the chaplain was only too glad to see him. Fat Man had expected Darrell to look up, as so many other prisoners before him had, eyes shining and lips dry, voice wild and shouting, “I done seen my Lord! Oh Jesus, I done seen my Lord!”
But not Darrell. No, not little smart something-else Darrell. He hadn’t done any shouting but he had whispered all through one long cold winter night when Fat Man lay shivering on the hard bunk beneath him. His soft voice was so scary that Fat Man had shivered from its sound more than from the cold as Darrell told him, “I knew there was an angle. It will take time, and it will have to be done slowly and carefully, but we can wrap ourselves around with the holy protection of religion, and from behind that untouchable position we can take what we want.” And then the quiet icy laugh, followed by the not so crazy words: “Going to have it both ways, Fat Man. Nice and respectable, and nice and rich!”
Fat Man had visualized Darrell addressing a howl-and-confess meeting, the women all fighting each other to come forth and tell their sins and begging for forgiveness, and the men smiling and watching and remembering each woman’s weakness for future reference. But when they were released, he followed Darrell to Detroit where some mumbo-jumbo creep was waiting for Darrell with a small congregation of nicely dressed, respectable, middle-aged Negroes. Darrell spoke real slow and easy and said things Fat Man could not quite follow: about dignity, and self-reliance and responsibility and pride. Pride. Pride—that was the key word at each meeting, and when he invited the folks to send their youngsters to him, they did. Fat Man had surveyed the surly group of young punks and wondered what the hell Darrell was going to do with them. But Darrell knew exactly what to do with them; he spoke a language they wanted to hear.
Detroit was a warm-up. By the time Darrell left Michigan, they had some cash and some introductions. They moved about the country hitting big city after big city, and in each place Fat Man did what he was fitted for. He recruited. He haunted the bars and cellars and crap games and whorehouses and alleys and watched and selected what Darrell wanted: young, intelligent, physically fit; no junkies and above all no criminal records. How Fat Man got them was his own secret, but once he delivered them Darrell held them, and that was always a surprise to Fat Man. They hadn’t come to New York cold; the way had been prepared for them, but how and by whom Fat Man never knew. Through the years Darrell had told him less and less. In fact, Fat Man rarely saw Darrell. As long as he kept up his end, supervising collections and payoffs, he was given his cut, and that was all Darrell wanted to do with him. It hadn’t bothered Fat Man. He lived the way he wanted.
This Secret Nation stuff was pure crud. Sure, Darrell let them chop a few necks, but Darrell didn’t want open warfare. The way he kept his punks in line was a puzzlement, but that was Darrell’s concern. Let him promise whatever he wanted; his troops seemed content with promises and occasional action. The one thing Fat Man Tomlin Carver knew for sure and positive was that Darrell Maxwell Littlejohn, Jr., while talking from both sides of his face, was, at the same time, making one hell of a haul; and he wasn’t doing too bad himself.
There was a rush of cold air from behind him, and instinctively Fat Man stood up and turned. The door, which had been opened momentarily, soundlessly closed into the wall and Darrell glided into the room, his soft slippers padding over the heavy dark carpeting. Without glancing at his visitor, he passed him, then whirled about; and in one graceful motion he was seated in his chair. His body was almost enveloped by the soft cushions under and behind him, and his hands, small and dark, rested motionless against the white fabric of his clothing. His outfit reminded Fat Man of the uniform of a busboy: narrow trousers and a short jacket buttoned right up to the chin. The box-shaped little hat that rested across Darrell’s forehead was black and decorated with gold braid, and from the center of the ornate design gleamed a stone which Fat Man knew was a real diamond.
One small hand moved slightly, yet it was a stark command; and Fat Man, unable to resist, accepted the command and resumed his seat. The dark eyes watched him curiously but without recognition, two black olives, shining and demanding. The small head moved to one side, and the diamond picked up a sharp glitter of light that blinded Fat Man for a moment.
“Why did you request this meeting?”
Fat Man’s voice was low and foolishly deferential to the stranger.
He felt strangled in the tightness of his flesh against his damp clothing, and in the eerie darkness, with some surprise, he heard his own nervous laughter. “Wanted to pass something on to you.”
Fat Man wished desperately for some sign that Darrell was present in the room with him, but it was the stony Royal Leader who sat before him, frozen and questioning him wordlessly. One raised eyebrow, hitting the stiffness of the little cap, demanding that he speak.
“Some cop been around asking some things.”
The Royal Leader moved just slightly, as though he were tightening some muscles. The taut skin over his face revealed high cheekbones and a pulsating at his temples. “Tell me.”
Fat Man shifted and leaned forward. It was hard to see clearly in this damn light. “Well, man said to me, Who is this Eddie Champion?” His narrowed eyes could see no change of expression in the face before him. “Man said to me, You know a cat named Rafe Wheeler? Because if you do, man said, you don’t no more. Because this here Rafe Wheeler, he got himself shot through the head in this here hotel downtown and going to be buried back in old Carolina.”
That did it; Fat Man wanted to roar with relief. He glanced around the room quickly, wanting to tell the Royal Leader’s Royal Guards to look now, because here was old Darrell, but the Royal Guards had been sent out of the room before the conversation began. Old Darrell’s mouth opened and he gasped, actually made a human sound, and his hands jumped on his lap because for once there was something he had thought was under his control, and whatever the hell it was all about, something had gone wrong for Darrell.
The Witness Page 12