Cisco drew open the blinds and found what he had feared. Ruby West, her throat cut from ear-to-ear, was sprawled across a deeply cushioned, purple velvet sofa.
“One down so far. Let’s take a look in the back,” McClosky said.
Cisco and McClosky cautiously eased their way through a kitchenette and dining area, and into a bedroom.
“Two for two,” Cisco said.
A light-skinned Negro, about thirty, was hanging by an electric cord from a ceiling fixture. An ice pick was buried in the center of his chest. There was hardly any blood. He was snappily dressed with a light blue shirt, red tie, gold wristwatch, tan gabardine suit, and highly polished wingtip shoes. Alive, he could have easily been mistaken for a store front mannequin.
“From those deep welts around his neck, it looks like they first strangled this bastard, then strung him up with the same cord,” Cisco said. “Forensics will make it official. We’ll also need a time. What have you got?”
“All packed and ready to go. And expensive, too,” McClosky said.
Two brown leather suitcases with brass fittings laid open amid discarded hangers at the foot of the unmade bed. They holstered their revolvers, bent over and began poking through the contents. The larger of the two suitcases contained neatly folded men’s shirts, ties, handkerchiefs, underwear, two pairs of trousers, brown and black belts, and a pair of black Oxfords. A matching leather jewelry case contained gold and silver cufflinks, tie clasps, and an onyx pinky ring.
The smaller suitcase was stuffed to overflowing with assorted women’s clothes and lacy undergarments, nylon stockings, garter belts, two pair of high-heel shoes, and a zipper bag filled with tasteful costume jewelry. A nylon pocket sown into the suitcase lining contained an envelope with seven hundred sixty dollars in cash.
McClosky pulled a small beaded purse from under the suitcase and emptied the contents onto the bed. The name and photo on the Georgia driver’s license identified the twenty-nine year old woman as Althea Foster, a.k.a. Ruby West, with an Atlanta street address. Tucked into a side pocket were a fancy metal compact, lipstick and rouge. A switchblade also fell out along with two dollars in change.
Cisco straightened, approached the hanging body, used the tip of his pen to carefully push open the left side of the dead man’s jacket, and removed a wallet and envelope. He then pushed aside the right lapel, and found what he was looking for, an empty, thin leather ice pick holder clipped to the inside pocket.
“Heartless bunch, string the bastard up and then poke him to see if he’s done. I’d say it’s poetic justice,” Cisco said. “It’s a safe bet forensics gets only the stiff’s prints, if they get any at all. Here take a look.” Cisco handed the envelope to McClosky while he examined the contents of the wallet. “Got a name, Clyde Barton, also a Georgia license, thirty-two years old, and an Atlanta address. Nothing here to indicate a Newark connection. I count nine hundred twenty dollars cash. How ‘bout you?”
“Two Baltimore & Ohio tickets. No coach for these two, no sirree,” McClosky said. “First class Pullman all the way to Atlanta, with a transfer in D.C.”
Cisco took the envelope with the tickets, replaced the contents of the wallet and carefully returned everything to the inside jacket pocket.
The adjoining rear bedroom of the railroad tenement contained only two straight-back chairs, a bucket, wet mop, broom and dustpan propped in a corner. There were five crushed cigarette butts on the floor near the chairs. Its rear door opened to a porch.
“I’d say this is how they got in,” Cisco said. “Looks like they were waiting a while.”
“Efficient bunch once they got started,”McClosky said. “Got to hand it to them, all done in fifteen minutes.”
“Dumb shits. They should have known freelance whores and their pimps don’t last long in this town,” Cisco saId. “Came in the back way, waited until Ruby and her pimp were busy stuffing their suitcases.”
“Looks like they were taking care of Clyde, and Ruby tried to make a break for it,” McClosky said. “Never got past the parlor.”
“Let’s call it in, get the APB lifted and a forensic team out here,” Cisco said. “Frank, come in and take a look, ever see these two before?”
Gazzi followed the two detectives into the front room where the late afternoon sun bathed the whore’s face frozen in a tight, open-eyed grimace.
“Think about it,” Cisco said, as he led Gazzi into the bedroom. “Well, ring any bells?”
“The faces, I can’t say. But from what they’re wearing, especially her with that tight skirt and blouse, I think they’re the ones that ran out of the Zanzibar right after the stabbing.”
“We’ll want your report first thing in the morning,” Cisco said.
A crowd of about two dozen men, women and children had gathered in front of the tenement. They silently cleared a path for the detectives as they made their way back to the police cruiser. Another dozen men and women, drinks in their hands, had sifted out of the Zanzibar Lounge to take in the commotion. The stoop where Gazzi had become a non-person during his long stakeout was now crowded with tenement dwellers enjoying a welcome change in their routine.
Cisco and McClosky watched as the morgue meat wagon, this one a panel truck wide enough for two gurneys, pulled to a stop across the way. The forensic team pulled up behind it. Three uniforms got out of a patrol car summoned from the precinct to help Gazzi with crowd control.
“Let them get started. Make sure they dust the two chairs and doorknobs in the back bedroom. Gives us time to put our heads together,” Cisco said.
“It’s got mob written all over it,” McClosky said. “But it doesn’t make any sense. With the mayor, the press and every preacher in town crying about crime, it’d be crazy for either Richie the Boot or Longy to turn their gorillas loose right now.”
“Unless the rumors are true,” Cisco said, “that the Boot is after a piece of Longy’s Third Ward action, probably starting with the numbers.”
“You’re right, everyone plays them. Win or lose nobody squawks. But hookers, they’re something else, more than nickels, dimes and quarters involved. Take Clyde and Ruby, where the hell do they fit in? Let’s see what we pry out of the good citizens at the Zanzibar.”
There were a dozen patrons, five of them women, scattered about the suddenly silent, dimly lit saloon. A bartender ignored them while wiping down the far end of the bar. A big, muscular black man behind the bar acknowledged them with a wide-toothed smile.
“It’s been a long time, a long, long time since Roundy Suggs has had the pleasure,” the former Tenderloin bouncer said. “Ever since you two fine men come up in the world. Robbery and now Homicide, you’ve been strangers to this good ol’ boy.”
“Come a long way yourself,” Cisco said. “But fancy whores and pimps, I’d think you’d leave all that trash behind in the Tenderloin.”
“Fancy whores? Pimps? No way Roundy gives them the light of day in the Zanzibar.”
The two detectives had taken stools at the bar. They swiveled around to take in the rest of the room. Everyone had suddenly taken a keen interest in the contents of their glasses, avoiding any eye contact with each other or the cops at the bar.
“Okay, let’s talk Ruby West. Maybe you know her as Althea Foster,” McClosky said.
“No, sir, don’t know no Ruby or Althea.”
“How about Clyde Barton, a real fancy dude?”
“Nope, don’t know nobody by that name either.”
“We hear different,” Cisco said. “Convince us.”
Even in the dim light Suggs could recognize trouble. It was written all over the cops’ faces. “Best maybe we move this outside,” he said, then turned to the other bartender, “Josh, take over.”
Out on the sidewalk, at a safe distance from the Zanzibar entrance, the three men played it casual. McClosky tapped out three Old Golds, offered them around before taking one himself.
“Sometimes a few deep drags jogs things,” he said. “Don’t you a
gree, Mr. Suggs?”
“Me and names ain’t ever been good together,” Suggs said. “Faces sometimes, but not always. Those names again?”
“Let’s stop the bullshit. One more time, and it’s the last time. Ruby West and Clyde Barton,” McClosky said, then threw his cigarette to the sidewalk and crushed it, a clear signal for his partner to take over.
“Big fella, there’s a lot at stake here. The Zanzibar, I’m sure you think it’s clean as a whistle, but our buddies in Vice, you know how nasty they can be.” Cisco noted the black man’s growing uneasiness. “I’m sure they’d recognize one or two of those working ladies inside, that’s big trouble for you. And we’ve got a dead black war hero stabbed to death right over there, only a few feet away.”
“You don’t have to worry about Ruby and Clyde,” McClosky said. “They’re morgue meat. Got it last night.”
Suggs, at least four inches taller than McClosky, peered over the detective’s shoulder as the second of two gurneys was loaded into the coroner’s van. A crowd of about fifty jeered Gazzi and the other three uniforms clearing a path from the tenement entrance.
“Last night?” a shaken Suggs asked.
“Yeah, last night. It wasn’t pretty,” Cisco said. “Tell us what you know, and don’t fuck around. Ruby and Clyde were spotted in your club about the time our war hero was ice picked.”
“Believe Roundy when he says he knows nothing about murders. Those two, never laid eyes on them until maybe last week. Never let them hustle, no sir, didn’t want that kind of trouble.”
“What about yesterday, around eight or eight-thirty in the morning?”
“They in here at the bar when a good lookin’ black man comes in and they join up,” Suggs said. “He be a stranger. Had only one drink, left together, and maybe fifteen or twenty minutes later, they come back alone. All out of breath. That’s when I hear the shouting and yelling outside. Like I say, don’t want no trouble. So I tell Josh to call the police, always keep the number close.”
“And the pimp and the whore?” McClosky asked.
“They gone real fast when Josh picks up the phone.”
“Anything else? Spill it now,” McClosky said. “If we find you’ve held out, say bye-bye to the Zanzibar.”
“Okay, it’s coming back now. Those two be new here in the Ward, so it took old Roundy by surprise when they first come in and ordered drinks at the bar, and took them over to a booth. It was like they were waiting for somebody. Sure enuf, a guy comes in, looks around, spots them and says real loud, ‘Clyde, Althea, you finally made it.’ Then it be party time, lots of laughs. Ruby gets a big hug, and the dudes pound each other on the back. I hear Clyde say ‘Buck, big brother, you ain’t changed a bit.’ When they got going, they sounded real southern.”
“Real southern?” Cisco said.
“Slow and easy, not like they talk around here.”
Cisco and McClosky were satisfied they had gotten everything they could out of Suggs. They could come up with an accessory rap of some kind, but with three murders on their hands, decided instead to find out just who Clyde Barton and Althea Foster were. And now, they could add big brother Buck to the mix.
The morgue van had pulled away, the forensic team right behind it, and with the entertainment over, the crowd in front of the tenement was breaking up. His work now over, Gazzi crossed Broome to join the two detectives as they were about to get into their car. With the passenger door open, Cisco hesitated as they waited for the patrolman. Maybe the sorry excuse for a cop could be of some help after all.
“Good work, Frank. Could have been trouble, but you handled it well,” Cisco said.
“Learning more every day.”
“We got three murders on our hands, and think there’s a lot going on in the Ward that could be connected,” Cisco said. “No need to tell you how easy it is to miss those little tips and clues. We could use your help.”
“You’ve got it.” Gazzi’s eyes sparkled with the realization that he could be part of a three-homicide headline grabber, maybe even have his name mentioned. “Just tell me how.”
“Make your precinct reports as usual, and if you stumble across anything you have a gut feeling about, call me or Sergeant McClosky direct at Homicide. Keep up the good work, Frank.”
Roundy Suggs watched the unmarked police cruiser drive away confident he had pulled it off again, playing dumb with an innocent look that bordered on shocked disbelief. He was nobody’s fool. Retracing his steps back to the Zanzibar, Suggs recalled the first time Ruby and Clyde paid a visit to the bar. They were obviously nosing around, getting the lay of the land. It was easy to see they weren’t part of Longy’s stable. He told the cops only enough to get them off his back, but clammed up about what was really happening.
The word was out for months that Richie the Boot believed Longy’s Third Ward was ripe for the picking. Would a mobster who shared the front seat of his roadster with Hollywood bombshell, Jean Harlow, give much thought to his old stomping ground. Boiardo was convinced that he didn’t. Maybe Ruby and Clyde meant the Boot was already nibbling at the edges. Roundy couldn’t take a chance pissing off Longy, so right off he put in a call to the mobster’s Political Club and filled them in. The two gurneys he had just seen loaded into the morgue meat wagon convinced him that his call had been taken seriously.
A teletype from the Atlanta police was on Cisco’s desk when he arrived at headquarters the following morning. It was no surprise that Althea had a rap sheet that included petty theft, assault, and prostitution charges. Clyde’s sheet included burglary, assault with a deadly weapon, gambling and pandering. There were no warrants outstanding, current whereabouts unknown.
Acting on the tip supplied by Roundy Suggs, Cisco also asked if Atlanta or Fulton County authorities had anything on a Negro male, probably in his early to mid-thirties going by the name of Buck Barton. He wasn’t surprised to learn that a Leland Buck Barton and two partners skipped town hours before police padlocked numbers banks all across Atlanta. They had been making book from a three-chair barbershop in the front, while running a lucrative policy parlor in the back room. Barton, John Travers and Wilber Fontaine had long rap sheets, mostly pandering and gambling, but had done very little jail time. A postscript suggested that the three men had ties with organized crime, and were somewhere in the north Jersey-New York metro area.
“Quite a bunch,” McClosky had pulled a chair over to Cisco’s desk in the Homicide bullpen and had just finished reading the teletype. “My guess is that all three are here in town.”
“If what we’ve been hearing on the street is worth anything, it would be only natural. The Third Ward has always been Longy’s baby, but he’s been spreading his wings. For appearances he keeps digs at the Riviera, hits the Mercer Shvitz for steam, but lives in a twenty room shack in East Orange. It’s ripe for Richie the Boot to make his move.”
“I agree there’s a tie-in here. We just have to connect the dots. It’s no secret Boiardo is still looking for payback for the buckshot he’s carrying around courtesy of Longy. If we’re right that headlines are the last thing these two thugs want, why do we have three stiffs with mob written all over them?”
“You know, there’s just something I can’t get out of my mind,” Cisco said. “And it involves kids, yeah kids. Do you remember when we drove past that Beacon circulation office yesterday, and I said it would be so easy for the kid with the bike to be a numbers runner?”
“The Third Ward numbers racket is Longy’s baby,” McClosky said, “and he’s not about to let go of it no matter how big he gets. Are you saying that the Boot figures an easy way to take a bite of the Ward’s policy pie is to start small, with kids on bikes?”
“Crazy as it sounds, that’s what I’m saying. These kids are hardly choir boys. Been at it for years, many of them are bullies, had to be. Some are outright thugs. If it’s true that a Clarion and Beacon circulation war is brewing, it means that some nasty kids with papers in their baskets and number slips in
their back pocket will be butting heads.”
During the three months since his assignment to St. Mark’s, Father Terence Nolan realized with ever-increasing clarity that the Inquisition had never ended, only the implements of demanded truths had changed. Mushroom clouds rising above two incinerated Japanese cities provided the punctuation.
True believers of every persuasion were armed and on the move. Long-established fortresses were under siege. Here at fortress St. Mark’s white faces peered over the ramparts.
“GLORIA IN EXCELSIS DEO.”
The words were an exhortation that echoed through the big, almost empty church. They reverberated off the confessionals along the side aisles and in the rear. The words enveloped, perhaps even imparted meaning, to the baleful expressions of awe on the faces of a vast array of statues transfixed in mute saintliness atop altars and in the shadowy recesses of one apse after another.
“Glory to God in the highest …”
Loud and clear. Father Nolan meant it that way. Just let the words go and hope for the best. This was what it was all about. He completed the remainder of the prayer in mumbled Latin. “… cum Sancto Spiritu in gloria Dei Patris. Amen.”
The priest turned to the faces in the pews.
“Dominus vobiscum.”
“Et cum spiritu tuo,” responded the two altar boys.
Father Nolan glanced quickly at Joey Bancik, then at Billy Spratlin. The priest had been uneasy with Joey all week. His uneasiness was the result of the gibberish of an imbecilic man-child. Eight-Ten had laid yet another unwanted burden on him only last Saturday.
He had just completed hearing confessions and was returning to the rectory when he heard footsteps behind him on the path.
“Faduh. Faduh Nolan.”
The priest turned abruptly. Eight-Ten was taken by surprise and bumped into Nolan before he was able to brake to a halt. The rancid stench of the dullard’s breath repelled the priest. He backed off a few feet as the stooped man looked smilingly into his face.
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