Father Divine's Bikes

by Steve Bassett

  “Where do I fit in?” Bancroft said.

  “Bureau 12 is yours, so you’ll lay the groundwork. When we’re finished here, give McDuffie a call and set up a meeting, just you and him, for tomorrow. Spend the weekend with him and his boys, get the lay of the land for Wendy, who comes aboard later in the week with a photographer.”

  “Photographer?”

  “Hensley, my boy, I said we go all out, and an important Wendy Talbot piece without artwork is unthinkable. We’re discussing the lead feature in next week’s Clarion Sunday Magazine.”

  McDuffie was seated comfortably behind his desk when Bancroft arrived at the Avon office. A paperboy, obviously not pleased to be there, was seated next to the desk.

  “Mr. Bancroft, glad to see you,” McDuffie said as he stepped from behind his desk to greet his boss. “So my humble bureau will be making it big time with a Wendy Talbot story and even some photos.”

  “That’s about it,” Bancroft said, hoping that his lack of enthusiasm didn’t show. “And I take it this is the carrier we’ll be profiling.”

  “You got it. His name’s Jackie Cashman,” McDuffie said. “Come on over, Jackie, and shake hands with the big boss.”

  It was obvious to Bancroft that McDuffie had given considerable thought to his choice. Jackie looked to be about sixteen, tall and lanky with a shock of sandy hair and a confident smile. His handshake was firm.

  “Tell me a little about yourself.” It dawned on Bancroft that this was the first time he had ever talked to a Clarion paperboy, and he suddenly felt ill at ease.

  “Been delivering for four years. Took over for my big brother when he joined up after Pearl Harbor. He had the route for, I don’t know, maybe six years,” Jackie was looking for a way to end it. His family was none of the Clarion’s god damn business. “It helped us out a lot. Still does, and I’m holding on to it. Need any more, just ask.”

  “Right now, I can’t think of anything,” Bancroft said, then turned to McDuffie for help.

  “You did great,” McDuffie said. “We’ll talk more when you bring in your route money this afternoon. Go on now, and just think, you’re about to become a star.”

  McDuffie chose Jackie because the route he inherited included The Breakers, an eight-story gem with an elevator and apartments no smaller than two bedrooms and one and a half baths. Great for a big Sunday feature with pictures. It was at least three blocks removed from the hotels that were the nucleus of his numbers racket. He also knew this made The Breakers a prime target for the Beacon.

  After the kid left, the two men decided that McDuffie’s Sunday routine would remain unchanged, with him canvassing his territory, while Bancroft became a fly on the wall at The Breakers, watching Jackie at work and taking notes for Wendy. Leaving the office, Bancroft found it impossible to erase the thought that his cozy sinecure at the Clarion was about to end.

  “Did you see and hear it all?” McDuffie asked as Al Sweeney pushed open the door of the backroom and stepped into the office.

  “Every fucking bit of it,” Sweeney said. “The Beacon starts dumping off its freebies tomorrow, and you can be god damn sure The Breakers is at the top of its hit list. I’ll be waiting.”

  “Hope you didn’t have shit in your ears when I told you and your two buddies to make it fast and clean. Out of sight, no witnesses. I hear they’ll be running in one kid to start. Any ideas?”

  “Don’t take no mastermind, it’s one or the other of those two punks from St. Mark’s. Gino even got their names from that big looney that helps him on Sunday. Richie Maxwell and Joey Bancik.”

  “So you’ll be ready and waiting.”

  “You can bet your ass. Before I split, I’ve got another idea to throw at you. I think it’s gonna get your shit in an uproar.” Sweeney walked to the sofa, leisurely took a seat, spread his legs and waited.

  “Spill it, all of it. Put my mind to rest.”

  “I’ve been thinking, maybe it’s time for me to step out on my own.”

  “What the fuck does that mean?” McDuffie said as he moved across the room and stood looking down at a seemingly unconcerned Sweeney.

  “I ain’t speaking for Gino and Tommy, but just for me. I figure why do I need your parlor. Been nosing around and I got it that those nigger barbers are looking for writers….”

  McDuffie leaped forward and drove his knee hard into Sweeney’s crotch. The carrier grunted but before he could raise his arms to protect himself, his boss had him by the throat while raining down a series of vicious slaps.

  “You punk son of a bitch. So you wanna be a writer for Boiardo,” McDuffie spit the words out as he pulled Sweeney into an upright position. “Here’s what I think of your idea.”

  He yanked Sweeney off the couch and pushed him into a chair in front of his desk where he delivered two final slaps that left him dazed and wide-eyed.

  “Now get your ass out of here, and you better be fucking ready in the morning.”

  Sweeney’s cheeks still stung when he got home. He fingered the tender spot where McDuffie had jammed his thumb against his throat, and considered his next move. He wasn’t about to back off from McDuffie, but that could wait. First things first.

  He had come up with the solution on how to handle his problem. It was crystal clear that he, Gino and Tommy would be the kick-ass guys when the Beacon runners started moving in, but his solution would be his alone.

  It was fun the way we took care of those five jigs. But they don’t learn so good. Now they got two punks from St. Mark’s working the streets. Christ, next month I’ll be eighteen, and there’s no way I should be worried about two snot-nosed kids, but I am, so I gotta fix it.

  He stood up, walked to his dresser, and pulled his solution out of the sock and underwear drawer. He dragged a wicker chair to the side of his bed, sat down and carefully positioned it in front of him. He untied the two shoelaces that secured a bundled red and white kitchen towel. He was about to unwrap the bundle and expose its contents, thought better of it, and got up to make sure the bedroom door was locked.

  He returned to the bed, pulled open the towel and smiled. In front of him were a fully-loaded Beretta pistol, and a small wooden box containing fourteen 9mm bullets, and six empty shell casings. A week earlier, he had gone to Branch Brook Park to familiarize himself with the gun firing off six shots in a secluded, wooded area. His smile widened as he recalled Gino’s and Tommy’s astonishment when he showed them the pistol, and let them handle it. He almost laughed at how they nearly pissed their pants when he told them that the Beretta was loaded. When he rewrapped the pistol, he failed to notice that a frayed corner of the towel had snagged the safety catch, leaving it unengaged and ready to fire.

  A day earlier, Profanity Pump was breathing fire when she strode into Milt’s, ordered a Spur, then collapsed in the rear booth next to Carl and across from Billy and Marvin. The other booths were packed with kids from St. Mark’s, their eyes agog at the spectacle she presented in full Good Counsel uniform.

  “Been two weeks, and only now you’re showing off that cute little get-up of yours,” Carl joked.

  “Shove it up your ass,” the Pump said, as she loosened the dark green string tie, and unbuttoned the starched collar. “Yeah, hate to admit it, I missed you guys. What’s up?”

  “Not much,” Billy said. “How ‘bout you? Spied any guys with balls yet?”

  “Not yet,” the Pump said. “Hey guys, give me some time.”

  “Look who’s back again,” Carl said as he watched Father Nolan step aside to allow a gaggle of students push past him to the street. “He’s been around a lot lately asking about Joey and Richie.”

  “No secret what those two are up to,” Marvin said as the four kids watched the priest take a seat at the counter while Milt poured him a fresh cup of coffee.

  “I’m outta here,” Carl said as he pushed past the Pump. “I’m not up for any dumb questions from a priest.”

  Father Nolan added sugar and milk to his coffee, and carefu
lly considered his next step. The evidence supported everything Eight-Ten had said during their weird encounter two weeks earlier. Richie and Joey hadn’t served mass since then, eliminating any chance he may have had to confront them. He was uneasy about not confiding in Father Schneider, and rationalized it would be imprudent to approach the kids’ parents without getting his boss involved. This was his first shot at a real parish problem, a law breaking one at that, and he wasn’t handling it well.

  He knew the kids’ routine, and could have engaged them outside the bookie barbershop, and demand what. Stop running numbers? Give up their paper routes? If they told him it wasn’t any of his business, what then? Run to Father Schneider? Call the cops? Did he really want them hauled into juvie court? Or should he confront the parents first? As one of the Diocese’s fair-haired boys, anything he did would be carefully noted at the Chancery.

  He picked up his coffee and decided to try what might be his only remaining option.

  “Do you mind?” he said as he sat down beside Profanity Pump.

  “Been keeping it warm for you, Father,” Billy said.

  They waited until the priest took a few sips of coffee before Pump said, “I hear you’re one of our regulars now. That right, Father?”

  “More or less,” the priest said turning to the Pump. “And you, Mary MacDonough, it’s not a lot of bull when I say we miss you. How’s it going?”

  “Well, it ain’t the Third Ward,” the Pump said as she reached under her starched collar to scratch her neck, and noticed Father Nolan smiling broadly as he watched her.

  Without thinking Father Nolan used his right index finger to tug at his starched clerical collar. “All these years, and I still haven’t gotten used to having this board around my neck.”

  The priest scanned their faces and found an indifferent Marvin smiling back at him.

  “Marvin, isn’t it?” Father Nolan said. “I’ve seen you around, and heard you’re one hell of an athlete. Anything we’ve been saying make any sense?”

  “Nope. I’m a Baptist.”

  “Enough said.” The priest smiled and got to the heart of the matter. “I’ve had something on my mind for a while now, and would like to ask all of you some questions.”

  The priest ordered refills all around, and waited until Milt returned to the counter before shaping his first question. It would be now or never with these kids.

  “Can’t call myself a regular at Milt’s, but when I come around I can’t help noticing that Richie and Joey have become really scarce. Have any idea what they’ve been up to?”

  “Well, they’re in school every day,” Billy said. “Joey’s desk is next to mine and Richie sits up front. What more can I say?”

  “And I ain’t been around,” the Pump said. “So can’t be much help from my end.”

  “How about you Marvin? You and Richie are stoopball heroes. Am I right to say you’ve become friends?”

  “Richie and I are friends okay, but don’t know about Richie and Joey.”

  Billy said, “Father, why don’t you let us in on what’s on your mind?”

  “They’re picking up slips and bets for three black bookies and using their paper routes for cover. You know anything about that?”

  “Like I said, Father, I ain’t been around,” the Pump said, “so you can count me out. It’s been nice talking to you, but it’s getting late and I got to go.”

  The priest stood up to allow her to slip out of the booth. “Let’s not be strangers, Mary.” He turned to Billy and Marvin, his attempt to ingratiate himself hadn’t worked. They had hardly touched the sodas he ordered for them, and the Pump’s glass was full. He decided to give it one last try, introducing fear as a possible wedge.

  “We’ve all heard that the Beacon and Clarion are in a knockdown circulation war. The word on the street is that on Sunday the Beacon will be moving into Clarion territory, and that could be big trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble?” Billy asked indifferently, avoiding eye contact with the priest while slowly stirring his soda. “If I understand, you want them to stop running.”

  “You have it right.”

  “Then why talk to us, it’s Richie and Joey or their folks that you want.”

  “I don’t want a juvie court judge declaring them delinquents,” Father Nolan said, “and that’s where they’re headed. As their buddies, do you have any suggestions?”

  The boys exchanged glances then looked at the priest. Marvin went back to sipping his soda, and Billy resumed stirring his drink before breaking the awkward silence.

  “Buddies also know when to keep their mouths shut,” Billy said, “so I’m sorry, Father, but it’s between you, Richie and Joey.”

  “I had hoped that you could help me out.” The priest got up, and dropped fifty cents on the table. “Enjoy your sodas.”

  Father Nolan waited until he had turned the corner onto High Street before tapping out his first cigarette of the day. He walked to a bus stop bench, and took a seat next to a neatly dressed Negro woman and a boy, obviously her son, who smiled up at him. Two deep drags settled him enough to assess his failure at Milt’s. He hadn’t realized that these were streetwise kids whose code made no provision for stoolies. Even if they heard him out, what did he expect them to do. It was time for him to talk to his boss.

  It was just after five o’clock when Father Nolan got back to the rectory. Father Schneider was relaxing on the porch in his wicker rocker, a tumbler of Vat-69 in hand, and a copy of the tabloid PM on his lap. He had removed his collar and was wearing a faded red cardigan.

  “A great Dr. Seuss today,” he said, tapping the newspaper, “and Dorothy Parker’s piece is wicked as usual. What have you been up to, Terry?”

  “I’d like to talk about it, Jim,” Terry said as he dropped three ice cubes into a tumbler, poured three fingers of scotch, and settled in for what had become a daily ritual for the two priests. “Would it surprise you to learn that two of your eighth grade altar boys are running numbers for the mob, using their paper routes for cover?”

  “Nope. And why should it? You have any names to give me?”

  “Joey Bancik and Richie Maxwell.”

  “I assume you’ve talked to them. What did they have to say for themselves?”

  “Not yet. Frankly, I don’t know where to go with this.”

  “And from me, you want what?” Jim said.

  “Advice.”

  “Then I’d say, leave it alone.” Jim leaned over to the small table between them, dropped a couple cubes and some scotch into his tumbler, and leaned back to see what effect his words had on Terry.

  “Leave it alone? You mean just walk away when I know that two of our eighth graders are breaking the law? I admit I’m new at this pastoral game. Two years with the Marines didn’t prepare me for this.”

  “Let’s get one thing straight, Terry, this is not a game. These kids know exactly what they’ve gotten into. Do you have any idea how many policy parlors are operating in our parish?”

  “No idea,” Terry said. “I only know for sure that Joey and Richie make their drops at a Peace barbershop on Spruce.”

  “There are five that I know of, maybe more. One of the biggest is run by the Grand Knight of our local Knights of Columbus. I doubt if you’d find more than a dozen parishioners who don’t play. Let’s just call it acceptable corruption.”

  “Acceptable corruption? What the hell does that mean? I played the numbers as a kid in Jersey City, dropped a lot of nickels and dimes. But I never fooled myself that it was legal.”

  “Sanctimonious even then,” Jim said. “What do you know about these two kids?

  “Not much, that’s why I wanted to talk.”

  “The Maxwells I’ve never quite figured out. The mother shows up with her tithing envelope on Sundays and holy days, and that’s about it. I can’t remember the last time I saw the father. Richie has kept his nose clean around here, but who knows what he does out on the street. It’s no surprise at all that h
e’d jump at the chance for some real pocket money.”

  “I met Alice Maxwell last spring,” Terry said. “She told me the Prep was too expensive and asked me to see if there was any chance to get Richie into one of the much cheaper parish high schools. I tried, but came up empty. I don’t know the Banciks.”

  “The Banciks are converts, switched from Orthodox, because as Catholics they would be more American. They’ve had it hard since Joey’s dad lost his job. Until now, Joey’s never caught a break. Does it really matter where the few bucks he puts on the kitchen table came from?”

  “Are you saying breaking the law is okay?” Terry tapped out a cigarette from his pack of Lucky’s, lit up, then pushed the pack and Zippo across the table to Jim, collecting his thoughts as he studied the older priest. “Jim, does it matter at all that these boys could end up in front of a judge who doesn’t share your point of view?”

  “Sure it does, but there isn’t much chance of that. Boiardo controls the numbers and just about everything else illegal around here,” Jim said. “And he has the cops and a good chunk of City Hall in his hip pocket. Leave it alone.”

  “So that’s it. I just walk away. That’s your advice?”

  “It’s your call. They’re eighth graders who will be gone in the spring, so you have eight months to work your magic.”

  “I’ll be talking to Sister Mary Margaret this weekend. I want her to make the principal’s office available for a sit-down with Richie and Joey either Monday or Tuesday.”

  Jackie Cashman had just completed his Saturday collections, and was sitting on his front stoop separating the bills from the coins when he spotted Al Sweeney headed his way. There was no love lost between them. He knew that Sweeney had poor-mouthed him to Jim McDuffie when his name came up for one of the three numbers slots. So it went to Tommy Spencer, and with it a great chance at some big bucks.

  “How’d you like to add a fin to that pile,” a smiling Sweeney said from the sidewalk before taking a seat a step below the other carrier. He didn’t want to crowd his mark before making his pitch. “Wanna hear?”