“I’m listenin’….”
“All you got to do is change your route a little, and the five bucks is yours.”
“What the fuck does that mean?”
“I know your last stop is The Breakers. Instead, tomorrow morning all you’ve got to do is start there. It’s the easiest five spot you’ll ever make.”
“Not that easy. The big boss from downtown is gonna be nosing around. The paper is doing a write-up about Clarion paperboys, and me and The Breakers got the shitty end of the stick.”
“Don’t worry about him, just be somewhere else after about eight or so. Simple enough, ain’t it?”
“I think it’s worth at least a sawbuck.”
Sweeney leaned back against the stoop railing, and watched a now confident Cashman calmly fiddling with a stack of quarters.
“Okay, you bloodsucker, ten bucks.”
“Hand it over, and we’ve got a deal.”
Sweeney stood up and fished a small roll of bills from his pants pocket, peeled off two fives and handed them to Cashman. “Remember, you’re out of The Breakers by eight.”
Sweeney was still fuming as he climbed the stairs to the family’s third-floor flat. It had been a long time since a mark crossed him up that way. To make his plan work, he needed Cashman to disappear. He had learned from a couple of Marsucci’s pissed-off carriers that they were to first complete their route, then come around again with the freebies. It was a do it or else proposition.
He had given his plan a lot of thought and was sure he had all the bases covered. If he dumped McDuffie and Longy to be a writer for the black bookies and Boiardo, he would have to show them he was the man for the job. The Beretta was his ticket. He didn’t have to pull the trigger, just wave it around to scare the living crap out of the little punk. They’d see he had the brains to be a writer, that the easy way was always the best.
He twice scouted The Breakers and found that it had everything he needed to make his plan work. Cashman would be gone by eight, taking the big boss from downtown with him. An early start in the morning, and he’d be ready and waiting at the apartments.
Late that afternoon, Hensley and Maude Bancroft were dressing for a rare night out in Newark. Maude hated the city, but knew that it was impossible to turn down a dinner invitation from her husband’s boss. With dinner at the stuffy Broad Street Club, followed by Tchaikovsky’s Sixth at Symphony Hall, the evening called for full dress uniform.
A silk-robed Maude prepared for another night of banal chit-chat with Penelope Bix by alternating strokes of her makeup brush with sips from her second martini. Her husband and Herb Bix would undoubtedly share a mindless rehashing of Princeton football anecdotes.
“Tell me, what do you think of the good ol’ Orange and Black’s chances this season?” she asked sarcastically, then turned from her vanity to toss a verbal dart at Bancroft. “Or do I have to wait until you hear from the great man at dinner before I get an answer.”
“Are you starting already,” her husband said as he stood in jockey shorts at his dresser color coordinating his tie, shirt, socks and handkerchief for his jacket pocket. “And it’s only your second.”
“With a lot more to come. A night of Junior League twitter from Penelope and ‘rah rah sis boom bah’ from you and Herb demands plenty of lubrication.”
“You better go easy. Herb and I will be discussing a lot more than football. You might even want to listen.”
“To hear what. How you’re driving around town in my Packard spying on paperboys? What a joke.”
“I know you don’t give a rat’s ass about my job at the Clarion, but a brass knuckle circulation war with the Beacon is about to start and I’ll be in the thick of it. And that, Mrs. Bancroft, is no joke.”
“Circulation war, brass knuckles, and you in the thick of it…you’re kidding, of course.”
“You’ll swallow that contempt when I tell you what I’ll be doing in the morning.”
“And what will that be?”
“I’ll be laying the groundwork for an important Wendy Talbot piece in our Sunday Magazine,” he said.
“You and Wendy working together, I still think it must be a joke.”
Bancroft turned from the busy work he had been doing at his dresser just as Maude’s smile tightened into a patronizing smirk. He decided to embellish his story with an outright lie.
“Herb has given me free reign. I’ll be shaping what goes into Wendy’s article. I’ve chosen the bureau to be featured and handpicked the perfect paperboy to be profiled, right down to his family, who they are, and what they do. We’ll be telling our readers this kid is the heart and soul of the best paper in the state.”
“Gosh, oh golly that was a mouth full,” Maude said, at the same time freshening her martini from the crystal beaker on her vanity. “Where does the circulation war fit in, you know, that brass knuckle fight you’ll be in?”
“Wendy and I, with input from Herb, of course, will be telling the world how unthinkable it is to compare Goldman’s slimy fishwrapper to the Clarion.”
“My oh my,” Maude said, “and what exactly will you be doing tomorrow morning?”
“I’ll be at The Breakers, sort of a fly on the wall, following our paperboy as he makes his rounds, taking notes and picking out the best places for Wendy’s photographer to get shots. That all comes later in the week after I’ve had a chance to brief everyone.”
“This handpicked kid of yours, does he have a name?”
“I’ve got it written down somewhere. I’ll have it when I get to The Breakers, bright and early. I expect to meet up with him about eight-thirty or so.”
Early Saturday afternoon, Frank Marsucci was a deeply troubled man. Lurid front page stories in both papers described in great detail how Vinnie Scarlatti’s body was pulled from the Passaic with two bullet holes in the back of his skull.
Joe Lucio’s piece in the Clarion was headlined: Boiardo Soldier Murdered, and speculated that a mobster turf war was about to erupt. Jerry Saunders’ account in the Beacon, headlined: Brutal Mob Killing, left little doubt that Scarlatti’s body wouldn’t be the last pulled from the Passaic.
So where did this leave him. The more he thought about it, the worse things looked. They’ve already taken over his office, and he smelled big trouble with the two kids the bookies stuck him with.
He was doing some heavy thinking as he stood at the door of his office, and watched the last of his paperboys collect the freebie inserts for tomorrow. The circulation war would be up and running, a pain in the ass that he had to deal with if he wanted a piece of the numbers action. But the black bookies made it loud and clear a week earlier where he stood.
“Frankie, right now the numbers don’t concern you,” God’s Tall Timber said. “But that could change. Just make sure nothing happens to Joey and Richie. You okay with this?”
“Do I have a fucking choice? You’ve got me by the balls and you know it.”
“Crude, but to the point,” Tall Timber said.
“Accentuate the positive,” Darn Good Disciple chimed in, “just like our Prophet’s been saying all along.”
“Don’t hand me any of that positive bullshit, just give me the skinny.” Marscucci decided it was a good time to clear the air. “You’ll be pushing either the Bancik or Maxwell kid onto Longy’s turf next Sunday. Ever think of letting me in on it?”
“Take a seat and listen.” Tall Timber pointed to the middle barber chair, and waited until Marsucci was seated. “Listen and don’t forget.”
Darn Good and Reckoning took the other two seats as Tall Timber locked the front door, then positioned himself in front of Marsucci.
“Letting you in on it, is that what you’re asking? Time you got it straight, we decide when you’re in and when you’re out.”
“I’m in up to my god damn ears right now. I got two kids working for me, but taking orders from you. You got plans for one of them next Sunday, and I don’t even know which one. It don’t sit right.”
>
“We’re gonna change that.” Tall Timber leaned forward, his face less than a foot from Marsucci’s. “Next Sunday Joey unloads all his freebies at The Breakers. You make god damn sure he gets in and out okay.”
“That means nobody, but nobody, messes with little Joey,” Reckoning said as he left his chair to join Tall Timber. “Not a fuckin’ hair on his head. That sit right with you?”
“Good as done.” Marsucci studied the two black faces hoping to detect an encouraging sign, but got none.
Tall Timber walked to the front of the shop, unlocked and opened the door. “You’ve had your say, now git.”
When Marsucci got behind the wheel of his Plymouth, his hands were shaking. After three misses, he finally inserted the ignition key and turned it over. As he slowly pulled away from the curb, his fear gave way to calculated rage. The three coons underrated him when they sent him packing. They were crazy if they thought he was just another punk always ready to kiss the man’s ass. If it didn’t work out with them, Longy’s wise guys were always looking for street-smart operators. So what if he had fucked up a couple of times, he could show them that he was a new and wiser Frankie Marsucci.
His hatred for the niggers had increased during the past week. His carriers paid the price when they brought in their Saturday collections. He cut them short when they haggled over the bill, and bellyached about the freebies.
Richie and Joey were among the first carriers to drop off their Beacon collections that morning. They ran into each other at the barbershop after handing over their slips and bets. Richie was the only one to have a winner on Friday, his first since becoming a runner. After ten years, it was only the second payoff for Molly Bloom, one of the players Richie had at the Crayton Arms.
“Thelma already got the cash to her,” Tall Timber said. “And who knows, there might be a big tip in it for you.”
“Just add it to the stash you’re holding for me,” Richie said as he headed to the side door to join Joey in the alley.
“Notice anything different?” Richie said after they had pushed their bikes out to the sidewalk.
“Sure did. Darn Good Disciple wasn’t there. Fact is, I ain’t seen him for three, maybe four days now,” Joey said. “How about you?”
“The same. I wonder what the hell happened to him.”
“Can’t waste time thinking about Darn Good,” Joey said, “I got a big day tomorrow. Let’s head out.”
They pedaled in tandem, weaving their way through the solidly black areas of the Third Ward until they reached Milt’s.
“Bet you’re nervous,” Richie said as they slid into the back booth. “I know I’d be with Sweeney and the other Clarion punks just waiting to take a bite out of me.”
“Yeah, I am. But I’m getting a break with my freebies. They want me to dump them all at The Breakers.”
“Your folks have any idea what you’re doing? My mom and dad, especially my dad, have really been pumping me. I’ve been upfront about the Beacon, but no way in hell I’m gonna come clean about the numbers.”
“Same here, but with me it’s my mom, not my dad. She’s happy as hell about the money, even jots down numbers to make sure Marsucci’s not cheating me.”
“Sooner or later they’ll be tipped off,” Richie said. “Weird it ain’t happened yet.”
“It’s getting close,” Joey said. “Father Nolan’s been poking around at Milt’s. He put the squeeze on Billy and Marvin the other day. Came away with nothin’. And if he knows it, you can bet that Father Schneider and that old cop Gazzi know it, too.”
“Heard the same thing, that Nolan don’t want us ending up in juvie. My guess is it won’t be long before he’ll be banging on our kitchen doors.”
“And what a fucking mess that will be,” Joey said. “My old man sucked it up when I got the route, putting money on the table when he doesn’t even have a job. Now he’s used to it, even helps me load my Sunday papers.”
“Have a chance yet to scope out The Breakers?” Richie said. “If not, you better. You know they’ll be watching, maybe try to rough you up.”
“Been there the other day. It’s got a service elevator so I won’t have to fart around with any stairs, get in and out real fast.”
“Here’s to a fart-free morning.” They hoisted their glasses, finished off their sodas and headed toward the door just as Gazzi walked in and took a stool at the counter.
“You kids sure are busy,” Gazzi said as he swiveled around in a failed attempt to make eye contact.
“And getting busier all the time,” Richie said as he followed Joey out the door.
“That cop’s a real loser,” Joey said. “He knows what we’re doing, but can’t do a god damn thing about it.”
“It’s creepy the way he keeps nosing around,” Richie said, “and gets nothing from nobody.”
Gazzi watched them leave, then turned and reached for his coffee. These little punks think I can’t touch them. They’re in for a big surprise.
Saturday morning, Kevin McClosky walked into the homicide bullpen and found Nick Cisco sitting at his desk absorbed in a handheld game of pinball baseball. He knew it wasn’t wise to distract Nick as he twisted and tilted the toy in mostly futile attempts to get tiny lead balls into tiny holes.
“Damn, a third out, that’s it for today,” Nick said taking the toy and dropping it in the upper right drawer of his desk. He reached for the burning Chesterfield in his ashtray, flicked off an inch of ash, and finished it off with a deep drag.
Kevin knew that Nick only played the game when something was troubling him. He waited until his partner lit up another cigarette before pulling over his chair from his adjoining desk.
Nick swiveled around and said, “We’ve got something to talk about, then it’s your call whether you’re in or out.”
“It’s the weekend, and I was looking forward to nothing more serious than coffee, the sports page and comics. What’s on your mind?”
“I’ve been thinking about those two kids at the barbershop yesterday. I’d like to know what they’ve gotten themselves into.”
“Christ, Nick, I thought we decided to leave that mess with Dino’s Vice squad. We’ve already roped in the black bookies as our canaries, and scared them shitless. We’re homicide dicks, not priests.”
“Want to hear more, or not?” Nick said.
“I’m getting a cup of Joe, how ‘bout you?” Kevin said as he got up, retrieved a mug from his desk and reached for Nick’s. He returned with the coffee, and planted himself just as Gabby Valentine and Zig Polski, who had just ended their graveyard shift, emerged from the homicide bunk room.
“It’s all yours,” Valentine said. “Got a couple new ones working, a stabbing in the Tenderloin, and a crazy one in the Third Ward.”
“What’s that one all about?” Nick said.
“Two broads throwing punches over the big stud who serviced them. Got into it on a tenement stoop on Monmouth. One bimbo was pounding the hell out of the other when she missed with a haymaker, lost her balance and fractured her skull on the sidewalk. Dead when we got there.”
“Where’d you get all this?” Kevin said.
“From witnesses,” Valentine said as he and Polski turned to leave. “It’s all in our report. Have fun.”
“We can’t seem to shake the Third Ward,” Kevin said.
“I had in mind getting back there today,” Nick said.
“Why? Unless you’ve come up with something new I don’t know about, I can’t see any reason.”
“Nothing new, just a hunch…a gut feeling about how those two kids are being used by the bookies.”
“Used, how do you figure? Young punks running numbers for the mob goes back a long way. What your gut needs is a Pepto-Bismol.”
“Okay, smart-ass, do you want to come along or don’t you?”
“And do what? We’ve got a full plate already. The Scarlatti murder has been a big headline-grab for the DA, and the two papers have jumped on board. Here, take a lo
ok.” Kevin swiveled back to his desk, grabbed that morning’s Beacon, and tossed it over to Nick. “And we thought yesterday’s headlines were bullshit.”
Which Mobster Gets It Next. Jerry Saunders’ piece recounted past gangland killings in Newark, tracing them back to the Black Hand murders at the turn of the century. He concluded with: “Newark is a city held hostage by the Underworld.”
“And you’re worried about two young punks running numbers. Okay, partner, I’ll come along, but let’s get a grip.”
“I want to hear what our canaries have to say. We’ll start at the Zanzibar with our old friend Roundy Suggs.”
When they entered the lounge, Suggs was pouring shots for two barflies, and a working lady was bargaining with her latest trick in a booth. He spotted them as soon as they came in, wiped down the bar, dried his hands, and walked over with the wide phony smile he reserved for cops.
“Lieutenant Cisco. Sergeant McClosky. Good to see you,” Suggs said. “How can I help you? Maybe it be best we talk outside.”
“You can cut the charm and the bullshit,” Cisco said. “We hear that Richie the Boot is moving into the Ward, and that he’s using Beacon newsboys as runners to test the waters. So Roundy, fill us in.”
“It’s real serious, as serious as it gets when one of the Boot’s soldiers is fished out of the river.”
“Tell us about Vinnie Scarlatti,” McClosky said.
“Word is he was the mob’s policy boss here in the Ward, and that the three bookies on Spruce were his stooges.”
“Scarlatti’s history, so who’s moved in?” Cisco said.
“A real nasty son of a bitch. It’s not for sure, but word on the street is that Carlo Salerno has already taken over.”
“Carlo the Butcher?” McClosky said. “You trust your sources?”
“Nobody plays games with ol’ Roundy. Yeah, I trust ‘em, or it be their asses. I got to get back.”
The two detectives returned to their cruiser, and were settling in when Cisco said, “With a cutthroat like the Butcher calling the shots, it’s obvious the Boot is sending a message. Let’s head over to Spruce and hear what our barbers have to say.”
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