Father Divine's Bikes

by Steve Bassett

  The policy parlor was in high gear when they arrived. Traffic in and out of the side and back doors was steady, and Righteous Reckoning was busy taking bets over the two phones anchored under the rear mirror. Amid all the criminal activity, Tall Timber was trimming an elderly man’s hair in what was once Darn Good’s chair.

  “We’ll wait,” Cisco said as he and McClosky took seats to either side of the front door. “We want to hear what both of you have to say, so turn off the phones. Your runners know the drill.”

  The detectives waited until the shop was quiet before McClosky bore in.

  “When were you going to tell us about your new boss?”

  The bookies exchanged worried glances hoping that the other would be the first to spit it all out.

  “Only got the word yesterday, and in person from the man himself,” Tall Timber said. “He was trouble as soon as he walked in.”

  Cisco, with a nod from McClosky, decided to play it dumb. Gazzi had been filling them in by phone every day, and Suggs had just filled in the rest.

  “We’re waiting,” he said, then turned to Righteous Reckoning, “Maybe you should take over. Spill it, don’t leave anything out.”

  “We got no warning at all. A red Dodge pulls up at the curb and a short, ugly guy gets out,” Righteous said. “He comes in and sashays over to the chair like he owns the place. He looks us over and we see nothing but hate, whitey looking down at us niggers.”

  “Did whitey have a name?” McClosky snapped. “How’d he introduce himself, a business card or what?”

  “A name we never heard before, Carlo Salerno,” Tall Timber said. “He had this mean little smile, you know the kind that don’t show any teeth. He said, ‘we’re gonna get close, real close.’”

  In less than five minutes, the two bookies described how Salerno laid out the new rules. That Richie the Boot had decided to take the gloves off, and with the murder of Vinnie Scarlatti, their gravy train ride was history.

  “You remember exactly what he said? Get as close as you can.” Cisco said.

  “He knew everything. How our runners got roughed up real bad, and we did nothin’. He said that ain’t gonna happen again, and how we could bet our ‘black asses’ on that. Warned us we ain’t going nowhere, and we better get ready for what’s comin’ down.”

  “Does that mean you’re dumping the kids and bringing back your walking wounded?” Cisco said.

  “No word about that yesterday,” Righteous said. “We let Salerno know that Richie and Joey are already doing good work for us.”

  “They’re just what Richie the Boot asked for,” Tall Timber said. “He wanted smart kids tough enough to take the first bites out of Zwillman, and he got them.”

  “We don’t want those two kids hurt,” Cisco said. “Anything happens to them, and Salerno will be the least of your problems.”

  “Not to worry, Joey and Richie are like family,” Righteous said as the detectives walked out and closed the door behind them.

  Kevin made no attempt to hide his anger inside the shop, and once on the street, his anxiety over how Nick was handling the situation got the better of him. He waited until they were about to drive off when he turned to Nick and said, “So what’s your plan? And I’ve got to tell you Nick, that if we leave it like this, it just isn’t right.”

  “Like I said, it’s up to you to decide if you’re in or out. I’ll be at The Breakers tomorrow morning. You can come along or not.”

  “The Breakers?”

  “Gazzi’s tips have been on target all week, and he’s convinced that’s where Boiardo is going to make his first move. It will either be the Bancik or Maxwell kid dumping free Beacons to test the waters.”

  “And you’ll do what, help the kid with his papers? Jesus Christ, Nick, you might just as well be picking up policy slips for Boiardo.”

  “I want to make sure the kid gets out in one piece. I doubt there’ll be trouble, but who knows when a policy turf war is folded in.”

  “Two homicide dicks playing nursemaid for a snot-nosed kid who’s breaking the law,” Kevin said. “That’s aiding and abetting anyway you look at it. If there’s a fuck-up, it’s our asses, you know that don’t you?”

  “You in or out?”

  “What time?”

  “We’ll open shop at headquarters at six, checkin with Valentine and Polski, and give it a couple hours before we head out. I think nine o’clock at The Breakers will do it. Gotta feeling we’ll find Gazzi lurking around.”

  “Wouldn’t surprise me.”

  By eight o’clock Sunday morning, a state-wide circulation war between the Beacon and Clarion was well underway. Hidden behind the mastheads of the state’s two largest newspapers was a numbers racket that had been flourishing for years. Outsiders would be shocked to learn that it was teenage carrier boys, not mob soldiers, on the battle lines.

  An hour earlier, Bancroft finished his second cup of coffee, and was about to push away from the table when his wife Maude put aside the Clarion’s Sunday Magazine and said mockingly, “Wendy is one hell of a writer, and just think, this week you’ll be her Mr. Know-It-All.”

  “Christsakes, Maude, knock it off. If it works out, I give her all she needs for her article, it could get me back on the City Desk, or maybe even the editorial page.”

  “You’ve been down that road before. Have you suddenly learned how to write?”

  “Lay off, just lay off will you. This isn’t the morning for any of your sarcastic crap.”

  “What makes it different?” Maude drained her cup and reached for the coffee carafe. “Clue me in, I’m all ears.”

  “I’ll be tracking one of my best news boys, putting together suggestions for Wendy’s piece.”

  “One of your best news boys, that’s a laugh. When did you adopt him? Last night you couldn’t even remember his name.”

  “Jackie Cashman. Had to check my notes this morning just to be sure.”

  “That’s my Hensley.” Maude put down her cup and tugged at her husband’s sleeve as he moved from the table. “Don’t go away mad. Come here and pucker up.”

  As he slid behind the wheel of his wife’s Packard, Bancroft was acutely aware of how henpecked he had become. He had long realized that his feeble attempts to save face only fueled Maude’s trenchant ability to put the blade in, then pull it out with a smile and a kiss.

  Today his wife’s toxic wit was trumped by his belief that in the next hour or two he would resurrect his career at the Clarion. Everything was in place. The Cashman kid would be waiting for him at The Breakers. He would merely connect the dots, then sit back and wait for Wendy Talbot’s article to hit the streets.

  Just to be sure, Bancroft decided it would be wise to touch base with Jim McDuffie before heading over to The Breakers. He turned onto Avon Avenue just as McDuffie buttoned his jacket to hide a strapped pouch containing the slips and bets collected by his three runners that morning. In less than an hour it would be dropped at Sy Howard’s policy bank.

  McDuffie locked up and was about to get into his Chevy when he spotted the big Packard a half-block away. It was the third time since their meeting on Friday that Bancroft had come snooping around without warning and it pissed him off. What does this useless son of a bitch want now? Why doesn’t he just park his ass downtown where he belongs.

  “Up bright and early, Mr. Bancroft,” McDuffie said, greeting his boss on the sidewalk outside his office. “Guess you want an early start if you’re gonna make me and Jackie Cashman famous.”

  “Just stopped by to see if everything’s in place,” Bancroft said. “That Jackie will be finishing up his route at The Breakers, in what, another fifteen minutes or so?”

  “Yeah, and you’ll be his shadow, just following him around and taking notes for Wendy’s piece. Don’t forget, I’ll be here every day if she needs real inside stuff.”

  “It’s up to her. Just hang loose.”

  The two men returned to their cars. Bancroft got behind the wheel, then checked
his notes to verify The Breakers’ address before driving off into alien territory. McDuffie made a u-turn to begin his daily twelve-block drive to the policy bank.

  It was the first time ever that Jackie Cashman had reversed his delivery routine.

  “You’re late, Jackie, it’s not like you,” Ira Gerber scolded from the front door of his frame house. “Forty-five minutes late, and on a Sunday morning. Can you explain?”

  “Sorry, Mr. Gerber, my bike had a flat.” Jackie was satisfied that his boldfaced lie had pacified one of his best tippers. He wondered how many more lies he would have to tell before he finished his beat. The ten dollars from Sweeney made everything a lot easier.

  He didn’t want to know what Sweeney had in mind for The Breakers, but it was a sure bet somebody was in for it. Should he really care, it wasn’t his ass on the line, and he was damn glad of that. The job that Sweeney and his two thug buddies had done on those five nigger runners showed everybody they weren’t to be fucked with. He rearranged his route so there would be plenty of space between him and The Breakers when Sweeney swung into action.

  Starting at five-thirty that morning, a pissed off Frank Marsucci had been driving Joey Bancik to The Breakers. The nigger barbers had made it clear that he should stick to Joey like glue. Two days earlier they had clued him in that Carlo Salerno was his new boss, and he had been stewing in his juices ever since. The brains at Vittorio’s Castle had decided that a new soldier was needed to toughen up their Third Ward operations.

  Tall Timber had called him at his office, and made it short and sweet. Carlo Salerno was now calling the shots.

  “Did you say Carlo Salerno? Jesus Christ, not the Butcher. Is that what you’re telling me? Jesus Christ.”

  “We talking about the same guy?” a confused Tall Timber said.

  “It’s the same guy, and they don’t call him ‘the Butcher’ for nothin’.”

  Marsucci couldn’t get that phone call out of his mind as he reluctantly helped Joey complete his Sunday deliveries in record time. He’d dump the kid and his Beacon freebies at The Breakers, and then get lost, as far from the Third Ward as possible so he could sort things out. Here he was, the chauffeur for a punk kid who already had more juice with the black bookies than him.

  “Here’s where I drop you,” Marsucci said as he turned onto the driveway that emptied into a large parking area centered between The Breakers and two rows of tenant garages.

  “You can drop me at the basement door,” Joey said. “Could use some help lugging the freebies over there.”

  “What the hell you talking about?” a rankled Marsucci spat out. It was obvious to him that this little shit was rubbing it in.

  “Okay, okay, don’t bust a gut. I’ll lug them over.”

  Marsucci pulled his Plymouth to a stop an arm’s-length from the basement door, got out and pulled two bundles of the Beacon from the trunk.

  “They’re all yours kid. You got the list, now get going,” he said as he slid behind the wheel of his car, and made a tight u-turn to escape.

  Joey made sure Marsucci had hauled ass, then pulled a folded paper from his shirt pocket. It was a list of twenty non-subscribers targeted by Marsucci. Joey guessed that the lazy son of a bitch had pulled the names off the mail boxes out front. He never noticed the dark figure lurking in the shadows of an open garage at the far end of the lot.

  The vantage point provided everything Al Sweeney needed, a clear view of the comings and goings at the loading dock, and if anything went wrong, an easy way to disappear behind the garages. He pulled over a wooden box, took a seat and decided to wait until the time was right for him to make his move.

  The morning had been a busy one for Sweeney. He hated Sunday, the only day the Clarion was delivered early enough for its readers to enjoy over breakfast. He’d started a half-hour earlier than usual making sure McDuffie had his slips and bets by seven. His mom and dad were still in bed when he returned to the family tenement, and he was careful not to wake them. He closed his bedroom door behind him, and went directly to his sock and underwear drawer. He removed the Beretta and a black leather Lone Ranger holster that he had retrieved from a box of long discarded toys stashed away in the closet.

  He unbuckled his belt, threaded it through the holster’s loop and secured it on his right hip. He picked up the Beretta, and made sure it had a chambered cartridge with a full clip of eight. As he carefully slid the weapon into the holster, he realized that his days of playing the Deadly Desperado game were over. He pulled down his loose fitting sweatshirt as far as it would go to make sure it covered the holster, and headed out the door.

  Father Nolan’s sermon that Sunday dealt with concupiscence. He had been toying with the subject ever since he bumped into the two young hookers outside Milt’s last summer. “The need to put aside sinful yearnings is with us every minute of every day and you must be vigilant,” he told the predictable two dozen or so faithful who attended the early Sunday mass. Among them was Catherine Bancik, always alone and always with a nickel for a votive candle after mass at the statue of St. Francis of Assisi, the patron saint of the poor.

  He took his place at the pulpit and explored Matthew 26:11 for his sermon. For you always have the poor with you; but you do not always have Me. He had never met Catherine Bancik, but he had no doubt that the woman fingering her beads in the sixth pew, left-center aisle was Joey’s mother. Her olive skin, dark scarf and black dress fit the stereotype he had so easily accepted since arriving at St. Mark’s. At that moment he decided to ignore Jim’s advice that he not poke his nose where it wasn’t wanted.

  After mass he sped through the ritualistic removal of his vestments, then hurried from the sacristy to intercept Mrs. Bancik before she left the church and headed home. There was no need for haste. She was still fingering her rosary and mumbling at the foot of St. Francis when he sent the last of the other parishioners on their way with a solemn, “May the Lord be with you.”

  “Mrs. Bancik?” He smiled noting that she averted her eyes while dipping her fingers into the holy water font only a foot from where he stood. “I’m Father Nolan. I thought this would be a good time for us to know each other.”

  To know each other? What does he mean to know each other? Catherine was puzzled. Never before had a man of authority cared enough to say such a thing to her. And here I am turning away from him like he isn’t here. What will he think and what will he think of my Joey with a mother who turns away from a priest.

  Father Nolan silently watched the strange woman as she descended the first two steps, then hesitated to collect her thoughts, and turned around to face him. She removed the scarf from her head and let it drape over her shoulders. He was stunned by her dark luminescent eyes that captured and held his gaze. He realized he didn’t know this suspicious mother, probably never would, but he had committed himself and had to make the best of it.

  “What is it you want, Father Nolan? Has my Joey done something?”

  “Yes, it is about Joey, something I must talk to you about,” the priest said. “Do you have some time to talk, perhaps we can go back inside. Late mass won’t begin for another half hour.”

  Catherine was careful to replace her scarf as Father Nolan ushered her into the church then took a seat beside her in the back pew. She knew it would be uppity for her to speak first, so she would wait to see what this priest had to say.

  “I was glad to hear the good news about Joey,” the priest said, and uncertain what to say next decided to take it slow and easy. “Your son’s Beacon paper route had to make you very happy.”

  “You know about Joey’s new job?” she was astonished that with so much church work for him to do he would bother with such a small matter.

  “It seems everybody does,” the priest said, “and then there’s the bike that came with the job. It must make things a lot easier for him.”

  “So you know about the bike, too,” she was now convinced the priest’s smile was hiding the real reason for their meeting. “Bu
t I don’t understand the ‘things’ you talk about. My Joey delivers papers, that’s all, and it helps put food on the table.”

  “But that’s not all, Mrs. Bancik, and that’s what we have to talk about.”

  “I see now what you mean. It’s the bike, Father, and I say not to worry about the bike. Joey gives that junk dealer Simon money every week to pay for it. If that’s all, I must go.” She arose, uncertain of her next move.

  Seated where he was, Father Nolan blocked her exit from the short end of the pew. To make her escape she would have to stumble along the padded kneelers to the far end. She hesitated to see if the priest would allow her to pass.

  “Please sit down, Mrs. Bancik, this is important,” the priest said. “Your son Joey does more than just deliver newspapers. Do you know what the numbers racket is?”

  “Everybody knows about the numbers. Joey does nothing with the numbers, he delivers papers.”

  “His Beacon route is only part of his job. He also picks up slips and bets and drops them off at a bookie parlor on Spruce Street.” The priest waited until his words sunk in, “Your son’s a numbers runner.”

  “That’s not so, he’s a good boy. Who told you bad things like this about my Joey?”

  “It’s been out on the street. Everyone knows except you and perhaps Mr. Bancik. Do you know what juvenile court is? If Joey gets caught, that’s where he’ll go. Then if the judge decides to make a lesson of your son, it could be reform school. Is this what you want for Joey?”

  “You are wrong Father. I know nothing about your court.” Catherine pushed herself up and peered down at the seated priest, “What is reform school? Joey goes to your school, to St. Mark’s and he is a good student. He needs no reform school.”

  Father Nolan got up, stepped into the aisle and extended his hand to help Joey’s clearly distraught mother leave the pew. She pulled her hand away, turned toward the sanctuary, genuflected and crossed herself. The dignity with which she performed the simplistic ritual washed away any words of wisdom he might have had. He stepped aside and watched as she paused at the holy water font, blessed herself and left the church.