He turned suddenly and glared down at the little man who squirmed under his gaze. “How about it, Riorden?”
“I didn’t say it was yours,” Riorden mumbled stubbornly. “I only said where I found it.”
“How did you find it?” Jackson snapped. “What were you doing in that desk?”
“I—I was looking for something—I don’t remember—ink or something like that.” Riorden met Jackson’s eyes and said with sudden heat, “Everybody uses that desk; you know that. From the way you talk, anybody’d think it was me that had to do the explainin’.”
Jackson grunted contemptuously. “Okay, so you found it. You wouldn’t have the guts to spring it if you hadn’t. But you found it where some rat planted it, and”—his hot eyes swept the circle again—“by God, I’m going to find out which one of you it was.” Painter stood up and stretched his long, lean form across the table. “It won’t wash,” he sneered. “The thing was found in your desk, and you can’t get away from it.”
Cords stood out in Jackson’s throat, and he started for Painter around the table, but the big Negro, Sangster, planted himself squarely in the way.
“Take it easy, boy. Git hold of yourself,” he said gently.
His deep, organ-toned voice was sad and full of sympathy, but his huge torso was like a wall of rock. “If I thought you was a spy,” he continued, still in that soft, gentle voice, “either you or me’d never git outta this hall alive. But I don’t think so, no more’n Whitey here. Just the same, you got to admit it looks bad, an’ callin’ names and bustin’ people ain’t go to help it none. We all got to set down and figger out what to do.”
The Negro paused and looked around apologetically. It was the longest speech he had ever made at a union meeting, and he was filled with awe at the sound of his own voice. What was he up to, tellin’ these white men what to do?
But the speech had had its effect. Painter and Melius looked a little shamefaced, and Jackson sank back into his chair and ran a hand across his eyes. When he spoke again his voice was calm.
“Sangster’s right,” he said. “It looks bad, and you boys have only my word for it that I never saw that thing before tonight.” Riorden said: “It’s going to look bad for every mother’s son in this union till we get at the truth of this.”
“Maybe it’s a gag,” Melius suggested half-heartedly.
“A swell gag,” growled Gordon. “A guy that’d pull a gag like that——”
“How we fin’ out?” asked Colletti plaintively. He looked at the others in bewilderment.
“That’s for the membership to say,” Melius decided. “We have to present the whole thing to the membership.”
“But that’ll tip the bastard off we’re wise,” objected Gordon. Painter laughed humorlessly. “Don’t be a dope,” he said. “He’s done the tipping himself, but for the life of me I can’t see why, unless”—he paused and thought a moment—“unless it’s a trick to keep us from striking. Whoever put that paper there figures that we’ll stop everything and go on a spy hunt.”
“Whoever put that paper there,” said Jackson, “was gunning for me. The men trust me”—his voice took on an edge of bitterness—“maybe they’re fools to do it but they do. With me out of the picture there’d be no strike and no union, either, in a little while. Is that true or isn’t it?”
The others nodded.
“All right,” he continued. “Then there’s just one thing for us to do. We’ve got to keep this thing among ourselves until we get to the bottom of it. I’m not arguing for myself; I’m arguing for the union. After all, there are eight men on this committee, and even if one of us is a rat the other seven ought to be able to smell him out without dragging in the whole union. But get this straight.” He tapped his fist on the table, punctuating each word. “This committee is through conducting union business until we find out what’s what. Let the membership elect a new Negotiating Committee until further notice. We’ve got just one job—to find out who’s a rat.”
When the procedure was agreed upon Painter pointed to the fateful paper. “Who takes charge of the evidence?” he asked. Riorden said: “Let Jim take it. He’s president.”
Melius put his hands behind him. “I’ll have nothin’ to do with the filthy sheet,” he growled.
Jackson grinned slightly. “All right, I’m already contaminated. If I lose it you’ll have just that much more on me.”
He folded the paper and put it carefully in his pocket. “There’s just one more thing,” he said, standing up. “We don’t talk. Right?”
4. Bar
While the rest of the committee clattered down the stairs from the Union Hall Painter waited for Melius to turn out the lights and lock the door.
Melius said wearily: “We’ll have to do some talking, Doc.”
“That’s right,” Painter agreed. “You better hang around with the boys for a little while. I’ll tell them I’m going home and light out. I’ll be waiting at the White Horse when you can get away.”
They went down the steel and concrete steps and joined the others on the sidewalk in front of the hall. The night was still chilly, although the wind had died down. There was a tremendous yellow moon high up in the sky.
Sangster took a deep breath and flexed his big muscles. “Boy, look at that moon,” he said, throwing back his head. “Ain’t that something? Like a thousand-dollar gold piece way up there.”
Whitey Gordon punched the big man playfully in his iron-hard midriff. “You, Bullethead,” he said. “Got any tickets for the game next Sunday?”
Sangster laughed. The nickname Bullethead had been honorably acquired, and it did not occur to him to resent it.
“Ah got tickets, but they cost dough, Whitey,” he said. “One buck a copy.”
“One buck,” groaned Whitey. “I can see the Giants play for that.”
“Who’s the Giants?” asked Sangster with good-natured contempt. “Ah ain’t never heard of them.”
“What are you selling tickets for?” asked Pop Riorden, “a raffle?”
“A raffle?” Whitey shouted. “Listen to Pop, will you? He doesn’t know what old Bullethead does with his Sundays.”
“You ought to go to a game with us sometime, Pop,” said Jackson. “It’s a real treat to see that black boy play.”
“Play?” Old Riorden was confused and puzzled. “Play what?”
“Why, pro football. Didn’t you ever hear of the Black Tigers?” Riorden looked from one grinning face to the other, suspicious of being ribbed. “There ain’t no such animal,” he said finally.
“Sure there is, Pop.” Gordon slapped Sangster on the shoulder. “Bullethead here’s a Black Tiger. Best doggone Negro football team in the country. Come on, big boy, let’s show ‘em that double reverse where you body-check the tackle and then go on down and slough the defensive halfback. Colletti, you’re the center, see. You pass your cap back to me when I say, ‘Hike.’”
Gordon swung the Italian around and bent him over an imaginary ball. Then he pulled Sangster into position and squatted, barking signals. Sangster complied protestingly, and the others watched the horseplay with amusement.
“You mean to say he plays football on Sunday after working all week on the dock?” Riorden asked Jackson wonderingly.
“Sure,” said Jackson, “watch this. That’s the play they used on the Pittsburgh Miners last year. The Miners had a player who was president of the employees’ representation plan—that’s what they called their company union. I don’t know if the boys made it up between them or not, and Bullethead won’t talk, but three times the Pittsburgh phony was defensive halfback, and three times the Tigers ran that reverse with Bullethead leading the interference. The play didn’t gain much because each time Bullethead missed the body check in his hurry to get to that halfback. But it worked swell as far as the main idea was concerned, because the third time Sangster hit him the halfback didn’t get up and they had to carry him off the field. He had a smashed collarbone and three broken
ribs, and before he got out of the hospital the company union was on the rocks, and the boys had won a closed shop, and you couldn’t even penalize Sangster for unnecessary roughness. Nobody knew what the score was except a few of us in the know.”
Even in complying with Gordon’s childish pantomime, Sangster did not lose his dignity. Long arms dangling, he stood nonchalant, while Whitey, acting his part as quarterback, barked a string of numbers at random. Then suddenly the Negro became a blur of motion, moving past Gordon with amazing speed and bearing down on Jim Melius. Melius bellowed in alarm and staggered backward, throwing up his arms to check the human catapult. A collision seemed inevitable, but at the last split second Sangster swerved and sped by the frightened union president. It was a miracle of timing. Sangster straightened and returned to the group, breathing normally, an enigmatic smile on his full lips.
“You hadn’t ought to tell that story, Jack,” he said in mild rebuke. “Ah never played a minute of dirty football in my whole life.
That Pittsburgh scab herder was out of condition, or he wouldn’t have got hurt.”
“I know you didn’t, Bullethead,” said Jackson quietly.
No one spoke for a moment, and then Sangster slapped Colletti gently on the back. His white teeth gleamed in his broad, bronze face. “If you gentlemen will excuse us,” he said, “me and Mussolini’ll go over and see can we run two bits into a sawbuck.”
He pointed to the parking lot across the street, where a crap game was in progress. A dozen men—overland truck drivers, seamen “on the beach,” a taxi chauffeur, and one or two nondescript floaters—stood or squatted in a circle under the arc light. Their voices and the click of dice on the concrete carried clearly in the thin air. The game went on almost every evening and was often an all-night affair, the players shifting, some drifting away and others taking their places.
“Mussolini,” snorted the little Italian. “Allatime he calla me Mussolini.”
He thrust out his jaw and chest and, looking remarkably like the Italian dictator, raised his short arm in derisive salute.
“You better look out, black man. Some day thisa wop’ll take you, jousta like Mussolini take Ethiopia.”
Tension was relieved, and everybody laughed, including Sangster. The big Negro pulled the Italian’s cap down over his eyes, spun him around, and pushed him gently in the direction of the crap game.
“Come on, little man with the loud mouth,” he chuckled. “Africa’s a great big place. One day some of you little guys gonna git lost there.”
The group, watching the two men cross the street, lapsed into an uncomfortable silence. They avoided each other’s eyes with an embarrassed and, for them, unnatural sensitivity, like that which normally undemonstrative men display at a funeral. The bitter, brooding resentment of betrayal that was beginning to rankle in their minds was intensified by a sense of helplessness.
Painter spoke awkwardly. “Well, boys,” he said, “I’m going home. I’ll see you in the morning.”
He turned and walked away without waiting for an answer. Jackson smiled and looked at Melius. “I’ll buy a beer,” he said. “Who’s coming?”
Melius mumbled, “Okay.” He scowled at Jackson suspiciously. Whitey and Riorden merely nodded.
When they were in front of Danny’s Bar Riorden put a hand on Jackson’s arm and whispered urgently. Jackson paused in surprise and stared at the smaller man. Melius, half through the swinging door, turned to watch. His eyes narrowed, but he only asked gruffly, “You coming?”
Jackson answered, “Sure, Jim.” He nodded to Riorden, and together they followed Melius into the bar.
When the bartender took their orders he jerked his head toward a booth at the rear. “That little gangster left a coupla minutes after you did, but your pal’s still here,” he said, “stinko.”
They turned to look and saw Tommy Burke sprawled in the booth, his head on his arms.
Melius growled. “I wondered what happened to him. That kid’s getting to be a regular rum hound.”
“He ain’t gitting,” said Whitey. “He’s there.”
Riorden went over and shook the sleeping man. “Tommy. Hey, Tommy. Wake up.”
Burke only groaned, his head rolling loosely. Riorden came back to the bar.
“I don’t like it,” he said plaintively. “Old man Burke was a good friend of mine, and I hate to see the kid and his sister both going to the dogs.”
“Don’t shed any tears over Mayme Burke,” growled Whitey. “That’s one redhead who knows all the answers.”
Jackson looked at Riorden. Despite his suspicions, he felt sorry for the older man. “You been on this water front a long time, haven’t you, Pop?”
“I raised a family longshorin’. It’s a hell of a way to do it, but a man’s got to live.”
Jackson nodded: “Yeah. It must have been a tough grind all right.”
“It’ll be better now that Weller’s gone. A man’ll be able to make a decent living.” Riorden looked up suddenly. “Jack. About that—that other business. I hope you don’t think I——”
His voice trailed off. Jackson was embarrassed by the appeal in the old man’s eyes.
“Sure, sure, Pop, I know. It’s okay. Don’t you worry.”
Melius downed his drink and pushed his fat stomach away from the bar. “I’m going home,” he announced disgustedly, “before you lugs start crying in each other’s beer. There’s worse rackets than longshoring.”
“Sure there are, the way you work at it,” said Whitey. “You’ve been a pie-card artist for so long, I bet you forgot how to handle a hook.”
Melius said, “Listen, squirt, I could still work you off your feet any day on the docks.”
When he had gone Jackson said, “You better lay off that guy, Whitey. You give him one more ride like that, and he’s liable to take you apart.”
“Huh.” Whitey was contemptuous. “That belly of his is as soft as lard.”
Riorden looked up at the clock over the bar. “I better be going too. The old lady gets worried when I stay out too late.”
He glanced over at the sleeping Burke and sighed. “I’d try to take that kid home but I guess he wouldn’t thank me.”
“Better let him sleep it off,” Jackson counseled. “He’ll be all right by closing time.”
The three men left the bar together. At the corner Whitey stopped. “I feel lucky,” he announced. “I think I’ll go over and have a shot at that crap game. How about you, Jack?”
“Not me. It’s getting too cold for outdoor dominoes.”
“They’ll take your shirt in that game, son,” said Riorden.
Whitey laughed. “They won’t get much.” He said good night and went off down East Street. When he was half a block away he started to whistle his favorite tune, “Danny Deever.”
The dirge-like, off-key piping was carried back clearly to the two men left standing on the corner.
5. Hook
It was twenty minutes past twelve when Patrolman Hanrahan, just coming on shift, passed the Overland pool hall, the lunchroom next door, and paused to glance into Danny’s Bar. East Street was deserted and very quiet; the toot of a tug on the river, the intermittent hum of traffic on the overhead highway, or the rattle of an occasional truck only served to accentuate the silence.
Rookies assigned to the graveyard shift on the water front usually hated its loneliness, its deceptive air of innocence, that flared without warning into sudden violence when one least expected it, but to Hanrahan, the water front was home. He had been brought up within sight of it and he had pounded a beat on it in the days of the neighborhood gangs and the river pirates and, later, through the ugly, lawless era of Prohibition. His only son had worked on the docks and had died there in the dim hold of a ship, when a heavy packing case turned over, crushing him against a bulkhead. Hanrahan knew every rathole and dock face, and every turn of the dim-lit, crooked streets that radiated away from them; and he knew also the minds of the men and women who frequented
the water front at night—the truckers and seamen and dock-wallopers, the ragpickers and homeless bums, the drunks and prostitutes—knew their outlook on life and understood and pitied, even when he could not sympathize with it. Hanrahan was an old-fashioned type of city cop—a type rapidly disappearing—and some of his contemporaries in the department were wont to speak of him in terms of condescending compassion. “Poor old Hanrahan,” they would say, “it’s too bad he never had enough ambition to dig himself out of that rut on the water front. He might have been a lieutenant or even a captain by now, instead of still pounding a beat.” But Hanrahan was content. Being a patrolman had its recompense, and he loved the water front like an old and well-worn hat.
Some sort of altercation was going on in Danny’s, and Hanrahan pushed open the door and went in. A tall youngster with black curly hair swayed at the bar, clutching it with one hand as though it were the rail of a ship in a high gale while he pounded it with the other. The stream of profanity he was shouting at the bartender was liquid in its comprehensiveness.
“He wants me to give him another drink,” the bartender explained coolly to Hanrahan. “I don’t mind puttin’ it on the cuff; I know he’s good for it. But I think he’s had enough.”
“Come on, Tommy.” Hanrahan put a firm hand on the young man’s arm. “You’re going home.”
Tommy Burke tried to shake off the arm and swung round belligerently, but the fight went out of him when he saw who it was. “All right, Hanrahan,” he said in a subdued and surprisingly sobered voice, “I’ll pipe down and go home if you make this monkey give me one more drink.”
Hanrahan nodded silently to the barkeeper and watched Burke down the shot of liquor. Then he piloted the now uncomplaining longshoreman to the door.
Out on the sidewalk Hanrahan removed his hand from Burke’s arm.
“Tommy,” he lectured sternly, “I’ve known you since you were knee-high to a grasshopper. You’re not drunk; you’re just feeling mean. What’s eating you?”
Death on the Waterfront Page 4