Читать книгу Every Man for Himself - Mark J. Hannon - Страница 33

CHAPTER 29

DOWNTOWN, 1951

After the midget acrobat was taken to the hospital, and as the paddy wagons loaded up the gamblers and thugs, the owner of the bar arrived and stood screaming on the sidewalk at the shift lieutenant from the Third Precinct, the deputy commissioner, and Inspector Wachter, all of whom had gotten phone calls from both the commissioner and the mayor “to find out what the hell was going on down there on Pearl Street.” They all listened to the business owner’s complaints, politely for awhile, for he was a known financial supporter of the mayor, then, quieted him down when Inspector Wachter started asking about gambling going on in the basement, mentioning that such things could cause trouble with the liquor board, and that newspapers would have a field day hearing about a police raid on the business of a prominent local businessman. In the end, the bar owner went inside to tally up the damages and get his people to clean up, vowing over his shoulder that “the city would pay for everything, down to the last busted shot glass.”

Pulling up his two raiders, Wachter said, “You guys and the D and D boys get the people in the fight booked properly, sweat the card players for a couple of hours and see what you can get out of them, then, cut them loose. Then, when that’s all done, I want to talk to you in my office.”

Brogan and Constantino got in the car and headed downtown in silence, but after they turned on Pearl, both men burst out laughing so hard, Lou had to pull the car over.

“What the hell made you think of tossing the midget?” Constantino roared, gasping.

“Seemed . . . seemed like a good idea to get patrol’s attention, at the time,” Brogan laughed back. “Those two guys with the knives couldn’t move when they saw that . . . And you should’ve seen the stripper . . . She froze up like a statue,” he bellowed, “And hey,

where’s your friggin’ hat, Beau Brummel?”

“Well maybe,” Lou panted, “Maybe I should check their lost and found tomorrow for a new one,” he said, laughing harder.

The two of them, trying to catch their breath, looked at each other and cracked up again.

“Great plan boss,” Brogan chuckled, “Ought to teach it at the academy,” he said, going into another laugh spasm. “Write it up and send it to Quantico, so the F.B.I. can learn it . . .”

“What . . . what the hell are you supposed to do if they don’t have a midget handy?” Lou added, sending them back into fits of laughter.

When they finally caught their breath and wiped their eyes with their handkerchiefs, Lou pulled back out into traffic, and they continued downtown.

Brogan gave a low chuckle, and muttered,

“Zahar.”

“Huh?”

“Lieutenant Zahar. I was trying to think of his name a while ago.”

“Who the hell is he, a midget?”

They cracked up again, but Pat calmed sooner, remembering the lieutenant who couldn’t get the words out in combat and was blasted by artillery that showered his men with clothes, blood, and entrails.

“Wachter’s,” Constantino said, still laughing a little, “Gonna kick our asses.”

“Not for a while. We still gotta get all those bums booked.

Maybe the brass’ll calm down by then.”

“Hey, speaking of which, you gotta do a favor for me.”

“Oh, no, I ain’t getting your uncle out of this one . . .”

“Nah, I know we can’t do that. But how about this: you call my cousin, Pete; tell him what happened, and he’ll come and get his dad out when we’re done with them. Just leave my name out of it. I’m still gonna have to pay hell with my family, but I can buy a little time this way, at least until he gets out and tells his sister what a no good ratfink cop her son is. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, I’m gonna have to go into hiding after this.”

XYZ

After the card players were parked in the drunk tank, the two thugs, the doormen, the guys from the alley, and the bartender were booked; and the knives and a bottle (any one would do) were put in evidence; Lou and Pat went up to the inspector’s office; the only one with lights burning. The smell of coffee came through the door. They both took a deep breath as Lou knocked.

“Come in.”

Entering, they saw the inspector reading a report, tie still neatly knotted. Two paper cups of coffee were on his desk and a chair beside it, for someone who had just left. He looked at them over his wire-rimmed glasses. “Sit down.”

When they had, Wachter stood up and leaned on his desk.

“No more Wild West stuff, do you understand?” he demanded. “You could’ve gotten killed there, you pair of hot dogs! You need help, wait for the rest of the squad! Got that?”

In unison, they answered, “Yessir,” both standing at attention.

“The midget’s boss at the Palace is going nuts. He’s got some cuts and bruises, but they say he’s going to file assault charges, or, his boss is for him, anyway. What are we going to do about that?”

“He wouldn’t let go of the chair, Inspector,” Pat said, and both detectives covered their mouths to stifle the laughter.

Wachter stared until they calmed down.

“No machines found, and that was the point of the whole raid, was it not? Were you smart enough to get the warrant to read

‘gambling paraphernalia’ there, Lieutenant?”

“Yessir,” Constantino replied. “I mentioned verbally to the judge about slots and oneballs, but we put ‘gambling devices and paraphernalia’ in the warrant to cover all the bases.”

“Good. Score one for Gott’s boy,” Wachter said, referring to Constantino’s old principal at Lafayette High School. “All right. Here’s what we’re going to do now. Get one of these cups of coffee and get out to your desks and write the reports. I’m going to check them before you turn them in. One thing that’s on our side is that you didn’t shoot anybody. Make sure you put in the reports that it was crowded, and you didn’t think it was safe, even though the perpetrators who assaulted you had knives and menaced you with bottles, were engaged in criminal behavior, and out-numbered you. It shows restraint. Got that?”

“Yessir,” they both said together.

“All right. I’d heard that bozo had a game going in that joint for years, and you crushed it. No machines, but gambling’s gambling, and that’s what we’re after. It may not have worked as planned, but Constantino, Brogan, good job. Now, get your coffee and get out of here. I’ve got to do some thinking.”

When they’d closed the door, Lou put a finger to his lips and motioned Pat over to his desk. There, he hurriedly wrote down Fillmore 0717, and the name Peter Lalle.

Whispering, he said, “Quick, call this number and get hold of this guy. He’s my cousin, my Uncle George’s son. Tell him what happened and to go and get his dad out. He knows his dad likes to play cards, so he’ll keep it quiet, too. Maybe they won’t find out I did it. Whatever you do, keep me out of it!”

Brogan went to his desk and waited until Lou had rolled the report, carbon paper and copies into the typewriter and begun to type, before he picked up the phone and dialed. Looking at his watch, he saw that it was now almost midnight.

After four rings, a woman answered, “Hello?”

“May I speak to Peter Lalle, please?”

“Who’s this? Peter’s asleep, gotta work in the morning. You drunk or something?”

“No, Ma’am. This is . . . Mr. Able with the I.R.C. We believe we found Mr. Lalle’s wallet on a bus today.”

“His wallet? Wait a minute, there, Able. Hey, Peter. Peter, wake up. You lose your wallet?”

“Huh?”

“You lose your wallet? There’s a man on the telephone from the bus company, says he found your wallet.”

“No, I don’t think so, I think I still got it. Who’s on the phone?”

“Mr. Able, from the bus company. Go talk to him, I’m going back to bed. It’s late.”

“Hello?”

“Pete Lalle?”

“Yes?”

“Listen up. Your dad, George Lalle’s in jail, downtown. Picked up for gambling. He needs you to get down to Police Headquarters and get him out.” Click.

Pete looked at the phone for a few seconds, then hung up and started hustling into his clothes. As he was going out the door, he said, “Hey, Ma, I’m goin’ to get my wallet, I’ll need it for work tomorrow. Don’t wait up.”

As he closed the door, he could hear his mother saying, “Hey, your Papa’s not come to bed all night! What’s goin’ on here?”

XYZ

Looking over at Brogan, Constantino got a small smile.

“That was quick thinking, Pat,” Constantino said. “If this works out, Pete will get Uncle George out, and they’ll both keep quiet about it. Then, I’ll just have to talk to Uncle George and Pete. That won’t be too bad. I owe you big time on this one, partner.”

And with that, they went to work on their reports, hoping that the inspector would cover for them about the midget and the other rough stuff; Lou hoping his family wouldn’t find out about Uncle George’s pinch; and Brogan smiling to himself that he had made the team.

XYZ

As dawn came up over downtown Buffalo, cleaning crews were leaving the office buildings and early Mass-goers were entering St. Joseph’s Cathedral across the street from Police Headquarters. Several sleepy policemen were headed for Sunrise Court at the City Court Building at 42 Delaware Avenue. Also coming out were the accused, chained together, and loaded onto sheriff’s wagons to meet their accusers again before a judge.

The City’s Attorney and the police filed in on one side of the courtroom, the accused mumbling and clanking into the benches on the other side. The judge entered briskly from his chambers, and the bailiff began, “Oyez, oyez, oyez. All those having business in this Court of the City of Buffalo in the State of New York now come forward and be heard. The Honorable Francis Chimera now presiding.” Once in the court, the judge, a younger man with wavy, dark hair, a pencil mustache, and a perpetual smile, looked out over the courtroom and beamed as he sat down at the elevated bench.

“Well, it looks like we had a busy night last night here in Buffalo.”

Recently elected to the City Court, the up and coming lawyer was known for his sense of humor and was amused by the big crowd at the early session, finding it more entertaining than the usual few sad prostitutes, thieves, and vagrants he usually had before him. “Bailiff, call the cases, if you please.”

“The Court calls Thomas Agro and John Cofrancesco. Accused

of the following: On March 3rd of this year, at approximately 8:30 P.M., Misters Agro and Cofrancesco did assault with deadly weapons, Patrolman Patrick Brogan while he was in pursuit of his duties in the premises of 462 Pearl Street in this city. They are further accused of attempted murder, as they did arm themselves with knives in their attack on Patrolman Brogan; possession of illegal weapons; interfering with the actions of a police officer; refusing the reasonable requests of a police officer; affray; public disorder; drunk and disorderly conduct; attempted mayhem; and resisting arrest.”

The prosecutor stood up. “Your Honor,” he began, “This was a dastardly assault on a policeman of this city who was in the course of carrying out his duties, to wit, conducting a raid on a premises used for gambling purposes, when these two men attacked him with knives and without provocation. Showing admirable restraint in a crowded public place, Patrolman Brogan used his sap rather than his pistol to defend himself, and, with the assistance of Patrolmen McAvoy and Vicigliano, took these two assailants into custody after a considerable struggle. The State asks these individuals be held over for trial.”

Eagerly awaiting the defendants’ replies, the judge looked over at the defense table and asked, “Are the defendants represented by counsel?”

“Yes, Your Honor, Ross Oberpfalz for the defense,” replied a law school classmate of the judge, from a row behind the defendants. “I have been engaged to represent these two men, Your Honor, and they plead innocent. They are both natives of this city, with gainful employment and considerable family here. At the time that they were on the premises in question, they witnessed Mr. Brogan, out of uniform and failing to announce his presence as a police officer, attack a Mr. Scott McClive, a resident of this city, employed by a local theater who was seated in the premises at 462 Pearl Street having a drink. Mr. Brogan first assaulted Mr. McClive without provocation, throwing him through the front window of the establishment, and my clients went to his defense.”

Looking up from the charging documents, the judge interrupted, “With eight-inch switchblade knives?”

“We’ll dispute that, Your Honor. Those weapons were planted on the defendants when the police realized their most numerous and grievous errors of conduct.”

“This should be interesting. I’m sorry I can’t be the trial judge for this one. According to the ever efficient Court Clerk Mr. McCann, the trial date for this case is set for 10:00 a.m. on Thursday, March 15th, and I set bail for both of these men at one hundred dollars apiece,” the judge said. With a slam of the gavel, the court moved on to the next case; the assault on Patrolman McAvoy.

XYZ

Waiting outside for his lieutenant, Brogan saw the bartender skip down the steps and into a cab. When Constantino came out, he was talking to a bailiff who was telling him where his uncle and cousin Pete had gone.

“Hey, Brogan, hungry?” Constantino asked.

“Hell, yeah, want to go over to Bowles, maybe catch some more court side gossip?”

“Outstanding,” he replied, and as they went down the steps, they heard McAvoy and Vicigliano coming down behind them.

“The lousy son-of-a-bitch. The guy takes a shot at me and gets away with it. To hell with him and his cousin.”

“Joe, I tried to tell you,” Lou said. “You could’ve saved yourself a lot of aggravation by just forgetting it, but no, you had to push it and watch the guy walk.”

“You wait. He’ll foul up again, and I’ll be right there waiting.”

“Sure, Joe. In the meantime, let’s get out of these uniforms, and go get a drink and some breakfast. We gotta be back for roll call at four tonight.”

Lou said to Pat, “I called the inspector when you were before the judge with the prosecutor. He says to go home and get some sleep. I’ll give you a call around noon and let you know what’s doing. That’s one of the advantages of this assignment, Paddy. If we do good, we set our own hours.”

“Hey, boss, I got a question. What game were they playing down there in the basement? Blackjack?”

“Oh, that game, that’s called Ziginat. It came from the old country. You play it with a forty-card deck; no eights, nines, or tens. One guy’s the dealer, working for the bar here. He deals out two cards for the players, one for himself. Everybody but the dealer bets on one or both of the players’ cards, whatever the house’s limits. Then he deals another card. If that card matches one of the players’ cards, the dealer collects those bets, and gives the house a cut. If the card matches the dealer’s, he pays off everyone’s bet, and the house backs him. No matches, bet again, and keep dealing. Gets real expensive sometimes. Once it gets started, it can go on for days, and once you’re in, you don’t want to leave. Hopefully, Uncle George wasn’t making money, will keep his mouth shut, and I’ll still have a family.”

During breakfast, they regaled each other by recapping the barroom battle, and glowed when someone recognized them. Someone gave them the final edition of the morning paper, but when they found the article, Lou’s face fell.

“Police raid gambling den in downtown nightclub,” Pat read. When he saw the picture, he knew why Lou was frowning, for it showed Uncle George being shoved into the paddy wagon and Lou in the background.

“I’m doomed,” he said, dropping his fork on his plate.