Street of No Return (3 page)

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The station house of the Thirty-seventh District was on Clayton Street, six blocks west of the river and four blocks west of the Hellhole. It was a one-story brick structure that had been built some thirty years ago. At both sides of the front entrance there were frosted-glass lamps. In the glare of the lamplight Whitey stood between the two policemen. He was handcuffed but they weren't taking any chances with him. They were very young policemen and new to the force and this arrest was very important to them. One of them gripped Whitey's arm and the other had hold of his trousers. He looked very small standing there between the two tall policemen.

The entrance doors were wide open and Whitey could see it was very crowded in the station house. It was a noisy assemblage and some of them were shouting in Spanish. He saw a Puerto Rican woman pull away from the grip of a policeman and lunge at a yellow-haired man and her fingernails ripped the man's face. The man stepped back and hauled off and punched her in the breast. Three Puerto Rican men started toward the yellow-haired man and several policemen moved in and for some moments there was considerable activity. One of the Puerto Ricans was completely out of control and Whitey saw the worried looks on the faces of the policemen as they tried to handle him. They couldn't handle him and two of them were knocked down. Then a very large man wearing the uniform of a police captain came walking toward the Puerto Rican and grabbed his wrist and then very quickly and precisely lifted him in a wrestler's crotch hold, lifted him high in the air, held him there for a long moment, then hurled him to the floor. There was a very loud thud and the Puerto Rican stayed there on the floor, face down and not moving. Another Puerto Rican shouted something and the Captain walked over to him and shot a fist into his mouth. The Americanborn prisoners shouted encouragement to the Captain and one of them was grinning and aiming a kick at the Puerto Rican who'd been hit in the mouth. The Captain took hold of the American and put a short left hook in his midsection, chopped a right to his head, then hooked him again to send him flying against the wall, and when he bounced away from the wall the Captain hit him once more to put him on the floor on his knees.

"Next?" the Captain said very quietly, looking around at the Puerto Ricans and the Americans. "Who's next?"

"You can't do this," one of the Americans said.

"Can't I?" The Captain moved slowly toward the American, who had a black eye and a cut on his face.

"All right, hit me," the American said. He pointed to his damaged face. "As if I ain't hurt enough. Go ahead and hurt me some more."

"Sure," the Captain said. "Sure, I'll be glad to." He said it sort of sadly, somewhat like a doctor telling a patient it was necessary to operate. Then quickly and neatly he threw a combination of punches and the American went down and rolled over and began to moan.

The Captain looked at the other Americans and the Puerto Ricans. "You want riots?" the Captain said. "I'll give you riots. I'll give you all you want."

"We want to be left alone," a Puerto Rican said in accented English. He pointed to the Americans. "They won't leave us alone."

"You're a goddamn liar," an American said. "You bastards started it. You started it and we're gonna finish it."

"No," the Captain said. "I'll finish it."

"I wish you would," the American said. He had a swollen jaw and under his nose there was dried blood. His face was pale and he was breathing hard. As he spoke to the Captain he stared at the Puerto Ricans and his eyes glittered. "I wish you'd use a machine gun. Mow them down. Dump them in the river."

"Shut your mouth," the Captain said.

"Dirty no-good spics," the American said. He breathed harder. "They're no good, I tell you. They're lousy in their hearts, every last one of them."

"You gonna shut up?" the Captain said.

"They're filthy. Filthy."

"And you?" said the Puerto Rican who had spoken. "You're not filthy?"

"We're Americans," the American said, his voice cracking with the strain of holding himself back from leaping at the Puerto Rican. "We were here before you."

"Yes," the Puerto Rican said. "And so were the sewer rats."

The Captain stood there between them. He looked from one to the other. His big hands were clenched and his big body bulged with power. But now he couldn't move. He couldn't open his mouth to say anything. He stood there in the middle and his eyes were dull and had the helpless look of someone caught in the jaws of a slowly closing trap.

The American went on shouting at the Puerto Rican and finally the Captain growled very low in his throat, reached out, and grabbed the American's hand by the fingers, twisting the fingers to bend them back from the knuckles.

"I told you to shut up," the Captain said. He went on twisting the man's fingers. The man's knees were bent and he was halfway to the floor, his eyes shut tightly. The Captain growled again and said, "You'll shut up if I hafta rip your tongue outta your mouth."

Then it was quiet in there and Whitey saw the Captain releasing the man's hand and walking back to the big high desk at the far side of the room. The Captain called out someone's name and a policeman took hold of a man's arm and brought him toward the desk. At that moment a man wearing a gray overcoat came out of a side room and crossed the floor to the front door, coming outside to face the two policemen who held Whitey.

"What are you standing here for?" the plain-clothes man said. "Why don't you take him inside?"

"We were waiting, Lieutenant."

"Waiting for what?"

"For things to quiet down in there."

The plain-clothes man smiled dimly. "That's good thinking, Bolton. That's the kind of thinking gets promotions."

"I don't know what you mean, Lieutenant."

"I mean your timing. You were timing it just right. Waiting until it was quiet and you'd have the Captain's undivided attention. Then make the grand entrance. Come in with the murderer."

The policemen didn't say anything. They knew he was having fun with them. This one had a habit of having fun with everyone. Usually they didn't mind and they kidded him back. But now it was an important arrest, it was a homicide and the victim was a policeman. Certainly it was no time for the Lieutenant to be having fun.

The Lieutenant stood there smiling at them. He hadn't yet looked at Whitey. He was waiting for the policemen to say something. Behind him, inside the station house, another commotion had started, but he didn't turn to see what was happening in there.

Finally one of the policemen said, "We weren't timing it, Lieutenant. Only timing we did was according to the book. Used the radio and made the report. Waited there for the wagon to come and get the body. The wagon came and got it and now we're taking this man in. I don't see why we're getting criticized."

"You're not getting criticized," the Lieutenant said. His tone was mild and friendly and only slightly sarcastic as he went on: "I think you've done very nicely, Bolton. You too, Woodling."

The two policemen glanced at each other. They could feel the sarcasm and they wondered how to handle it.

The Lieutenant put his hands in the pockets of his overcoat and leaned back just a little on his heels. He said, "I'm sure you'll get a commendation from the Captain. He's gonna be very pleased with this arrest. It'll come as a pleasant surprise."

"Surprise?" Patrolman Bolton said. "I don't get that. Ain't he been told about the murder?"

"Not yet," the Lieutenant said.

"Why not?" Bolton was frowning. "We sent in the report thirty minutes ago."

The Lieutenant glanced at his wrist watch. "Twenty minutes," he corrected. Then he flipped his thumb backward to indicate the noisy action inside the station house. "The Captain's been very busy these past twenty minutes. I figured it was best not to bother him."

"Bother him?" Bolton came near shouting it. "For Christ's sake, Lieutenant--"

And Woodling was chiming in, "Listen, Lieutenant, this is serious."

The Lieutenant nodded very slowly and seriously. "I know," he said. And then for the first time he looked at Whitey. He gave a little sigh and said to Whitey, "You sure picked a fine time to do it."

"I didn't do it," Whitey said.

"Of course not," the Lieutenant said conversationally. Then he shifted his attention to the two policemen. "We'll have to wait a while before we tell the Captain." Again he glanced at his wrist watch and at the same moment his head was slightly turned, he seemed to be measuring the noise from inside the station house. He said, "I think we'll have to wait at least fifteen minutes."

"But why?" Bolton demanded.

The Lieutenant spoke slowly and patiently. "I'll tell you why. When a man has diarrhea you don't give him a laxative. You give him a chance to quiet down."

"But this--" Woodling started.

"Is dynamite," the Lieutenant finished for him. And then, not looking at anything in particular, sort of murmuring aloud to himself, "If I had my way, I wouldn't tell the Captain at all. He'd never get to hear about it. I think when he hears about it he's gonna get sick. Real sick. I only hope he don't burst a blood vessel."

The two policemen looked at their prisoner. Then they looked at each other. They didn't say anything.

The Lieutenant went on talking aloud to himself. "As if things haven't been bad enough. Getting worse all the time. And now we got this."

"Well," Woodling said, tightening his hold on Whitey's arm, "at least we got the man who did it."

The Lieutenant gave Woodling an older-brother look of fondness and gentle schooling. "You don't get the point. You're thinking too much in terms of the arrest. Try to forget the arrest. Think about the Captain."

The two policemen stood there frowning and blinking.

"The Captain," the Lieutenant said. He leaned toward them. He took his hands from his pockets and put them behind his back. "You get the drift of what I'm talking about?"

They went on frowning puzzledly.

"Listen," the Lieutenant said. "Listen to me. And it's very important that you listen carefully." He took a deep breath, and then his lips tightened and the words came out sort of hissing, like sound pumped from a hose. "From here on in," he said, "you'll be playing with a firecracker. Whatever you say to the Captain, think twice before you say it. And whatever you do, make sure it's not a mistake. He's in no condition to see you making mistakes, not even tiny ones. I'm telling you this so you'll remember it, and I want you to pass the word around."

Bolton blinked again. "Are things that bad?"

"Worse than bad," the Lieutenant said. He was about to say more when Woodling made a warning gesture, indicating that they shouldn't discuss this topic in front of the prisoner. For a moment the Lieutenant hesitated. Then he looked at the ragged little Skid Row bum, the white-haired blank-eyed nothing who stood there wearing handcuffs. He decided there were just three men present and he could go on with what he was saying.

He said, "This situation in the Hellhole. These riots. It's got out of control. Two nights ago I'm with the Captain when he gets a phone call from the Hall. The Commissioner. Wanted to know if we needed help. Said he was ready to send reinforcements. Add twenty men to this district, give us seven more cars. You know what that was? That was a slap in the teeth. That was the Commissioner telling the Captain to clean up the floor or give up the mop. In a nice way, of course. Very polite and friendly and all that."

Bolton spoke in a low murmur. "What did the Captain say?"

"He told the Commissioner to leave him alone. He said he didn't need reinforcements, he could do this job without help from the Hall, and all he wanted was a promise that they wouldn't interfere. He said he'd been in charge of this district for nine years and he'd always been able to hold the wheel and if they'd only leave him alone he'd go on holding it.

"Now mind you," the Lieutenant went on, "that was only two nights ago. So what happens tonight? Another riot in the Hellhole, the worst yet. And something else. Something I knew was bound to happen sooner or later. We lose an officer."

It was quiet for some moments. Then both policemen turned their heads very slowly and they were looking down at the small white-haired man who stood between them. And Woodling said quietly to the prisoner, "You bastard, you. You miserable bastard."

Bolton jerked his head frontward as though he couldn't bear to look at the prisoner. He swallowed hard. "But--" he started, then blurted, "But my God, they can't blame the Captain for this."

"They will," the Lieutenant said.

"No." Bolton's voice was strained. "No. That ain't fair."

The Lieutenant shrugged. Then his face relaxed and the seriousness went out of his eyes. He was himself again and his voice went back to the easy, friendly, mildly sarcastic murmur. "Don't let it give you ulcers," he told the two youthful policemen. "You're too young to get ulcers."