“I had a talk with Andy,” Ward said. “First he stuck to his original story — that he’d got in a fight with a boy his own size. But when I told him I knew he was lying he broke down. And finally he blurted out the whole sorry business.” Ward suddenly swore and got to his feet. “I’m sorry, Chicky, but I haven’t been so damn mad in years. Those punks — those lousy hoodlums is more like it — have been blackmailing him, extorting money from him, to be accurate about it. Hell, he’s only nine years old. He hasn’t done anything they can blackmail him for. But they told him that unless he gave them fifteen dollars he’d get a beating. So he only had ten dollars in his piggy bank, and that wasn’t enough. They took the ten and gave him a shellacking. Can you imagine this happening right here in Faircrest practically in our own backyards?”
“They also put the bite on Norton’s boy,” Detweiller said. “Bobby blew the whistle on that, too. I called the Nortons, and of course Wayne was shocked as hell. He wanted to come over with us but the whole business upset Janey so much that he didn’t feel like leaving her.”
Ward said to Farrell, “Andy says they got to your boy, too. Is that right?”
“Yes, that’s right. They told him that he couldn’t play outside after school until he gave them fifteen dollars.”
Detweiller finished his drink in one gulp. “Damn it, I wish I’d been around tonight to help you out. But I gather you didn’t need help.” He looked frankly envious. “You gave them a real bouncing around, eh, John?”
“I was lucky, I guess.”
“They haven’t bothered Bobby, of course,” Detweiller said. “I guess they took a look at the Detweiller jaw and figured he wouldn’t scare worth a damn. I’ve taught the kid how to handle himself and I’ve given him some pretty good advice if the odds are against him — pick up a brick or ball bat and even ’em up.”
“These aren’t kids,” Farrell said. “I wouldn’t encourage Bobby to think he’s a match for them.”
“Hell, they’re just lippy punks,” Detweiller said. “You can’t reason with them because they’re too stupid and you can’t treat them decently because they’ll just laugh at you. They understand just one thing, my friends, and that’s a good solid boot in the tail.”
“Okay, but what do we do now?” Ward said, looking at Farrell. “My suggestion is to go to the cops tonight and let them know we want some action.”
“You’ll just get a runaround from the cops,” Detweiller said, pouring himself another drink. “They’ll say ‘Oh, sure, we’ll take care of this, sir’ and then they’ll make out a lot of reports and wind up not doing a damn thing. Look at the gangs you’ve got running wild in this country. Regular teen-aged gangs of hoodlums. They’ve got officers, clubrooms, guns, battle strategy — hell, you’ve read about all this, haven’t you? In some of the schools in New York they’ve practically put up toll gates — pay up before you can go in. And the police don’t do one damn thing about it. And I’ll tell you why,” Detweiller said, pointing a finger at Ward, who was listening to him with obvious impatience. “The average cop comes from the same background as these young punks, and emotionally and psychologically he’s on their side. And the average politician, well, in his case...” Chicky stifled a yawn in a manner that made it quite noticeable and said, “Please don’t make speeches, Det. This is a serious matter.”
“I’m going to finish this,” he said. “Will you just shut up? The average politician, Sam and John, is more concerned about votes in his district than he is in making an example out of these punks. Politicians count noses, they play it by the numbers, and the sad fact is that people like us are in the minority. Property owners, law-abiding people who believe in raising their kids decently — they’re outnumbered a hundred to one by people on relief, by degenerates and dope addicts, by dead beats who turn over their freedom to union goons, by all that riffraff we’re getting from Puerto Rico — okay, okay,” he said, holding up both hands. “I know there are fine Puerto Ricans. But we’re getting dregs. So to wind this up, people like us get pushed around because there aren’t enough of us to matter.”
Ward said irritably, “We aren’t going in with our hats in our hands to ask for help from the police — we’re demanding it, for Christ’s sake. What do you think I pay taxes for?” He began to pace the floor, his expression forceful and angry. “I don’t know what your homes mean to you,” he said. “That’s none of my business. But I’ll tell you something about me. I haven’t had any leg-ups in this world. I didn’t go to college. I worked after school in a poultry shop because we needed extra dough at home. I had a nickname: Feathers. Other guys made the teams and drove around in cars and had spending money in their pockets. Not me. I was working.” Ward looked at them with his hands on his hips. “Well, I’ll tell you something: I didn’t mind one damn bit. I had my chance. I went to night school. I got a job with Texoho as a messenger boy. They wanted work and loyalty for their dough, and I gave until it hurt. I’m proud of what I’ve done, so far. And the future is going to be big — just as big as I can make it. Now a pair of young hoodlums come along and think they can throw mud at what I’ve made out of my life. Well, I’ll tell you this as a simple blunt fact: they made a mistake. I’ll teach them that if I have to break their necks with these two hands of mine.”
“Now you’re talking,” Detweiller said. He looked at his empty glass and said to Farrelclass="underline" “On your feet, host. I need a drink. But seriously, Sam, you made sense just then. If we gave those punks a thorough working over we wouldn’t have any more trouble with them.”
“What’s all this?” Barbara said, coming into the room with a tray of coffee. She had put on fresh lipstick and changed from slacks and loafers into a tweed skirt and high heels. “Hi, Chicky. My, you sound ferocious, Det.”
“There’s more bad news, honey,” Farrell said. He told her why Ward and the Detweillers had come over, and when he finished she sat down slowly and looked at them with a helpless expression. “What kind of creatures are they?” she said, in a bewildered voice. “They must be insane to think they can get away with this sort of thing.”
“They’re human filth,” Detweiller said. “Dregs, leavings, call it what you like. I just told John and Sam we ought to sweep them up ourselves. Hell, why waste time? We’ve got a clear-cut problem; let’s solve it in an old-fashioned, clear-cut fashion.”
“What do you mean?” Barbara said, glancing uncertainly from Detweiller to Sam Ward.
“They knock our kids around, we return the compliment. Only we play really rough. Anything wrong with that?”
She smiled at him but Farrell knew she wasn’t amused; there was a line of tension above her eyes. “I can’t believe you’d even consider such a thing. You’d be no better than these young hoodlums if you took the matter into your own hands. Don’t you see that?”
Detweiller was enjoying her reaction, Farrell guessed, savoring her alarm and disapproval. Facing the bitter facts, calling a spade a spade, was this a role Det fancied himself equipped to play? He would let the sickly and squeamish turn away from duty, Farrell thought, trying to see Detweiller as Detweiller must see himself; behind the barricades, issuing the single bullet to the women and telling them to use it when the Indians poured over the stockade walls. Was that Det’s image of himself, he wondered. The Man Who Faced Facts?
“Just listen a second,” Detweiller was saying to Barbara. “I’m not trying to shock you and I’m not just talking for effect. Nobody has bothered my son. Technically I’m an innocent bystander to all this, though I’m ready and happy to do all I can to help John and Sam. Hell, it’s a community problem, isn’t it? But I’ll tell you this: if any of these punks bother Bobby I can handle them without help from anybody.” Detweiller poured himself a short drink from the bottle Farrell had left at his elbow. “Nobody’s pushing me around, understand?”