“Hell no, I’m not sure,” Farrell said, with a touch of anger. “I’m surmising. But why did you call me about this matter?”
“That’s a fair question,” Jameson said, and Farrell sensed a weariness in his voice. “Perhaps because you struck me as a sensible sort of person. A little less volatile, say, than your friend Detweiller. At any rate, let’s not flare up at each other. We’ve got a problem, and the important thing is to solve it.” He paused. “Am I cutting into your work?”
“No, that’s all right.” Someone at the conference table was telling a joke. “Go right ahead.”
“This boy was beaten up by two grown men. They caught him in an alley near Matt Street and asked him if he belonged to the Chiefs. He said yes. One held him, and the other did the knuckle work. The man who runs the candy store near the Chiefs’ clubhouse heard the talk this morning and passed it along to the beat cop. We picked the boy up but he stuck to the typical B-movie hoodlum attitude and refused to talk, except to say he couldn’t identify the men, and had no idea why they’d singled him out for a shellacking. I rounded up as many of the Chiefs as I could find, but they clammed up, too. I learned, however, that you’d been to see Duke’s father, and that you’d been to the Chiefs’ clubhouse a couple of times. Mind if I ask why?”
“Of course not,” Farrell said. The little knot in his stomach was colder. He had done nothing wrong but as he mashed out his cigarette he realized his hand was trembling slightly. “I thought I might talk some sense into their heads. It seemed to me the situation was getting pretty explosive.”
“Were you worried about your friends doing something reckless?”
“Well, not exactly.” Farrell wasn’t telling the truth, and he was aware of a lack of conviction in his voice. The lieutenant must have noticed it also, for he said, “Not exactly, eh? But something was worrying you, is that it?”
“Now listen: I’m sorry some boy got knocked around, but I don’t know a damn thing about it.”
“Very well.” The lieutenant hesitated. “Look, Mr. Farrell, if you find out anything about it, will you let me know?”
“Yes, of course I will.”
“I hope you mean that. And I think you do. About the worst thing that could happen right now, and I’m not thinking only about Hayrack, I mean this generally, is for any adult or group of adults to think they can by-pass the cops on this problem of juvenile delinquency. Delinquent, by the way, is a word I don’t think much of. I’d rather say hoodlum or deadbeat or bully. Anyway, that’s beside the point. The thing is, as much as the average citizen might feel like wringing these kids’ necks, it’s not their job, it’s police work. You spread that word and you might be doing your friends a favor.”
“I’ll do that,” Farrell said.
“Excuse me a second,” Jameson said. Then, “Can you hang on for a while?”
“Yes, of course.”
“I won’t keep you long.”
Farrell lit another cigarette. Colby glanced at him and Farrell smiled and said, “Sorry, be right with you.” The room was hot and stuffy. Eight or ten men and two secretaries sat around the long table. The ashtrays were overflowing. Weinberg was talking about the differences between security foods and status foods. “Caviar or terrapin, for instance, are obvious status foods to most people. They don’t satisfy hunger, they satisfy ego. On the other hand, beef stew with dumplings, steaks and french fries, things like that are usually security foods, associated with warm pleasant memories of home, with Mom making sure that all the kids were well fed, and so forth. Now in our campaign we might...”
“Mr. Farrell?” Jameson said.
“Yes?”
“I’ve just been talking to Sergeant Cabella. I asked you to hang on because he’s been checking out a lead related to this trouble with the Chiefs. You remember the old quarry near the golf course? The one kids used as a swimming hole.”
“Sure — it was filled in last summer.”
“That’s right, on a complaint lodged by a committee of Faircrest residents. It was an eyesore, dangerous for youngsters and so forth. And the Rosedale Council condemned it.”
“What’s that got to do with our problem?”
“I’m not sure yet. The quarry was used almost exclusively by boys from Hayrack — the Chiefs among them. Faircrest condemned it. So — the rumor has it — the Chiefs decided to levy a quarry tax against kids from Faircrest. Sort of an indemnity. Fifteen bucks a head — which was the amount figuring in each of these extortions. If we can prove this I’ll haul Duke and Jerry back here fast. And this time we’ll get some results.”
“They’re wasting their time as delinquents,” Farrell said. “Anybody who can figure out a new tax has a fine future as a politician. But do you think you can prove it?”
“My guess would be yes. In their cockeyed view, they probably think they were justified in doing what they did. So it shouldn’t be too hard to stampede them into defending their actions. People enjoy claiming they’re virtuous, that’s all it amounts to.”
“Which still leaves us with the fact that one of the Chiefs got banged around by a pair of adults — who probably felt they were justified too.”
“Frankly that worries me more than anything else. Well, thanks, Mr. Farrell. I’ll let you know how things come along.”
Farrell returned to the table and tried to pick up the thread of the discussion. Someone had suggested that it might be a good idea to put a refrigerator in a medieval castle, and Weinberg was arguing that such an image would be completely irrelevant to his thinking. “We want to evoke the warmth and security that comes from food,” he said passionately. “The shudder of pleasure a child feels in knowing he is to be fed — not because he’s earned it or even deserves it, but because someone loves him and wants to make him comfortable.”
The pencil broke in Farrell’s fingers and he realized with a start that he hadn’t been thinking about what Weinberg was saying; he had been thinking about Malleck.
Chapter Eight
After dinner Farrell settled down in the study with the papers. Angey and Jimmy were in the living room dancing to a portable radio. She was trying to teach him rock-’n’-roll. “Can’t you listen to the music?” she said shrilly. “You just flop around, for Heaven’s sake.”
Barbara looked up from her book and smiled at him. “This is for his own good, you understand.”
“Hurts her more than it does him, eh?”
“Actually he’s pretty hopeless right now. I think that’s why she keeps at it. The challenge. Daughter of mine or not, she’s an awfully good little dancer.”
“Yes,” he said, and put the paper aside. He looked up at the ceiling. There was a crack near the molding above the bookcase and he wondered if he should have someone come in and take a look at it. He could hear the plasterer saying: “Well, you let a thing like that get out of hand, and you got real trouble.”
“What’s the matter?” Barbara asked him.
“I’m getting stale.” He hadn’t told her of Lieutenant Jameson’s call. “The caged commuter tugging at the leash. Tired of the rat race, to put it in a fresh phrase.”
“Oh, that old thing. Would a cup of coffee help?”
“I don’t think so,” he said, and stretched his arms above his head. “I’m going to take a turn around the block. Lean against a lamppost with my coat collar turned up and smoke a significant cigarette.” He stood up and patted her smooth brown head. “Maybe some girl will show up in the fog, a dark-haired thing with a wild, wounded mouth, fleeing from the East India Combine.”
“Well, if your lonely strollings take you as far as the Boulevard buy us some cigarettes, okay?”