Juvenile Delinquent Read online

  I found the soda without difficulty, and was preparing to return to the kitchen when I noticed a bamboo spinning rod standing in a corner of the alcove. On the floor next to it was a dust-laden bait box.

  No fishing enthusiast can resist peeking into a strange bait box, and fishing has been my favorite sport since I was a kid. I lifted the lid and looked admiringly at a complete collection of spinning lures. When I didn’t see any with which I was unfamiliar, I closed the lid again.

  Judging by the amount of dust on the box, Sara was hardly a rabid fisherman, but I hadn’t known previously that she was interested in it at all. She must have had some enthusiasm for the sport at one time, however, for I estimated the rod, spinning reel and contents of the bait box must have run into an expenditure of at least a hundred dollars.

  When I had returned to the kitchen and opened the soda for her, I asked, “You like fishing, Sara?”

  She glanced at me in surprise. “A little. I haven’t been for several years. Why?”

  “Some Sunday I’ll pick you up and we’ll try the river for a few jack salmon.”

  “I’d like that,” she said agreeably.

  She suggested we take our drinks into the front room. When we were settled there, Sara on the couch and me in an easy chair, we talked of inconsequential things for a few minutes. Then Sara returned to my activities of that afternoon.

  “You kind of brushed me off in the kitchen about what you’ve found out,” she said. “Why so mysterious?”

  “I’m not being mysterious. I’ve picked up a lead or two, but I got them in confidence and had to promise not to pass the information on. What I stopped by for was to find out if you knew anything about either a man named Buzz Thurmond or one named Limpy Alfred.

  She looked at me in amused surprise. “You mean there’s actually a real person with a name like Limpy Alfred?”

  “Apparently.”

  She shook her head. “I’ve certainly never heard of him before. Nor of anyone named Buzz Thurmond. Why do you think I would have?”

  “I didn’t have much hope about Limpy, because I don’t know his last name. But I thought Buzz Thurmond might possibly ring a bell. I understand he originally came from that neighborhood, and I thought possibly the family had been on welfare at some time or other.”

  “Buzz Thurmond,” Sara repeated thoughtfully. “Thurmond sounds familiar, but the first name doesn’t mean anything to me. It must be a nickname, isn’t it?”

  “I imagine,” I said dryly. “I don’t think many parents would be likely to christen a child Buzz.”

  “I think I had an Aid to Dependent Children case named Mrs. Thurmond about six years ago,” Sara said. “Tomorrow I’ll have Records look it up for me. Possibly your Buzz Thurmond was one of the children. How old is he?”

  I shook my head. “I haven’t the faintest idea, except that he’s been connected with an adult criminal gang for at least four years. Doesn’t seem likely he’d have been a child six years ago.”

  “No. He would have had to be under sixteen at the time. He may have been an older son not living at home, though. If I can find anything on him in the welfare files, what is it you want to know?”

  “Anything you’re able to dig up. I don’t know a thing about him except his name and that he’s a hood.”

  “You think he may have had something to do with Bart Meyer’s death?”

  I said, “I can’t tell you why I’m interested in him without violating the confidence I mentioned previously. I’m afraid you’ll have to work in the dark.”

  “All right,” Sara said agreeably. “I’ll do my best to control my curiosity. Why don’t you phone me at work between one-thirty and two tomorrow? I’ll either have something by then, or the news that I can’t find anything.”

  We left it at that. We had one more drink together before I went home and let Sara get back to her case records.

  12

  AS Sara Chesterton worked in the field mornings and didn’t arrive at her office until one-thirty p.m., and Stub Carlson was in school until two-thirty, there wasn’t much I could do the next morning except take care of a couple of routine matters. I started by checking with Warren Day to see if there had been any new developments. There hadn’t been.

  When I left the inspector’s office, I went down the hall to the record room and asked the cop on duty if he had anything on Harry Krebb, Sam Polito or Art Cooney. There was nothing in the files on the first two, but he located a card on Art Cooney. The pool-playing dope pusher had one arrest as a juvenile for petty theft, dismissed for lack of evidence, and one conviction as an adult for operating a lottery. The latter had gotten him a fine and a six-month suspended sentence. Otherwise his record was clear.

  “Now will you look up a couple more for me?” I asked the cop. “A guy named Buzz Thurmond and one named Limpy Alfred. I haven’t got anything on the last one except his nickname.”

  He didn’t have any trouble locating the card on Thurmond, but Limpy Alfred took him a little longer. I studied Thurmond’s record while he continued the search.

  Buzz Thurmond’s given name was Leroy, I noted, and he was a two-time loser. His first conviction was for assault and battery at the age of nineteen, and had gotten him a six-month term. The second, for extortion, had occurred when he was twenty-two and had cost him two years. The front and profile pictures on his record card had been taken at the time of his second conviction, which made them eight years old, since the man’s age was listed as thirty. They showed a thick-featured man with a strong jaw and a sullen cast to his mouth. He was a big man, I noticed, his height being listed as six feet two and his weight as two hundred and six.

  The record showed that subsequent to his release after serving eighteen months of his two-year term, Thurmond had been picked up for questioning four times, but each time released for lack of evidence. Two of the pickups had been on suspicion of homicide, one for receiving stolen goods and one for attempted extortion.

  The Purple Pelicans’ advisor didn’t strike me as quite the sort of man the Parent-Teachers’ Association would approve to act as adult supervisor for a teenage club.

  By the time I had finished reading over Leroy Thurmond’s record, the cop had located Limpy Alfred’s card by checking the nickname file. The Gravediggers’ advisor proved to be even less qualified from the standpoint of character to supervise teenagers than his fellow lieutenant.

  His full name, according to the record, was Alfred Lloyd Levanthal, and he was forty-two years old. He’d only been in circulation thirty years, however, because he’d spent twelve years behind bars. His time had been served in two separate sentences, with several years intervening: the first a five-year term for armed robbery, of which he had served four years, and the second a fifteen-year term for second-degree murder. Two years previously he’d been parolled after doing eight of the fifteen.

  The front and profile views on the card dated from the time of his parole. They showed a thin, sharp-featured man with a receding chin and a slit for a mouth. His height was given as five eight and his weight as only one thirty-five. He had earned his nickname because, according to the description, he had a pronounced limp as a result of an old gunshot wound in the left knee.

  Like Buzz Thurmond the Gravediggers’ advisor had been picked up for questioning a number of times since his last release from the penitentiary, but had never been charged. The crimes for which he had drawn the suspicious attention of the police included everything from assault to homicide, even, in one case, arson.

  I gave the record room cop a cigar for his trouble.

  • • •

  Instead of phoning Sara Chesterton, as she had suggested, I decided to drop by the welfare office. I got there promptly at one-thirty and found her, as previously, snowed under by phone calls. It was ten of two before a sufficient lull came for her to devote attention to me.

  Then she said, “I phoned Records from home this morning before I started out in the field and asked them to pull my
old Thurmond case, Manny. I haven’t had a chance to look at it yet, but it should be in my box.”

  She rummaged through the pile of case records and correspondence in her box and gave a grunt of satisfaction when she found a manila folder labelled Thurmond, ADC-6251.

  As she opened it and started to look through it, I said, “I’ve learned Buzz’s real name is Leroy.”

  “Leroy,” she repeated, studying the face sheet. “According to this Mrs. Thurmond had only two minor children named Thomas and Grace. Wait a minute. Here he is, under ‘Relatives Not Living in the Home.’ Leroy Thurmond, oldest son of client, age twenty-four.” She glanced at the date of the record. “That would make him thirty now, as this is six years old. He was on parole after serving eighteen months of a two-year penitentiary term at the time, and his address is listed as the Bremmer Hotel, where he worked as a night clerk.”

  She thumbed through several pages of the record. “Here’s my report of the interview I had with him. Claimed he couldn’t assist with his mother’s support because he made barely enough to keep himself. A check with his probation officer verified this.” She turned a page or two more, then glanced up at me curiously. “This is funny. Two weeks after my interview with Leroy, his mother phoned and said she wouldn’t need ADC any more because her eldest son was giving her support. That’s when we closed the case.”

  “He fell into money, eh?” I said thoughtfully.

  “Apparently.” Again she quickly thumbed through the case record. “There isn’t a thing more on him.”

  “I’ve also learned Limpy Alfred’s real name,” I said. “Alfred Lloyd Leventhal. Would it be much trouble to check your old records for him?”

  “Not for me,” Sara said, grinning. “Maybe a little for Records.”

  She picked up the phone, clicked the space bar instead of dialing and asked for Records.

  After a moment she said, “Mamie? Be a doll and see if there’s an old case on a Levanthal family, will you? I don’t know what category. I’ll hang on.”

  Several minutes passed and then Sara said, “There is? Just hold it and I’ll run down and get it.”

  When she hung up she said, “It’s an old GR. That’s social work talk for general relief. I’ll be right back.”

  She was gone not more than three minutes, returning with a manila folder similar to the other. Sitting down at her desk again, she opened it and studied the face sheet.

  “This wasn’t one of my cases,” she said finally. “Lucas marks the end of my district, and this woman was over in the area where the Gravediggers hang out. Seems her legal name actually was Massey, and she just went by the name of Levanthal because she was your Limpy Alfred’s common-law wife. He was in the state penitentiary at the time the woman applied for general relief.”

  She thumbed through the record, which was nearly a half inch thick, periodically stopping to glance at an entry. “Seems the woman was on and off relief for some years.”

  Near the end of the record she stopped and read more carefully. “Levanthal was paroled two years ago. Here’s a notation that the worker visited him to ask if he was willing to support his common-law wife. And guess where he was living?”

  “The Bremmer Hotel,” I said.

  Sara looked at me in surprise. “How’d you know?”

  “Intuition,” I said.

  It was to some degree, but it was mostly that I was familiar with the Bremmer Hotel. Everybody in town who had any dealings with crime on either side of the law knew about the Bremmer Hotel. A second-rate place at the edge of the slum area, it was respectable enough on the surface, but those in the know, including the police, were aware the respectability was only a veneer. The place was not only a cat house, but the on-and-off residence of numerous known criminals, including a good number of freshly-released convicts who made it their first stop after getting out of the can.

  The police raided the Bremmer Hotel with monotonous regularity, but since the girls all had their own rooms and were registered as bona fide residents, they’d never been able to make a procuring charge stick. They’d never been able to make any charge stick, as a matter of fact, because while the proprietor wasn’t very particular about his guests, he carefully avoided harboring criminals who were wanted at the moment.

  A reputed racketer named Sherman Bremmer owned the place, which made me wonder if I hadn’t accidentally stumbled onto the leader of the gang which had maneuvered the Purple Pelicans and the Gravediggers into criminal activity. It seemed too much of a coincidence for both gang lieutenants to have a connection with the Bremmer Hotel unless they also had a connection with its owner.

  Sara broke into my thoughts by saying, “Levanthal told the worker he no longer had contact with his common-law wife and didn’t care if she starved. The record shows that she moved out of town about a month later, and the case was closed. Any of this helpful?”

  “It’s given me another lead,” I said, rising. “Thanks a lot.”

  “Don’t mention it, Manny. Going to take me fishing Sunday, like you promised?”

  “I didn’t say this Sunday. I said some Sunday.”

  “I know what that means,” she said. “Last time you walked out after dropping a vague invitation, I didn’t see you again for five years.”

  I grinned at her. “All right. Pick you up at six a.m. Sunday.”

  “Six a.m.!” she squealed.

  “Fish get up early.”

  “Very well,” she said grimly. “If you thought you could get out of it by threatening my sleep, you guessed wrong. I’ll be ready at six a.m.”

  “What kind of line do you have?” I asked. “Nylon or monofilm?”

  “Line?” she asked puzzledly.

  “On that spinning outfit in your clutter room.”

  “Oh, that. I don’t know. Why?”

  “You don’t even know what kind of line you’ve got?

  “I told you I haven’t fished for years.”

  I said, “Well, you’d better check it then. If it’s nylon, it’s probably still all right, but monofilm may have turned brittle if it hasn’t been used for years.”

  “I’ll look over all the gear tonight,” she promised.

  • • •

  It was pretty close to two-thirty when I left the welfare office, but I made it to the flat where Stub Carlson lived by twenty of three. Again I found no one home.

  I waited out front until three, then decided Stub wasn’t coming straight home from school. I cruised around about ten minutes before spotting one of the familiar purple jackets.

  The youngster was not more than fourteen and he was alone, idly standing on a street corner with his hands in his pockets. When I pulled up alongside of him, he looked at me suspiciously, but the moment I mentioned my name he gave me a friendly smile.

  “You’re the guy Stub told us to be on the lookout for,” he said. “Looking for Stub?”

  I told him I was.

  “He’s over at the club room.”

  When I looked a little surprised, he said, “They took the stakeout off this morning. Some of the older guys are holding a meeting. I guess to decide about getting a new place.”

  I thanked the kid and drove over to 620 Vernon.

  I found eight youngsters in the basement club room, all of them between sixteen and eighteen. They had three card tables shoved together to make a sort of makeshift board of directors’ table, and were all sitting around it in conference.

  When I reached the bottom of the stairs I got seven scowls and one smile of welcome, the latter from Stub Carlson.

  “This is Mr. Moon, who I was telling you fellows about,” Stub said.

  The seven scowls disappeared and there was a muttering of friendly greetings.

  “Am I interrupting a meeting?” I asked.

  “Naw,” Stub said. “Matter of fact we was talking about you. Pull up a chair and sit down.”

  A couple of the boys shifted their chairs and I slid a vacant one into the space this formed. Several o
f the boys were smoking cigarettes and one of them offered me one. I shook my head and lit a cigar.

  “We held a meeting last night,” Stub told me. “Of the whole club, I mean. Then afterward I held a private meeting with a few of the guys I knew I could trust with anything, and who were also friends of Knuckles. Joe, I mean.” He waved his hand around the table. “These guys here.”

  Starting at my left he reeled their names off. “Jimmy Vincenti, Ray Cross, Danny Angelo, Tim Reynard, Buddy Tipp, Jack Manners and Dave O’Brien.”

  I told the boys I was glad to meet them.

  “You see,” Stub went on, “after our talk yesterday I got to thinking, and the more I thought, the more it seemed like maybe the Purple Pelicans have been played for a bunch of suckers by Buzz Thurmond. I mean if Buzz, or somebody in his gang, actually did knock off Bart Meyers and frame it on Joe, it’s a pretty lousy trick to pull on guys who are supposed to be friends of his, isn’t it?”

  “I think so,” I said dryly.

  “Well, I got to thinking that the club’s loyalty ought to be to its members, not to an outsider like Buzz Thurmond, even if he has steered a lot of money our way. If Joe was framed, it’s up to the club to do everything possible to get him out of his jam. And it’s also up to the club to get revenge for Bart’s murder.”

  “Revenge?”

  “I don’t mean bump anybody off. I mean get evidence on the real killer and turn it over to you so you can get Joe out of jail and slap him in.”

  “I see. And how’d you plan to go about this?”

  “Well, I figured first I’d lay the situation on the line to these guys here and see how they felt about it. So I explained to them all about our talk yesterday and just what you were after. Including that you weren’t going to mess up any of our rackets or squeal to the cops about anything you learned down here unless it had some bearing on Bart’s murder. We had a little discussion, but in the end they all decided to stand behind me a hundred percent.” He looked around the group. “Right, fellows?”