Max Collins - Murder by numbers

"Sit down, Detective," Ness said, pleasant but business-like. Ness was standing, gesturing to the nearby conference table.

Johnson nodded, and sat. Ness stood nearby. Even standing over him. Ness felt the massive presence of the big colored cop. This was not a man who could be easily intimidated.

"I've been searching my soul," Ness admitted, "about what to do with you."

Johnson thought for a moment, before calmly saying, "What you mean, Mr. Ness?"

"I mean you're a good cop. One of the best I've worked with in Cleveland."

Johnson grinned easily. "Is that what white folks call damnin' with faint praise, Mr. Ness?"

Ness didn't grin back. "Not really. There are quite a few good cops in this town. But, I'll admit, not many in your class."

"You mean, colored?"

"No. I mean, good. Dedicated. Hard. I want to promote you, Toussaint."

Johnson sat up; the surprise registered only in his eyes, but it registered.

Ness sat on the edge of the conference table. "Only I have a problem. You did a fine job on this numbers racketeering case. We couldn't have done it without you. No question of that."

"Thanks.''

"I've already put you in for a certificate of commendation, and a medal of valor."

"Well. Thanks, again."

"No thanks necessary. You earned both, in spades."

Johnson's lips quivered with amusement.

Then Ness realized what he'd said, and, embarrassed, added, "You know what I mean."

"Yes, sir."

"And a promotion would certainly be appropriate. I've put Albert Curry in for promotion, to sergeant, for his work on this case."

"He got it coming."

"No more than you. Not as much as you, frankly."

"Well…"

"He's white? Sure he is. But that's not why I promoted him, without having to dedicate one moment to soul-searching. You see, Albert's loyalty is unquestioned. His integrity you could bounce rocks off."

Johnson shifted in his chair; he swallowed thickly. Something approaching anger was building behind his eyes. "What are you sayin', Mr. Ness?"

"I'm saying you held out on me, Toussaint. You knew Clifford Willis was a dirty cop. You knew that was why he got bumped off by the Mayfield bunch. You knew that he used to be Johnny C.'s bagman. You knew that was why his brother officers rushed to his presumed defense, smashing up Johnny C.'s castle. And you didn't tell me. I had to find out elsewhere. I had to find out from a goddamn snitch."

Johnson's anger never got off the ground; his eyes went hooded, as if he were sleepy. He seemed more weary than ashamed. If he felt any shame. Ness couldn't tell.

He tried to find out. "What do you say to that, Toussaint?"

Johnson sighed; he moved his head on his neck like it weighed more than the rest of him put together. "Mr. Ness-I told you when we first talked, I used to work for Rufus Murphy. You knew I wasn't no angel. But you didn't ask me no questions about whether I was ever on the pad or not. You know why you didn't ask?"

Ness paused. Then he said, "Why?"

" 'Cause you didn't want to know."

Ness said nothing.

Toussaint went on: "I wasn't hiding anything from you. I just 'didn't want either one of us to have to come to terms with why I knew what I knew. That's all."

Ness got up. He sighed heavily. Then he took the hardwood chair next to Johnson and said, "I've already put you in for that promotion."

"What?"

"You're going to be a sergeant, Toussaint, if you can pass the test,"

"Hell, I'll pass the damn thing."

"But I'm pulling you out of the Roaring Third."

Johnson backed off, his eyes open very wide. "Well, that's my turf. Shouldn't I oughta be workin' that side of town?"

"From time to time, you will. But if you think I went through these hard months to let a good cop like you give in to temptation, you're crazy."

"Temptation?"

"To go back on the pad. To be the cop who fixes things on the east side for the colored independent policy operators."

Johnson looked like he'd been struck with a plank.

"Toussaint," Ness said, smiling, not hiding the irony in his voice, "you're part of my team now. No one can accuse me of race prejudice when I have a Negro detective on my personal staff."

Johnson's eyes were filled with incredulity. "You assigning me permanent to the safety director's office?"

"That's right, Sergeant Johnson."

Ness held out his hand.

"Welcome aboard," Ness said.

Numbly, Johnson shook Ness's hand.

Then Johnson threw back his head and began to laugh, until every pebbled-glass window in the office was rattling.

"And one of these days," Ness said, as he walked the still-chuckling Johnson out, "we're going to nail that bastard Lombardi. He can run…"

"But he can't hide," Toussaint Johnson said.

And he wasn't laughing or smiling when he said it.

Black Sal Lombardi sat under the thatched sun shelter on a wooden beach chair, sipping coco-loco from a carved-out coconut. He was watching pretty American girls play soccer with their slightly older American boy friends; they all (Sal, too) wore bathing suits and were soaking up the afternoon sun. He was between Mexican whores right now, having gotten bored with the last girl the hotel man had provided. Sal had been enjoying his privacy these last several days; but watching these golden-tanned American girls bounce and jiggle got him thinking about requesting a new puta for this evening.

Playa Caleta was the "morning" beach and most of the tourists headed for Playa Hornos, the "afternoon" beach, after one o'clock. Nobody Sal asked seemed to know why this was-though a few had mentioned tide and shade patterns-but the tradition was long-standing. Sal liked to watch the girls, but he didn't like a crowded beach; so he waited till the afternoon had thinned of tourists before making use of palm-fringed Caleta beach, which his hotel fronted. When he wanted to swim or sun some morning, he used the private pool of his casita.

Sal had taken to the sun, though he seldom swam. His olive complexion had gradually baked to a near black, making him truly worthy of the nickname "Black Sal" at last. He had been here, after all, over two years. Two years of vacation or retirement or however you cared to view it.

He knew only that he was happy. His pre-ulcerous condition had gone away; he hadn't had a glass of milk in eighteen months. He weighed ten pounds less and was as physically fit as a teenage boy. At least three times a week, he played the golf course at Playa Encantada-usually with vacationing American businessmen, some of them with ties to his own business-and went fishing several times a month, hiring out a boat and tackle and captain through the hotel. He had sent home several photos of himself with prized catches: sailfish and marlin longer than an elephant's dick. He'd been fresh-water fishing in the coastal lagoons, by torch light; he'd gone duck-hunting and once even took a guided expedition into the mountainous interior, where he bagged a mountain lion.

The spectator sports weren't bad, either: Jai alai every night in the fronton building near Playa Caleta; bullfights every Sunday afternoon; boxing and wrestling. The nighttime entertainment was wild; from one nightclub you could view a spic kid climb down La Quebrada cliff to a platform and, torch in hand, dive forty feet into a breaker, then climb the opposite cliff to a flat rock one hundred thirty feet up and dive the fuck again, between a narrow sea ravine with jagged rocks on either side. Down below newspapers were set on fire so the kid could see what he was doing. This took balls or no brains or both, but whatever, it was a hell of thing to see.

Sal was glad he had a piece of this action. Acapulco had been just another scenic bay city in the boondocks until the highway was built between here and central Mexico back in '27. Horvitz and some of the other big boys from back home, when Repeal was around the corner, got in on the ground floor when resort hotels started going up along these beaches.