William McGivern - Savage Streets

Ward said explosively, “Goddammit, this is the filthiest thing I’ve heard in all my life. What do you mean calling here? You ought to be ashamed to repeat that kind of thing.”

Farrell turned wearily toward the phone. Ward’s face was flushed and his free hand had tightened into a lumpy fist. “No, I’m not going to calm down and listen,” he said. “I don’t want the filthy details. But I’ll tell you this much: Wayne Norton was one of the finest men in this neighborhood, and we won’t stand by and see his name dragged through the dirt. You print that story, and you’ll wake up in a blizzard of law suits.”

“Let me talk to him,” Farrell said.

Ward pushed the phone at Farrell. “Gladly. You’ve got a stronger stomach than I have. See what your little pets are up to now.”

Farrell put the phone to his lips. “This is John Farrell,” he said.

“Well, we meet again, so to speak. Lynn Wiley, Mr. Farrell. I talked to you earlier at the bar in Hayrack. Remember?”

“Yes, of course.”

“I understand Mr. Ward’s feelings,” Wiley said. “Reporters work in sensitive areas at times, but we don’t pick and choose the jobs. We just follow the news. You might explain that to him.”

“All right.” Ward had taken Malleck and Detweiller into the dining room, and Grace was moving swiftly to join them, a tall black cylinder of tension and curiosity. Chicky Detweiller remained seated on the couch.

“Here it is,” Wiley said. “A teen-ager named Cleo Soltis walked into the station a while ago. She had a bomb to drop. Her story is that some men from the Faircrest development broke into a clubhouse on Matt Street a couple of nights ago. She claims that her boy friend, whose name is Jerry Leuth, was knocked unconscious, and that...” Wiley hesitated, then said: “This is her unsupported story, Mr. Farrell, and I’m merely quoting her. She claims Wayne Norton raped her, which — according to her, again — is why this boy Duke gave Norton a hiding.” Wiley paused again, and Farrell heard his soft, slow breathing. “Well?” Wiley said.

“Well what?”

“What do you think of her story?”

Farrell said: “What do you think of it?”

“Ping-pong, eh?” Wiley said, and laughed. “Well, if the story’s true, it’s got everything. Violence, drama, sex, the works. But seriously, I’m sticking my neck out calling you. The girl’s inside with Lieutenant Jameson, and they’ve sent a car out for her father and mother. We’re not supposed to know anything about this yet, but the House Sergeant gave me the tip.”

“Do you believe her?”

“Frankly, no. Girls who yell rape a few days after the fact aren’t very convincing. It’s not the kind of tiling that would slip your mind. My guess is, she’s trying to create sympathy for Duke, you know, provide him with a noble motivation for banging Norton around. But with Norton dead I can’t imagine anyone taking the story seriously. In all the years I’ve covered police I never heard of a dead man convicted for rape.”

“Then why did you call here?”

“I thought I might be able to break the news a bit more gently than the cops.”

“That’s bull,” Farrell said. “Why did you call?”

“Well, there might have been something to it.”

“There’s always hope, eh?”

“You know nothing about this, then? How about a quote? Was he one of the finest men you ever knew? Credit to the community? Et cetera, et cetera?” Wiley’s voice had gone up to an insistent pitch, the patina of polite gravity cracking with excitement. Farrell replaced the phone without answering and sat on the arm of the sofa.

“What is it?” Chicky said, looking up at him. “New trouble?”

“Not new, just more of the same.”

Ward strode into the living room and said to Farrell: “What do you think of it? They’re not content he’s dead. They want to put wreaths of garbage on his grave.”

Malleck sat down slowly in the straight-backed chair and looked at Farrell. “I hope this gives you an idea of what we’re up against,” he said. “Like Ward says, they’re not content with murder. They want to wreck his name and shame his wife, put a mark on that boy that will stand out like a brand the rest of his life. I just hope I don’t hear any more from you about saving this scum, Mr. Farrell. I just hope you’ve got enough sense and decency to shut up about this.”

“What is it?” Chicky Detweiller said. “What’s happened?”

Ward swore and said: “Some little whore, I forget her name, Cleo Soltick or something like that, a Hunky probably, from a long illustrious line of coal heavers and janitors. Well, she’s spreading a story that Wayne raped her.”

Farrell rubbed his temples with the tips of his fingers. Grace Ward said shrilly, “They’ll stop at nothing. They should all be kept in cages like animals, if you ask me.”

Chicky Detweiller murmured, “But it’s just so preposterous, who would possibly believe it?”

“Nobody,” Malleck said. “It’s a lie, a filthy, rotten lie.”

“The girl is telling the truth,” Farrell said bitterly. “The little Hunky from the illustrious line of coal heavers is speaking the Gospel. So it’s back to the conference table, ladies and gentlemen, you need another angle, another approach, another bagful of lies.”

A silence settled deeply in the room, and it seemed to Farrell that the faces staring up at him were marked with a curious similarity; it was a marine look, he thought, a fishy look of pallor and open mouths and bulging eyes. But a nervous stir suddenly dissolved the silence, and the expressions of communal shock and incredulity dissolved with it.

“What’s that?” Ward said in a soft, careful voice. “What did you say, John?”

“Just that she’s telling the truth.”

“What are you trying to do?” Malleck said. “What are you trying to pull here?”

“Well, if you ask me,” Detweiller said angrily, “I think...”

“Keep quiet,” Ward said, gesturing impatiently with his cigarette and dismissing Detweiller’s comment as if it were a digression in a business meeting. “Go on, John,” he said. “Let’s have the rest of it. I’m damned curious to know what’s behind all this.”

“Norton told me what happened,” Farrell said wearily. He sat on the arm of the sofa, lit a cigarette and tossed the match toward an ashtray. “It was the night we went to the Chiefs’ clubhouse. Norton was holding the girl during the fight. He stayed behind when the rest of us left. He lost his head and raped her. Tonight he called her with the hope of making amends somehow, of straightening things out. She told him to meet her in Raynes Park. She didn’t tell him Duke would be there.”

There was another deep silence in the room, an underwater stillness. Then Malleck said: “When did he tell you this?”

“Tonight.”

“After he’d been beaten up?”

“Yes. While Detweiller was getting you.”

“He confided in you, eh?” Malleck said slowly. “After you’d refused to help him, after you turned your back on him. After all that you become his bosom buddy, the one guy in the world he feels he can trust with this confession.”

“It wasn’t like that,” Farrell said. “I asked him what happened. When the story fell apart, he did too.”

“You mean you land of beat this thing out of him?”

“He told me what happened, that’s all.”

Detweiller was frowning and rubbing a hand along his jaw. “Then you knew this all along, eh, John? While we’re talking about ifs and ands and buts you had the real story. Why in hell didn’t you speak up?”

“I hoped I wouldn’t have to.”

“Well, this puts a funny light on tilings,” Detweiller said. He drank the few remaining drops from his drink and set the glass on the coffee table. “I mean, I’ve got no brief for Duke, but he probably did feel that he had a right to go after Wayne. It’s a normal impulse, I suppose, if...” The words dribbled away as he became aware that Malleck was staring at him.