The Strangler Page 4

“How I’m going to win. It’s gonna be a jump shot, right from here, right over you. Just so you know.”

  Joe’s brow crumpled. Was it a trick? Or just more showing off? It would be just like Ricky to promise a jump shot then race by Joe, just to make him look foolish. Then again…

  Joe flipped the ball back. “Check.”

  Ricky stab-stepped to his right, a long, convincing lunge with the ball whipping far ahead of him, almost behind Joe, and despite what Ricky had said, Joe reacted, couldn’t help himself—he stepped back. Just one fatal fucking step. Ricky pulled back and shot over him. Joe’s chin dropped even before the shot hit.

  “Game,” Ricky said.

  Joe glared.

  Ricky might have left it there. But the sight of Joe with that seething expression, that muscle twitching in his cheek—Joe looked like he might actually burst—seemed funny to him. Ricky watched Joe watching him, and because it was the only thing he could think of at the moment, Ricky finally blurted, “Boo!”

  Joe took off after him.

  “Oh, good gracious,” Margaret moaned, from the window. An image flashed in her mind: the two boys rolling on the sidewalk, punching, arms flailing, hugging each other close so neither could extend his arm and land a solid shot. They had been, what, eleven and sixteen? And determined to kill each other if she hadn’t rushed out and pulled them apart. And why? Over a basketball game. Good gracious!

  Ricky was sprinting back toward the house now. He leaped up onto the ten-foot chainlink fence that separated the Daleys’ driveway from the neighbor’s. Joe jumped too, but too late. Ricky scrambled up and over the fence and dropped down on the other side. Behind the diamond-mesh he grinned and panted, looking straight at Joe. “Where’s a cop when you need one?” he said.

  Amy covered her smile with her hand, as if it was impolite to laugh at the whole thing.

  “Oh, Joe.” Kat sighed. “Well, girls, we couldn’t all bet on Ricky now, could we?”

  6

  Walter Cronkite, in voice-over: “The focus of our report is a key store in Boston, Massachusetts. Address: three-six-four Massachusetts Avenue. Until recently this was the busiest store in the neighborhood, perhaps one of the busiest key stores in the world, open for business six days a week, nine hours a day in the winter, twelve hours a day in the summer. During business hours cars double-parked in front, and on some days more than one thousand customers entered this door. Many proceeded to a room in the rear of the store. We followed with a concealed microphone and camera.”

  A wide shot of a storefront. The picture was in black and white, though the TV set was a new four-hundred-dollar color console model, one of Ricky’s mysterious lavish gifts. In front of the store hung a sign in the shape of a key, its teeth facing up. The sign read,

  SWARTZ’S

  KEYS MADE WHILE U WAIT

  Cut to a tighter shot of the storefront: People sauntered in and out of the front door, men and women, white and colored, in suits and T-shirts. Then an interior shot, blurry, the frame jerking around, the perspective a low angle, elbow height, as if the camera was being held under the cameraman’s arm. Cigar-chewing men behind a counter. Amid the ambient chatter, a voice was overheard: “Gimme number six in the fifth, for one.”

  Cronkite’s voice again, grave and rhythmic: “The men behind the counter are called bookies. They are taking off-track bets on horses and dog races and selling chances on the numbers game, a form of lottery. What they are doing is illegal in every state of the union except Nevada. They are among thousands of bookies engaged in a nationwide multibillion-dollar-a-year business, a business that has been called ‘the treasure chest of the underworld.’”

  Onscreen a cop in uniform—police cap, white shirt, dark necktie, jacket, and slacks—strolled out of the key shop. He got into the passenger seat of a marked BPD cruiser which was parked directly in front of the shop.

  “Shit,” Ricky said. His hair was still damp and tendriled from the basketball game.

  Cronkite, still in voice-over: “How does organized gambling operate? How does this business continue despite laws against it? And when the laws are not enforced by police officers, how does this affect the community and the nation?”

  The police cruiser pulled away from the shop. Music swelled, Copland’s Appalachian Spring. The cruiser froze onscreen, and a title was superimposed over it: BIOGRAPHY OF A BOOKIE JOINT.

  “CBS Reports: Biography of a Bookie Joint is brought to you by pink-lotion Lux Liquid, the liquid for lux-lovely hands and sparkling dishes…”

  “Hey, Joe,” Michael called from the couch, “you better get in here and see this.”

  “Mikey, we’re in the middle of something here.” Joe and Kat had been arguing in the kitchen, in shouting whispers. No doubt she was reaming him out for losing it with Ricky during the basketball game.

  “No, you better come watch this.”

  Joe came out with a scowl. What now? He saw the slack-jawed gawp on his brothers’ faces. He glanced at the screen, which still displayed an ad for dish-washing liquid. “What? You guys look like someone just farted in church.”

  “They’re doing a show on The Monkey,” Ricky explained, “that key place on Mass. Ave.” The Monkey was the locals’ name for Abe Swartz, the old man who ran the bookie shop as part of Doc Sagansky’s operation.

  “Get the fuck out,” Joe said skeptically.

  “Just sit down, Joe,” Michael said.

  Joe shooed Little Joe off the couch and sat down. The house, which had never seemed small to the boys growing up, now felt comically miniature. Joe and Michael contorted themselves on the couch so as not to touch each other. Little Joe arranged himself on the floor in front of the TV.

  The show resumed with Cronkite in a wood-paneled studio, sitting on an unseen stool, his shoulders at an angle to the camera. He wore a gray suit, white shirt, dark tie, handkerchief folded in his coat pocket. Hair Brylcreemed straight back, bushy eyebrows, a thin mustache. He was not handsome—his chin was weak, his nose drooped—but maybe that was his secret. That sonorous, earnest, authoritative voice, the voice of Truth Revealed, issued forth from a guy who looked like your barber. Over Cronkite’s shoulder, in the upper left corner of the screen, was a still shot of the exterior of the key shop.

  “This is Walter Cronkite. Experts agree that organized gambling is the most lucrative, most corrupting, and most widely tolerated form of crime in the nation. This huge business pits the government of the underworld against the government of the people. The corner bookie, to be found in most American cities, is at the base of the problem. He is the so-called Little Man, but he is the funnel through which billions of dollars a year flow into the underworld. It is our purpose tonight to examine the consequences of the nickels, the dimes, and the dollars wagered with the corner bookie. He and his associates might operate out of a hotel room in New York or a tavern in San Francisco or, as in the case of this report, a key store on Massachusetts Avenue.”

  The brothers stared.

  On screen, a blank map of the United States. A line sprouted from Boston and stretched to a point that might have been Chicago. Then another, to Vegas. Another to L.A. To Miami. Montreal. New York. Soon the map looked like an airline route map, with every line originating in Boston. “…In August 1961, testimony at McClellan Committee hearings on illegal gambling alleged that Boston itself is one of the major layoff centers in the nation….”

  Amy wandered in from the dining room. “What’s this?”

  “Shhhh!”

  On screen, smoke rose from a trash can on the sidewalk in front of the key shop. A bettor came out of the shop and casually dropped a piece of paper into the smoldering can. “…It is a violation of a city ordinance to burn trash on the sidewalk, but here the smoke of burning betting slips remained a common sight, a beacon for bettors.”

  Kat and Amy and finally Margaret joined the group. From the men’s faces, they knew this program was not leading anywhere good.

  A narrator’s voice, ov
er grainy footage of people placing bets in the back room of the key shop: “The bettors at this bookie shop are not breaking the law; the bookies are. Most of the bookies’ business in the afternoon is in bets on horse races. The minimum you can bet on a horse race at a racetrack is two dollars. Here the minimum is one dollar and fifty cents. We watched some of the customers bet as much as fifty dollars; we’re told that a one-hundred-dollar bet is not unusual. The bookies claim that they pay the same betting odds as the racetracks; it’s generally reported that most bookies pay lower odds than the track. According to some of the customers, bookies at the key shop have never been known to welsh on a bet. As one customer put it, ‘This is a first-class bookie joint.’”

  The program cut from the bookie shop to a montage of horse-racing scenes: a bugler calling the horses to the post, crowds milling, money thrown down at the betting window, horses racing.

  Cronkite again: “Here the bettor who has the time and inclination can bet his entire bankroll legally. Pari-mutuel horse tracks are licensed in twenty-five states. Total attendance at these tracks last year: forty-eight and a half million persons. The handle, or total amount of money bet: three and a half billion dollars—one billion dollars more than the nation spent last year on new schools, classrooms, and textbooks. From the three and a half billions in bets on horses, the states received two hundred and fifty-eight million dollars in tax revenue. For every bet made here legally, it is estimated that at least three bets are made off-track, illegally, at places like the key store.”

  Another montage: an establishing shot of the entrance gate to the Wonderland dog track, more crowds and betting windows, dogs racing.

  Cronkite, in voice-over: “By seven-thirty P.M., Boston’s Wonderland, the world’s largest dog track, is open for business. Here gambling on dog races is legal. Attendance at this track during the racing season averages twelve thousand persons a night. Total yearly attendance: over one million, two hundred thousand. Pari-mutuel wagering on dogs is legal at thirty-five tracks in eight states. At Wonderland, more than six hundred and eighty-three thousand dollars was wagered in one night. The total amount wagered at dog tracks throughout the nation exceeds two billion dollars a year. Two hundred million dollars of this went to the states in tax revenue. It has been estimated that for each bet made at a pari-mutuel dog track, at least one other bet is made off-track. The states receive no tax revenue from off-track bets made with bookies at places like the key store.”

  Cronkite again appeared on screen, unruffled by all this troubling news: “Evidence to be detailed later in the program indicates that the gross income of the key store in Boston may have exceeded twenty-five thousand dollars a week. That’s a million and a half dollars a year, and that’s no penny-ante operation by any means. But there are larger bookie operations. Experts generally agree that illegal off-track bookmaking is a multi-billion-dollar-a-year business. And the experts also agree on another thing: illegal gambling cannot flourish for long unless it is protected.”

  A montage of police officers ambling in and out of the key shop, all in full uniform, including motorcycle officers in jackboots and jodhpurs, and traffic cops in white hats.

  A narrator’s voice: “Some government estimates put the cost of police protection at fifty percent of the net profits of the gaming operation. Several bookies told us the costs were getting so high that it was becoming more a police business than a bookie business.”

  More cops were shown coming and going. One was temporarily impeded by the trash can full of smoldering betting slips, which a bookie kindly moved out of his way. The cop tipped his cap to the bookie.

  Cronkite, voice-over: “From June the first to June third, 1963, we filmed ten members of the Boston police force entering or leaving the key store. We don’t know why they came to the key store or what they did inside. We only know that they were there.”

  A man in plain clothes came out of the key shop. Big guy with a barrel torso. He wore a dark coat, open collar, and flat-brim fedora.

  “Oh my God—” Kat muttered.

  But Cronkite cut her off. “The man coming out of the door now is a detective. We found that he comes from Station Sixteen, Boston Police Department, just a few blocks away.”

  The camera lingered on Joe as he loitered on the sidewalk outside the shop. He looked, even to the Daleys, like the very face of police corruption.

  “Oh my God,” Kat repeated. She had covered her mouth with both hands, as if to catch any words that might slip out.

  Cronkite: “Other Boston police officers were seen entering the key store during the course of our investigation. We must emphasize again that we do not know the nature of their business in the key store.”

  A white-haired gent appeared onscreen to opine on the matter of cops and bookies: “I think most of the policemen on the Boston Police Department are honest and want to do their sworn duty. However, some of them have been in touch with me, by calls and letters, and have written on police department letterhead, although unsigned, about suspected illegal gambling operations which they hope we will do something about.”

  And Cronkite again, now in close-up. “It has been said that police corruption can be found in every city where illegal gambling flourishes. The story has been told in headlines from cities across the nation time and time again. It is in part an answer to the question ‘What harm can there be in a little two-dollar bet at the corner bookie?’”

  “Fuckin’ Walter Cronkite.”

  “Shush, Joe!”

  “What, Mum? He can’t just—I mean, for Christ’s sake, I went in there for a key!”

  Ricky snorted.

  “Yeah?” Michael asked. “A key to what?”

  “What is this, cross-examination? I needed a key. So what?”

  Margaret turned to Amy as a representative of the news media. “Amy, can they do this? Just, just put up someone’s pitcher like that and say whatever they want?”

  Amy made a fatalistic shrug and turned her palms up. What can you do?

  Now the program displayed a banner headline from the Boston Traveler, “Commr. Sullivan May Be on Probation,” with the subhead “Volpe Has His Eye on Him.” Cronkite in voice-over: “…At a press conference Governor John A. Volpe said he expects the Boston police commissioner to fulfill his responsibilities in full compliance with the law.”

  Cronkite appeared onscreen again, in the wood-paneled studio. “We extended an invitation to Boston Police Commissioner Leo J. Sullivan to appear on this program to comment on the difficulties facing local police departments in coping with illegal gambling as reflected by the history of the key shop operation. Commissioner Sullivan has replied to our invitation with a letter outlining problems confronting local police. He points out that legalized on-track betting stimulates illegal off-track betting; that placing a bet off-track is not an offense; and that bookmaking is only a minor misdemeanor.”

  “Yeah, okay, Commissioner, I’m sure that’s gonna be good enough.”

  “Shush, Ricky.”

  Cronkite: “He went on to say that the local police administrator has limited manpower and funds, and that the combined efforts of all law enforcement agencies have failed to dent the framework of illegal gambling. ‘It would therefore be a grave injustice,’ said the police commissioner, ‘to denigrate an entire police department and to destroy the public image created by the fine accomplishments of many dedicated police officers on the basis of one such gambling establishment. In the final analysis, the people of this and every other community must come to the realization that it is their small individual bet that finances the illegal gambling empire and complete enforcement is not possible without the active assistance of all good citizens.’ Those were the words of Boston Police Commissioner Leo Sullivan.”

  “What a fuckin’ rat,” Joe said.

  The camera moved in on Cronkite. “At this point you may be inclined to say, ‘Well, those people in Boston certainly have their problems.’ Don’t deceive yourself. The chances a
re very great you have the same problem in your community. This is Walter Cronkite. Goodnight.”

  The Daleys were silent.

  The TV prattled awhile—“A word about the next CBS Reports in a moment…”—until Amy shut it off.

  “Fuckin’ Walter Cronkite,” Joe muttered.

  “Stop that.”

  “Fuck Walter Cronkite.”

  “Stop it. It’s not Walter Cronkite’s fault.”

  “Well, it’s not true.” Joe seemed to believe in the transformative power of his own confidence. A thing was not true because Joe Daley said it was not true. “They’re not gonna get away with this.”

  Amy said, “If you know any good lawyers, Joe…”

  “Why do I need a lawyer? I didn’t do anything. I just got done telling you.”

  “Joe,” Michael advised softly, “call Brendan.”

  7

  The hearing looked like a trial but it wasn’t. It was a bag job. The “judge” was a deputy appointed by the Commissioner, serving at the pleasure of the Commissioner, there to do the Commissioner’s bidding. The prosecutor was an I.A. lieutenant whose evidence consisted of a transcript of the CBS documentary and not much else. Joe had been forced to hire a lawyer, a shifty shyster he knew from the BMC, who made a few desultory objections. But everyone knew the verdict. Walter Cronkite had announced it on TV: Joe Daley was a bag man for the crooked cops in Station Sixteen. The inconvenient fact that the charge was true did not make the whole thing any easier for Joe to take.

  After he testified, Joe paced the hallway on the sixth floor of BPD headquarters, where the hearing took place. There were no reporters, no crowds. It was a family matter, for now.

  Brendan Conroy was still inside, shilling for Joe. His muffled voice carried through the door: Joe was a good kid, a good soldier. Third-generation Boston police. Son of a fallen cop. No one was defending what the kid did, of course. Of course. But then, there was honor in the way Joe’d come in there and kept his mouth shut and refused to roll over on anyone. Now, there was a time when cops were brothers, let’s remember. Did they mean to throw out the baby with the bath water? Did they really want to lose a kid like Joe Daley? Let’s not be more Catholic than the Pope here, fellas—if they were going to start canning every cop who ever took a few bucks, or who ate dinner at the kitchen door of a restaurant, well, let’s face it, before long there wouldn’t be a police department left. Anyway, the last Brendan Conroy had heard, Walter Cronkite had not been appointed commissioner of the Boston police.