Read Online On the Waterfront by Budd Schulberg - Free Book Online
Authors: Budd Schulberg
Tags: General Fiction
Ads: Link
the cop, to pencil his report D.O.A. Another Dead on Arrival from River Street.
Regan had asked a few routine questions of the onlookers—had anyone seen the fall and did anyone know whether young Doyle had been alone on the roof?—questions that had to be asked to cover Regan in case he was checked. Then, for the same reason, because it looked like an accident but probably wasn’t, he sent for the homicide squad. They drove up a little later, a pair of first-grade detectives who took over, especially the older man Foley, a fatgut who had started out doing a job on these waterfront cases until his captain had straightened him out. Most of the action in town was on the piers: the horse play and the dice and a cut of the pilferage, not to mention the pay-off on the ship jumpers and the nose candy from the Italian mob who maintained an uneasy truce with the Irish and Johnny Friendly in Bohegan. Foley had been ready to play it straight at the beginning but with a take-artist like Donnelly as Commissioner you would just louse yourself up and push yourself back into a uniform if you didn’t play along.
So Foley knew what kind of a report he was expected to bring in, but he also knew enough to make his questions hard and official. There would be days of this, all the motions of a thorough investigation, for there was nothing the Bohegan police force was better schooled in than covering up its tracks. The neighbors were watching warily as Lieutenant Foley turned to Pop Doyle.
“You’re Doyle, aren’t you? The boy’s father?”
Pop stared at him, angry behind his mask. “That’s right.”
“Would your son usually’ve been up on the roof at this time of night?”
Pop shrugged. “Once in a while. He’d be up there with his boids.”
“Any idea whether he was alone or not?”
“How should I know? I wasn’t up there.”
Mrs. Collins was pushing forward to have her say. She was a thin, once-pretty, nervous and overworked woman in her early thirties whose husband had been a hatch boss fished out of the river in the late 40’s. “Billy Conley and Jo-Jo Delaney are up on the roof all the time. Maybe they could tell you something about it.”
Pop glared at her. Helping cops was a waterfront taboo, no matter how you felt about the bums who muscled your union. “Buttinsky, you keep outa this,” he told her harshly.
The Conley and Delaney kids were standing near the front of the crowd. Foley knew them. They were marked tough juves who bore watching. The familiar blank look of caution-with-cops slipped over their faces.
“We aint been up on the roof for a nour. We didn’ see nothin’.”
Foley turned away from them. Punks. He’d have trouble with them one of these days. Everybody was staring at Foley and his partner with the same cold, disdainful look. The lips of old man Doyle were pressed together in a melancholy sneer. He was waiting for the next question.
“You’re sure you got no idea what he was doing up on the roof after dark? And whether he was expecting to meet anyone?”
A low growl of resentment came out of Pop. Cops! Who wants cops? Any ideas, he wants to know. A helluva lot he’d do if I filled him up to the eyebrows with ideas. Just get in more trouble, like poor Joey here.
“Any ideas, Pop?” Foley said again. “Any suspicions? Anything like that?”
“None,” Pop said.
Mrs. Collins pushed forward again.
“It’s the same thing they did to my Andy five years ago.”
Pop wheeled on her. Busybody. All of them. Why couldn’t they leave him alone with his heartache and his kid? All these questions and people poking their noses in. For what? Another whitewash. “You shut up,” he told Andy Collins’ widow. “You keep your big yap outa this.”
Mrs. Collins glared at everybody. She was always talking about her Andy and the thing they did to him five years ago. He had been a hatch boss on Pier C who hadn’t forgotten his years with a hook in his hand for one-thirty-seven an hour.
Regan had asked a few routine questions of the onlookers—had anyone seen the fall and did anyone know whether young Doyle had been alone on the roof?—questions that had to be asked to cover Regan in case he was checked. Then, for the same reason, because it looked like an accident but probably wasn’t, he sent for the homicide squad. They drove up a little later, a pair of first-grade detectives who took over, especially the older man Foley, a fatgut who had started out doing a job on these waterfront cases until his captain had straightened him out. Most of the action in town was on the piers: the horse play and the dice and a cut of the pilferage, not to mention the pay-off on the ship jumpers and the nose candy from the Italian mob who maintained an uneasy truce with the Irish and Johnny Friendly in Bohegan. Foley had been ready to play it straight at the beginning but with a take-artist like Donnelly as Commissioner you would just louse yourself up and push yourself back into a uniform if you didn’t play along.
So Foley knew what kind of a report he was expected to bring in, but he also knew enough to make his questions hard and official. There would be days of this, all the motions of a thorough investigation, for there was nothing the Bohegan police force was better schooled in than covering up its tracks. The neighbors were watching warily as Lieutenant Foley turned to Pop Doyle.
“You’re Doyle, aren’t you? The boy’s father?”
Pop stared at him, angry behind his mask. “That’s right.”
“Would your son usually’ve been up on the roof at this time of night?”
Pop shrugged. “Once in a while. He’d be up there with his boids.”
“Any idea whether he was alone or not?”
“How should I know? I wasn’t up there.”
Mrs. Collins was pushing forward to have her say. She was a thin, once-pretty, nervous and overworked woman in her early thirties whose husband had been a hatch boss fished out of the river in the late 40’s. “Billy Conley and Jo-Jo Delaney are up on the roof all the time. Maybe they could tell you something about it.”
Pop glared at her. Helping cops was a waterfront taboo, no matter how you felt about the bums who muscled your union. “Buttinsky, you keep outa this,” he told her harshly.
The Conley and Delaney kids were standing near the front of the crowd. Foley knew them. They were marked tough juves who bore watching. The familiar blank look of caution-with-cops slipped over their faces.
“We aint been up on the roof for a nour. We didn’ see nothin’.”
Foley turned away from them. Punks. He’d have trouble with them one of these days. Everybody was staring at Foley and his partner with the same cold, disdainful look. The lips of old man Doyle were pressed together in a melancholy sneer. He was waiting for the next question.
“You’re sure you got no idea what he was doing up on the roof after dark? And whether he was expecting to meet anyone?”
A low growl of resentment came out of Pop. Cops! Who wants cops? Any ideas, he wants to know. A helluva lot he’d do if I filled him up to the eyebrows with ideas. Just get in more trouble, like poor Joey here.
“Any ideas, Pop?” Foley said again. “Any suspicions? Anything like that?”
“None,” Pop said.
Mrs. Collins pushed forward again.
“It’s the same thing they did to my Andy five years ago.”
Pop wheeled on her. Busybody. All of them. Why couldn’t they leave him alone with his heartache and his kid? All these questions and people poking their noses in. For what? Another whitewash. “You shut up,” he told Andy Collins’ widow. “You keep your big yap outa this.”
Mrs. Collins glared at everybody. She was always talking about her Andy and the thing they did to him five years ago. He had been a hatch boss on Pier C who hadn’t forgotten his years with a hook in his hand for one-thirty-seven an hour.
Similar Books
