The James Deans

“You see, the thing about Stevie was, he did it, but didn’t expect the rest of us to follow. It was okay if we did and okay if we didn’t. What he did was to challenge himself, not us. I always knew he had big things ahead of him.”

Wit and I let Day go on as long as he wanted, hoping that he’d arrive at a natural segue into the subject of the James Deans. Unfortunately, we had let that opportunity slip by. We were forced instead to listen to an interminable sermon on the glories of junk bonds, the torturous saga of his marriage to Annie, and his take on the failures of the football Giants.

“You know, Mike,” I interrupted, “Annie mentioned something to me about a group you and Brightman and a few other guys were in that I found pretty intriguing.”

He seemed surprised, if not upset. “Oh, yeah, what group was that?”

“The James Deans.”

“The James fucking Deans.” He laughed quietly, a smile that was part joy, part embarrassment washing over his handsome face. “I haven’t thought about the James Deans in twenty-five years. Man, we thought we were so cool.”

“Who were the James Deans, exactly? Annie wasn’t sure,” I lied.

“There was me and Stevie, of course, and Kyle Lawrence and Pete Ryder. Oh, yeah, and Jeff Anderson, too.”

He repeated the sad particulars of the tragedies that had befallen the group. Day, too, said they thought of themselves as a gang, but really weren’t. His riffs on being a fourteen-year-old boy sounded awfully like my own thoughts.

“We only ever had to do one thing that even remotely resembled a gang,” he said, completely without guile.

“What was that?” I asked.

For the first time Mike Day hesitated. “To get into the gang, you had to … um … take a scalp.”

“A scalp!” Wit started.

“Not a scalp scalp, not a real scalp.”

I could see Day regretted having brought it up, but I couldn’t let that get in the way. “Explain that scalp thing or it’s gonna end up in some national magazine and that won’t be good for anybody. You know what’ll happen if you don’t tell us. You were married to a reporter, for chrissakes!”

“Don’t remind me. Well, the scalp thing is what we called it, but what it meant was you had to steal something to get into the James Deans. You know, committing an act of defiance. I hope this isn’t going to cause Stevie any trouble.”

Wit reassured him. “Not at all, Mr. Day. It’s just background information. I won’t use it in my piece, so feel free to continue. You’ll notice, I’m not taking any notes.”

Mike Day breathed a big sigh of relief.

I was curious. “Do you remember what each member stole?”

He thought about it. Giggled. Flushed red. “I stole a box of sanitary napkins from Wiggman’s Pharmacy on Terrace Street. Jeff took his father’s watch. I didn’t think that should count.”

“Too easy,” I said.

“Exactly,” Day seconded. “Jeff always was a bit of a pussy, but Stevie said it counted.”

“The others?” Wit prompted.

“Pete stole Mr. Hart’s glasses right off the rostrum at band practice. Stevie took the school mascot, the Hallworth Harrier, from the hallway outside the gym. It wasn’t a real hawk, just a statue of one.”

“That leaves Kyle,” I reminded him. “What did he take?”

“You know, I don’t know. That’s funny, I forgot that. We never did find out what Kyle took, but Stevie vouched for him. He said that he was there and saw Kyle do it and that was good enough for us. Stevie’s word was always good enough for us.”

Wit and I exchanged sick, knowing glances. Mike Day, Pete Ryder, and Jeffrey Anderson might not have had a clue as to what Kyle Lawrence had stolen in the presence of Steven Brightman, but Wit did, and so did I. Knowing and proving, however, are not synonymous. We were still a long way from proving.

Chapter Eighteen

I didn’t want him to do it, but Wit volunteered. The truth of it was, we needed to buy more time, and unless we threw one of us to the wolves, we weren’t going to get it. Wit was the logical choice. He was less vulnerable to outside pressures than I. As a member of the press, he was fairly insulated from most physical threats. He was a long time divorced. His children lived well out of state. And in spite of what Thomas Geary thought of Wit’s inheritance, Wit assured me Geary was wrong.

“Poor sods don’t live at the Pierre,” he chortled.

So I had to turn rat. Before doing so, I made sure to finally get some sleep. The hangover I had skillfully avoided the night before through a combination of adrenaline and outrage had only been postponed, not canceled. By the time I dropped Wit off and pulled into my driveway at home, my head was tearing itself in two and my body literally ached from exhaustion.

Katy was still awake and was horrified by the look of me. “You didn’t come to bed last night and you were gone this morning before I got up. What’s going on, Moses? You’re not acting like a man on the verge of getting what he’s always wanted.”

“Get me a bottle of aspirin and we’ll talk about it.”

After a long shower and a handful of aspirin, I sat Katy down and told her why a little boy’s murder in 1956 meant I was never going to get any detective’s shield beside the replica she had bought for me two Christmases ago. She did not try to undo any of my reasoning. I was glad, because I had no more energy to fight, only to sleep.

“I might be going away for a few days,” I said before closing my eyes.

“Where?”

“It’s better if you don’t know. It’s better if no one knows. We’ll all be safer that way. Can you take Sarah up to your parents’ for a while?”

“I guess. Is it that serious?”

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t do another thing. Thankfully, sleep came crashing in before I could make sense of the look on Katy’s face.

They were gone by the time I got up. I was never so glad to have my family away from me. I didn’t know how much physical danger any of us were in, but I wasn’t going to take chances with Katy and Sarah. There had been enough loss in our lives. There had been enough loss in the lives of too many people connected to this business. No one but Wit would be in any danger if I could pull off the rat routine. First I had to find Ralph Barto’s card.

Barto, whom I’d met at Joe Spivack’s funeral, was someone I needed to talk to. Not only had he been a U.S. marshal, he’d also worked for Spivack. He had offered his services to me, and I was about to take him up on that offer.

He picked up on the first ring. “Barto Investigations.”

“My name’s Moe Prager, Mr. Barto. We met at-”

“-Joe’s burial. I wouldn’t forget you. You got Joe’s flag. What can I do for you?”

“I’m not sure yet, but can we meet?”

“Name the time and the place,” he said.

I gave him the address of the Brooklyn store. Although it was unlikely I was being watched, I thought it wise not to draw undue attention by going to Barto’s office. I instructed him to stroll into the store in the early afternoon just like any customer and that we’d take it from there. He didn’t question the arrangements.

The phone rang nearly before I put it back down. It was Larry McDonald. It was unnecessary for him to say anything more than my name for me to know word of our visit to Hallworth had already leaked back to Brightman.