A Matter of Conviction

“We try, all right. And the Narcotics Squad ain’t exactly asleep, either. But we ain’t got enough cops to go around. I’ll tell you something, Bell. I’ve never known a cop to take a bribe on a narcotics pinch. That’s the truth. I’m not saying you can’t fix anything else you’d care to in this city — including maybe murder. But junk, absolutely not. There ain’t a cop in this city who’ll take a nickel to square a junk rap. So you can’t say we ain’t trying. We just ain’t got the men. You know how many people there are in this precinct? Thousands! And we’ve only got a hundred and eighty-five patrolmen and eighteen detectives attached to the Twenty-seventh. And they’re supposed to keep all these people from slitting each others’ throats or taking dope or burglarizing apartments or selling stolen goods or mugging or pimping or whoring, and I tell you, my friend, it just can’t be done. You think we’d have these street gangs if we had enough cops? We’d rap these kids with a nightstick whenever they even looked at anybody cockeyed. That’s all half of them need, anyway.”

“Maybe,” Hank said.

“No maybes about it. A punk is a punk, and these kids are all punks. And I never yet seen a punk who didn’t begin blubbering the minute you cracked him one.” He paused. “We’re going to a poolroom on Second Avenue. We can find Big Dom there.”

“In your opinion, then,” Hank said, “all we have to do is get tough and we’ll wipe out the juvenile delinquency problem, is that right?”

“That’s right. A swift kick in the ass instead of all this mollycoddling. Since when have the psychiatrists become the ones who decide what’s right and wrong? A criminal is a criminal! We got enough nuts in the booby hatch now without trying to excuse every thief of his crime by saying he’s a disturbed personality. So who ain’t a disturbed personality? You? Me? We’re all a little nuts, but we’re also law-abiding citizens. Crack their goddamn skulls, that’s the answer. If a punk steps out of line, send him up and throw away the key. That’s the answer.” He paused. “Here’s the poolroom. You’re about to meet another punk who should have been locked up when he was six years old.”

They climbed the stairs leading to the second floor. There was the strong smell of urine in the hallway. Hank wondered, as they climbed, whether there was a single flight of stairs anywhere in Harlem which did not smell of human waste.

They found Big Dom at a table near the back of the pool hall. He nodded at the lieutenant, racked up the balls and then broke them. He’d been trying to knock one ball loose from the neat triangle. Instead, the balls scattered all over the table when the cue smashed into them. He looked up, shrugged and said, “Lousy break.”

“This is the D.A., Dom,” Gunnison said. “He wants to talk to you. He wants to hear the story you told me.”

“Yeah?” Big Dom studied Hank’s face. “Somebody beat you up, Mr. Bell?” he asked.

“Don’t get wise, punk,” Gunnison said. “You read the newspapers same as anybody else. Just tell Mr. Bell the story you gave me.”

“Sure,” Big Dom said.

He was truly a short boy, with wide shoulders and a thick neck and waist. He seemed to be having trouble now as he reached over the table for a long shot. He wore his hair very long, combed into a high black crown, with sideburns that dropped past his ears. In his left ear lobe he wore a circular gold earring. The ornament did not look feminine on him, however. If anything, there seemed to be a bull-like strength emanating from the boy. And immediately upon seeing him, Hank knew that Frankie Anarilles had been wrong in his judgment of this boy. For whatever his faults — and playing bad pool seemed to be one of them — this boy was definitely not lacking in leadership qualities. In the presence of a police lieutenant and a district attorney, he continued to shoot his solitaire pool as if he were an oil baron being visited at his estate in the California hills. He missed two shots in a row, studied his cue and said, “No wonder. The stick’s warped.” He went to the rack, held up a new cue, looked down the length of it with one eye closed and then went back to the table.

“So you want to hear my story, huh?” he said.

“Yes,” Hank answered.

“Mmm,” Big Dom said, and he triggered off another shot, missing. The new cue had not seemed to improve his game noticeably.

“You know who I am?” he said. “I’m Big Dom.” He paused. “Five ball in the side pocket.” He shot and missed. “This damn table is crooked,” he said. “The floor’s on a bias.”

“I’ve heard of you,” Hank said.

“Sure, everybody has. I had my name in the papers a total of sixteen times. They got my address wrong one time.” He wiped his nose on his forefinger and squatted so that he was just peering over the edge of the table as he sized up his next shot. Then he said, “Eight ball in the corner,” shot and missed.

“You know why they call me Big Dom?” he asked, straightening up.

“Come on, cut the jazz,” Gunnison said. “Mr. Bell’s a busy man.”