“Only wish Bumpy could’ve met her,” Frank said. “And I wish she could’ve met him.”
Eva’s father had given the bride away; but Bumpy, the man Frank thought of as his father, was in the ground. Maybe the great man had been there in spirit...
A photographer took the official photographs of the wedding party on the church steps, and Frank would have been surprised to know an unmarked car shadowing the festivities held another photographer, snapping a different breed of official photographs.
On this happy day, Frank was blissfully unaware that he had finally registered on Richie Roberts’s radar.
While members of Richie’s squad were attending the wedding that glorious fall afternoon, the narcotics squad leader himself was concerned with other photographs, surveillance shots dating back over the last two months.
Right now Richie was catching up his boss, Lou Toback, on their progress. Stacked on the banquet table in front of the bulletin boards were documents Richie and his guys had gathered, including the car agency records where the Lincoln Town Car had been purchased (not rented); Frank Lucas’s scant arrest record, including mug shots of a years-younger version of the suspected Harlem drug kingpin; and photographs of Lucas in his chinchilla coat and pimp fedora while holding court at the Ali/Frazier bout.
Toback said, “I’ve never even heard of this guy. And you say he’s a player?”
“Originally from Greensboro, North Carolina,” Richie said with a curt nod. He was on his feet in front of the bulletin boards. “Couple arrests, years ago. Gambling, robbery, unlicensed firearm.”
“Small time.”
Richie shook his head. “Not really — Lucas was Bumpy Johnson’s right-hand man.”
That perked Toback up, his eyes glittering now.
Richie allowed himself a smile. “Fifteen years, guy was Bumpy’s chief collector, bodyguard and driver.”
“No shit...”
“None. Fact, he was at Bumpy’s side when the old boy fell down and died there on the street.”
Toback — in shirtsleeves and loosened tie, leaning back on a metal chair — said nothing, but he was clearly keenly interested now.
For the first time in all these months, Richie felt a surge of excitement and a sense of accomplishment.
He went on: “Five brothers — Frank’s the oldest, and there’s lots of cousins, all living up here now, spread out around the boroughs and Jersey. On the street, they’re called the Country Boys.”
“We got names on these Country Boys?”
“More than just names,” Richie said, and he began pinning up pictures as he introduced Frank’s brothers to Toback, one at a time: “Dexter Lucas, in Brooklyn, operates a dry-cleaning establishment, where lately our guy Spearman has been doing business.”
“Spearman gets his clothes cleaned? Now that is a surprise...”
Richie tacked another photo to the board. “Terrence Lucas in Newark — owns an electrical shop. Jonesy got a lamp fixed there, recently... Melvin Lucas has a metal shop in Queens — Abruzzo bought a door there, last week... I had my tires rotated a couple weeks ago in the Bronx, at a garage operated by Turner Louis... Then later I got a nasty dent in my fender — funny what can happen when you kick a Dodge — but a body shop, out in Bergen County, fixed it up fine. Run by Huey Lucas, second oldest. When Huey isn’t in grease-monkey workclothes, he’s a Mack Daddy type in the threads department.”
“More than Frank?” Toback asked, with an arched-eyebrow nod toward the photo of the dude in his chinchilla coat and floppy hat.
“Except for the getup he wore to the fight,” Richie said, “Frank seems to keep it low key. Suit-and-tie-type, sharp but not exactly zoot. Leads an orderly and, outwardly, legitimate life... gets up early — five A.M. Has breakfast at the same midtown diner, usually alone. Then he goes to work.”
“Define work,” Toback said.
“Meets with his accountant, or one of his various lawyers. Drops in on several office buildings he owns.”
“What about nightlife?”
Richie shrugged. “Usually stays at home — who wouldn’t, with that beauty he’s marrying today... and turns out she is last year’s Miss Puerto Rico.”
“And this year’s Mrs. Frank Lucas,” Toback said dryly.
“When he does go out, it’s with her — to a club or dinner. He likes Small’s Paradise. Likes to hobnob with celebs and sports figures — Joe Louis, Wilt Chamberlain. Never with organized-crime guys.”
“You mean, never with white OC guys.”
“Right. He pals with the other Country Boys, of course. But I did see with my own eyes Dom Cattano and other top wise guys bowing down to him at the Garden.”
“Sit, would you?” Toback asked. “You’re making me nervous.”
Richie hadn’t realized he was pacing excitedly up and down in front of his newly revised table of organization.
Richie sat across from his boss. “That’s about it — other than his Sundays.”
“What about his Sundays?”
“You’ll love this,” Richie said with a chuckle. “He takes his little gray-haired momma to church.”
“Fuck he does.”
“Every Sunday, rain or shine. Then he drives out to a certain cemetery and changes the flowers on a grave.”
Toback frowned. “What grave?”
“Bumpy Johnson’s.”
“I may bust out crying.”
“Every Sunday. No matter what.”
Toback’s eyes went to the pinned-up surveillance photos. “Not your typical day in the life of a dope kingpin.”
Richie flipped a hand. “What was a typical day in Bumpy Johnson’s life like? And that motherfucker owned Harlem.”
“Bumpy had class,” Toback said reflectively, “for a lowlife shakedown racketeer.”
“And Frank Lucas learned from Bumpy. Was like a son to him, by all reports.”
Toback’s eyes tightened, skeptically. “You think Lucas took over for Bumpy? His damn driver? That’s a little far-fetched.”
Richie just smiled. “Is it? Everything Lucas does, he does like Bumpy.”
“Not everything.” Toback gestured to the Ali/Frazier photos again. “Bumpy never wore a goddamn chinchilla coat in his life.”
“We haven’t seen that again — hat and coat from the Garden seem to’ve been retired to a closet.”
“Okay. So what do we have on him we can use in court?” Toback gestured to the stack of documents. “Because interesting as all of this is, Richie? You don’t have anything that’ll stick. You try this, without informants and confiscated powder? No one’s going to jail, except maybe you, for contempt of court.”
Richie was shaking his head. “We won’t get any informants. Not inside Country Boy circles. It’s like a Sicilian family — structured that way, to protect the Godfather.”
This annoyed Toback. “Where the hell’d Lucas learn that?”
“Where else? From Bumpy. Bumpy did big business with the Cosa Nostra crowd, remember. And Frank was always at Bumpy’s side — enough so to learn how the guineas got things done.”
Toback threw a hand in the vague direction of the table of organization. “You’re talking like Lucas oughta be up at the top of that chart...”
Firmly, Richie shook his head. “He’s not even the man I want. I want to know who he’s working for — which Italians he’s wired up with, which white faces are bringing in all this high-grade heroin.”
Toback leaned back, his eyes traveling over the new pictures, the array of black faces that had invaded the white chart they’d been assembling.