“I hadn’t thought of that,” she said doubtfully. “I was thinking of volunteering some evenings, but of course you’d want to work in the daytime.”
Then she brightened. “At least I can give you a briefing on the neighborhood before you go down. I’m only going to drop in on Joe for a minute, because my lunch period is practically over. Why don’t you wait and I’ll give you a travelogue as you drive me back to my office.”
I hadn’t contemplated going anywhere near the welfare office, but she put it in such a way I couldn’t very well refuse without being blunt. I said I’d wait a few minutes.
After a wait of about five minutes, Sara Chesterton took me to her office in the building housing Public Welfare. She chatted all the way about various technical aspects of her work as a relief investigator. As we passed a long counter in a large waiting room, Sara gestured toward it and said, “Intake. I get stuck for a week there every summer when the regular Intake girls go on vacation. Not that I mind too much. It’s kind of dull, but it’s a change from my usual routine.”
We stopped before the elevator and Sara pushed the signal button.
I asked. “What’s Intake?”
“Where they accept original relief applications. After Intake takes down the basic data, applications are sent upstairs to Records, where the information is carded.” She went on to tell me about the way Records sorted the cards into geographical districts and so forth, finally assigning them to caseworkers for investigation.
The elevator doors opened, we stepped in and Sara punched the button marked “Two.” The ancient cab started with a shake and crept upward.
I said, “Then you’re the one who decides whether an applicant is eligible for relief or not, eh?” I didn’t particularly care, but thought I ought to show at least polite interest in what she had been saying.
“I make an investigation, write it up and recommend either approval or denial. My casework supervisor, Mrs. Forshay, makes the actual decision based on my report, but almost never does a supervisor reverse a worker’s recommendation.”
The slow-moving elevator came to a stop and the doors opened. We stepped out into a huge room containing dozens of desks, about half of which were occupied. Sara hurried toward a desk situated in the center of the room.
As she seated herself and pointed to a chair next to her desk for me, she said, “But what you really want to know is about Joe’s neighborhood, isn’t it?”
I told her I wasn’t sure, since there were so many possibilities, but that a thumb-nail picture of the area would probably be the best starting point.
“Well, it’s a typical slum, area,” Sara said with a reflective look on her face. “Cramped housing, low incomes, low educational level. A large foreign-born element. Very little parental control over the children of high school age. Not that the parents aren’t strict. Most of them are quick to use a strap and the children jump when their parents speak. But homes are too crowded for much family life, and most parents down there are just as glad to have their offspring out from underfoot. That puts them out on the streets, and roaming the streets without much to do, the kids tend to get out of control.”
Then she went off into a long involved discussion of the psychological reasons behind mass juvenile delinquency. But I was after information about the two specific juvenile gangs, interesting as were the things she was saying.
I said, “What do you know about the organization of the Purple Pelicans and the Gravediggers?”
“Not too much about the Gravediggers, I’m afraid. That’s out of my welfare district. But a number of my clients have children who belong to the Purple Pelicans. I’ve seen them with their purple jackets. The girls wear similar jackets, and wear their hair in pony tails tied with a purple ribbon.”
“Know anything about their criminal activities?”
“Only suspicions. There are frequent muggings and also frequent shop burglaries, the loot usually easily disposable stuff like candy, portable radios and so on. It’s a safe assumption no outside gang would pull them in Purple Pelican territory — the gang wouldn’t tolerate it for long.”
“Ever pick up any rumors about narcotics traffic?”
“Vague ones. Several of my clients reported their teen-age children were using narcotics, and wanted me to do something about it. But there wasn’t much I could do, except authorize them to take the children to a doctor at agency expense.”
“Did you know this Bart Meyers kid personally?” I asked.
“Oh yes. His mother was a client of mine once. I closed her case a couple of years ago, though, so I haven’t seen much of Bart since.”
“You wouldn’t know of any enemies he had, then?”
Sara shook her head.
I got up out of my chair. “Thanks a lot. I don’t know wether anything you’ve told me will help, but at least it gives me a picture of the environment.”
“If you think of anything else you want to know, ring me up. Or better yet, drop by my apartment. I can serve you a drink there.”
“Sure,” I said. “I may take you up.”
It was well after two p.m. when I got out of the place. I didn’t know whether the boy whose name Joe Brighton had given me was a high school student or not, but I knew high school let out at two-thirty. By the time I could get down to Seventh and Vernon, there was a good chance I’d find him home.
He was just putting his books away when I stopped at his apartment on seven-twenty-two Vernon, a so-called railroad apartment house, like the rest on the block. That is, they were three or four rooms lined up in a straight row from the front of the building to the alley, much like railroad cars.
Stub Carlson was a stocky youth of about eighteen, wide-shouldered and well muscled. He had a square, not unpleasant face, a firm mouth and steady eyes. He wore his hair long, this apparently being a club trademark.
After he looked up from the note I handed him which Joe had written, there was faint interest in his eyes. “Manny Moon, eh? Joe’s told me about you. Private dick, aren’t you?”
I admitted I was.
His eyes strayed to my foot with a touch of curiosity. I’ve seen the same look in too many other eyes not to recognize what caused it. Joe had told him one of my legs is false from the knee down.
“It’s the right one,” I said dryly.
Guiltily his eyes jumped back to my face. He looked at me, though, with a natural and direct assurance. “Okay, Mr. Moon. What’s the deal?”
We went out to my car on my invitation, and I told him. At first he hesitated giving me any direct information, but, since Joe was his “number one pal” and because my note, I emphasized, gave me Joe’s guarantee, he agreed to cooperate with me. I impressed on him that I had no personal interest in him, or the Purple Pelicans, or the Gravediggers. “I don’t approve much of these clubs you kids form, because they get out of hand and grow into nothing but bands of hoodlums,” I said. “But you’ve got my word and Joe’s that nothing I hear will go any further.”
He told me of the club’s organization. It had four officers: president, vice president, secretary and treasurer. “The bylaws say they’re elected at an annual meeting by voice vote, but it isn’t quite that simple,” he explained. “When a guy stands up for president, you either have to vote for him or fight him. Because if you vote against him, it’s a challenge and means you think you can whip him. The same thing for the other officers. Usually there’s no challenges because they’ve all been settled on a vacant lot somewhere in advance of the meeting.”
“Like Joe and Bart were going to settle things?” I asked.
He gave me a startled look.
“Joe told me why he was meeting Bart at the club room,” I said. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to spread it. The police already suspect it anyway, though they haven’t any proof. What’s your office, Stub?”