Felony Fists (Fight Card) Read online

  With Father Tim turning a blind eye, because he figured it was for the best, I’d lied about my age and joined the Navy at fifteen. After I was discharged, it wasn’t hard to keep those extra fake years and put them on the L.A.P.D. application to say I was twenty-one.

  Three years later, it didn’t seem to matter much. Everybody on the L.A.P.D. started in uniform after graduating from the police academy, but I was determined to go further. I was working hard, making good arrests, and developing a reputation as Felony Flynn. I was just hoping it would be enough to get me promoted.

  Chief Parker was trying to clean up the department, getting rid of slugs like Bump and separating the cops from the crooks. His personal rough riders were known as The Hat Squad, a group of hand-picked detectives working directly for the chief. Their official title was The Gangster Squad, but their sharp suits and fedoras gave them The Hat Squad nickname.

  The Hat Squad took on all the goons and thugs who worked for guys like Mickey Cohen. Getting the mob’s big boys was almost impossible, but taking out levels of their organization and making them feel the heat was what The Hat Squad specialized in. They were really something, and I wanted to be part of that something. I hated the feeling I had at the Olympic, knowing there was nothing I could do to a guy like Cohen.

  My show of bravado hadn’t meant anything other than letting Cohen mark my card. The department was still full of guys like Bump who were in Cohen’s pocket. Parker was weeding them out, but they could still make trouble for a guy like me.

  I realized I wasn’t paying proper attention when a new model Cadillac blew out of an alley onto Main Street right in front of me. I slammed on the brakes and pulled the wheel to the left. The Caddy fishtailed, just slipping around me, and sped away. I caught a glimpse of a young couple scared out of their wits in the front seat.

  The car, the couple, their clothes, the look on their faces, all clicked through my brain in a split second. They weren’t the problem. I knew what a couple of rich kids in one of their daddies’ cars had been doing in the alley in this part of town – looking for cheap thrills buying reefer. I didn’t care about them, but something had scared them, and the bigger bust was probably still down the alley.

  I got the prowl car stopped before it crossed the alley mouth. I pushed open the door and slid out, pulling on my sap gloves and grabbing my hickory nightstick. Sap gloves worked like a charm. There were pads of sand sewn into the palms and along the backs of the fingers. You could slap a man down and ring his bell without ever making a fist.

  I reached back into the car and grabbed the radio mike from its hook on the dash. “One F Eighteen, officer needs back-up, north south alley west of Main and Third.” Most of the other night watch units would be circling the station waiting to go end of watch, but the back-up call would get them rolling my way.

  “One F Eighteen, roger,” the female voice of the RTO, radio telephone operator, responded and then put out the call over the main frequency.

  I crouched down and peeked around into the alley. What I saw brought me immediately to my feet and sprinting toward trouble.

  In the spillover light from a streetlamp, I could see three figures beating on a fourth who had just fallen to the ground. The standing figures were wielding lengths of pipe and intended on doing some serious damage.

  I had a .38 on my hip, but I didn’t need it. Being outnumbered didn’t bother me. Mickey and me had always been outnumbered.

  I didn’t call out, and the standing trio didn’t hear me coming. They thought they had it all their way, and were taking their time salivating over their victim like a pack of wild dogs.

  I saw a lead pipe come up, ready to swing down on the legs of the man on the ground. I swung my nightstick – two and a half feet of hardwood – and broke the hand holding the pipe.

  The owner of the hand yelped like a little girl, dropping the pipe and sticking his injured mitt between his knees. I clouted him hard over one ear with the open, sand filled, palm of my free hand and he went down without a peep. All of a sudden the odds had changed from three on one to two on two, even though the Negro kid who was getting the beating was still on the ground with his knees pulled up and his arms over this head.

  “Hello, boys,” I said with a wicked smile. “What’s this all about?”

  The shock of my appearance on the scene froze the action for a second. Both of the remaining thugs were ten or more years older than the kid on the ground and both were white. I recognized one of them as a low level soldier from Cohen’s mob named Tellis. The guy with him was taller and skinnier, with a pock-marked face and a honker the size of a schooner. I’d seen his face on a wanted poster for assault. His name was Cooper.

  “You don’t want none of this, Flynn,” Tellis said.

  “Is that so?” I was just close enough to throw out a jab with my nightstick. It caught Tellis in the gut and he doubled over.

  Cooper jumped forward, swinging his length of lead pipe at me. As he did, he had to step over the kid on the ground. The kid suddenly came to life, kicking upward into Cooper’s exposed groin – hard. Cooper reacted as you would expect, the pain causing him to stumble over the kid and fall to the ground.

  I was surprised. The kid had sand. As Cooper fell, it was no sweat for me to step him and sap glove him the rest of the way to the ground.

  Tellis had backed away from me and straightened up. I’d only given him a love tap and he’d recovered quickly.

  “He’s cutting in on our turf,” Tellis said pointing at the kid. “He had to be taught a lesson.”

  “This isn’t your turf.” Sirens shrilled and closed in on us, getting closer by the second.

  Tellis had a reputation as a hard man. He wasn’t going to go quietly.

  He came at me swinging his pipe at my head.

  Street fighting was a lot different than fighting in the ring. In street fighting there was only one rule – win.

  I blocked the swinging pipe with my nightstick, then whipped the hickory down onto the juncture where Tellis’ neck met his shoulder.

  Tellis howled and dropped his pipe. I pulled the nightstick back and swung it again, this time lower and harder – taking out Tellis’ knee. He fell to the ground yowling and curled into a ball.

  The Negro kid had scrambled to his feet, but he hadn’t gone anywhere. He was just standing and trembling. He couldn’t have been more than thirteen or fourteen.

  A prowl car with siren blaring and lights blazing pulled into the far end of the alley and raced toward us. Another entered on the near end. The cavalry was arriving almost too soon.

  “Where’s the dope, kid?” I asked.

  “What . . .” He may have had sand, but a lot of it was between his ears at the moment.

  “The reefer!”

  “He took it,” he said, pointing to the first guy I took down.

  The two prowl cars screeched to a halt and uniforms poured out. Guns and nightsticks were everywhere. The kid threw his hands up in the air. Telis and Cooper were still groaning on the ground. The first one I’d hit with the sap gloves was still out.

  “Easy,” I said loudly to the arriving cops. “It’s under control.”

  Evans, the watch sergeant, stepped up next to me. He looked around at the human debris on the ground. “What’s going on, Felony? Don’t look like you need any back-up.”

  “Just a hand running these goons in.”

  “Charge?” Evan’s asked.

  “Filth and ignorance in the presence of a police officer.” It was an old line, but Evans still chuckled. Other cops were putting handcuffs on the three thugs. The Negro kid was still standing there with his hands up, but everyone was ignoring him.

  “They were drunk and disorderly,” I said. “If you search the one over there, you’ll probably find enough to book him for a felony.” I indicated the thug who had taken the dope from the Negro kid. “I recognize the tall one from a wanted flyer. You can let the other go after he’s sobered up.”

  “You
’re not taking the felony bust?”

  “Not tonight. I already got my quota.”

  “What about Sambo?” Evans asked, tilting his chin to indicate the Negro kid.

  “Uninvolved witness,” I said. “Wrong place, wrong time.”

  “I’m sure we can find some charge to fit,” Evans said. He was a casual racist – the worst kind. Every Negro person was Sambo to him, man or woman. He was like my partner, Bump, stupid and lazy.

  “Be satisfied with the trio,” I said.

  Evans nodded. It was nothing to him.

  I knew the three men would keep their mouths shut about the real situation. They weren’t drunk, but that was a negligible detail. Sergeant Evans wouldn’t push the point. He knew how the game was played.

  The other cops had the three thugs on their feet and headed toward the prowl cars. Evans nodded to me again, then walked away to follow them.

  I reached over and grabbed the Negro kid by the scruff of his collar. “What’s your name?”

  “R . . . Ro . . . Rodney,” he stuttered. “Rodney Stone.”

  “Relax, Rodney,” I said. “How old are you?”

  “Eighteen.”

  I laughed, pulling his collar tight and pushing my face into his. “Lie to me again and I’ll call Sergeant Evans back. I’m sure he can find room in the Gray Bar Hotel for you with the others.” I shook him. “Now how old are you?”

  “Fourteen, sir . . . Fourteen.” He was trembling again.

  “Where are your parents?”

  “Don’t got no daddy. Momma died last week.”

  On paper, my story was the reverse. In reality, it was a lot worse. Me and Mickey were alone on the Chicago streets when I was eight and he was ten. The orphanage was a nightmare, except for Father Tim. The priest was the biggest, meanest, fairest, most loving man I’ve ever known. Everything I know about fighting, boxing, and being a man, I owed to him.

  “Come on.” I gave Rodney a shove in the direction of the alley mouth where my prowl car was parked. He scampered ahead of me, but I still had my hand on his collar. He wasn’t going anywhere I didn’t want him to go.

  “Who gave you the dope to sell? I asked.

  Rodney was too scared not to answer. “Mr. Hudson. He’s gonna kill me.”

  Amos Hudson ran the Negro gangs in the city. His skin was a different color, but he was just as bad as Mickey Cohen. Vice wasn’t racist, it debased and humiliated everyone.

  “You aren’t going to have to worry about Hudson,” I said. At the prowl car, I opened the passenger door and shoved Rodney in.

  “Where you takin’ me?”

  “Bonnie Wallace’s.”

  Bonnie ran a Negro brothel. She also had a soft spot for kids. She’d give Rodney a bed. Using my money, she’d call ahead to Father Tim and let him know I was sending him another orphan, and then she’d get Rodney on a bus to Chicago. If he stayed on the bus all the way, Father Tim would take him in and teach him to survive – just like he’d taught me and Mickey.

  Mickey and me both sent money fairly regularly. Every once in a while, I’d send a kid. Rodney had shown he had sand in the alley when he kicked Cooper. He was on the wrong path – the same one me and Mickey had been on. If he took it, Father Tim would give him a chance.

  As I got in the prowl car on the driver’s side, I looked across the street and saw a plain clothes detective sedan parked at the curb. A big Negro man in a sharp dark suit leaned against the front fender. The fedora on his head was pushed back and I could see the tuft of white in his hair.

  I looked at him. He looked at me.

  There was no doubt he was a cop – a detective. There weren’t many Negro cops on the force, but there were a few in patrol. I didn’t know of any Negro detectives. The hat, the suit, and the flashy detective sedan, put him way above the station where men like him were usually forced to stay.

  He was wearing the signature fedora of the Hat Squad, Chief Parker’s elite gangster squad.

  Yet I knew he was in Gangster Mickey Cohen’s pocket.

  ROUND 3

  As far as I could tell there hadn’t been any fallout from the arrests the night before. I hadn’t expected any. Even though we were supposed to be the good guys, we boys in blue were the toughest gang in town. We took care of our own. I had no doubt Cohen’s flunkies would carry word back to him about the events and my intervention.

  To save their own skins with Cohen, they would have to make up a good reason for why three of them couldn’t handle one kid and a cop. The version Cohen heard would make it sound as if they had been set up by all the cops who had finally arrived.

  Since Tellis knew me, I figured my name would come up on Cohen’s radar again. I wasn’t sure if I wanted the notoriety. It wasn’t healthy to keep coming to a mob boss’ attention. If Cohen thought I was running a campaign against him, I might soon be dodging bullets instead of fists. However, I figured I was low level enough not to make Cohen go out of his way to do something about me.

  I also figured it wouldn’t hurt my chances of promotion to be seen as somebody who wasn’t scared to do his job, even if it meant taking on connected thugs.

  ***

  Midway through the following morning, I was at Ten Hawks Gym watching Billy Two-Shoes let a young Mexican kid, named Chico, tag him with an ambitious, but weak three punch combination.

  The gym was always filled with shadows due to the grimy windows and bad ceiling lighting. There was little ventilation to reduce the smell of sweat, leather, liniment, and testosterone. The walls were plastered with posters from old fights slapped up between old mirrors. However, despite hard use, Pops managed to keep the three rings in decent shape along with the rest of the equipment.

  “Faster,” Pops said from ringside.

  Chico threw the left jab, right jab, left uppercut again with no appreciable difference.

  “What are you, on siesta? Harder! Faster!” Pops said, and Chico let fly again. This time Billy swatted away the punches. He then stepped in and threw two lightning jabs, each barely touching the tip of Chico’s nose inside his head gear.

  “Enough!” Pops called out, and Billy floated away. Billy was sixteen going on thirty. Chico was barely ten. Billy was on his way to the Golden Gloves. Chico was just trying to make it through another Saturday.

  Pops pulled himself into the ring and started showing Billy a new combination to take advantage of his fast hands.

  I set a stool down in the opposite corner. Chico flopped down on it. There were tears of frustration in his eyes, but he wouldn’t let them fall.

  “You did good,” I told him.

  “Pops say too slow . . .” Chico tailed off. His English was bad enough without his mouthpiece in place. The red gloves on his fists looked huge at the ends of his stringy arms. I was surprised he could even hold them up, let alone throw punches.

  “Too slow for Billy,” I agreed. “But faster than last week, and faster than Henry or Carlos.” The other two boys I named were eleven. They were also in the Police Athletic League. Chico could give either of them more than they could handle in the ring.

  Outside of the ring, the three boys were from different parts of the neighborhood. Geographically they should have been enemies, even at their young age. Because of PAL, they beat each other up in the ring with padded gloves instead of flick knives on the streets.

  The kids loved the gym. It was more home to them than the houses they lived in. They knew Pops wouldn’t let them in if he heard they had been fighting outside – and Pops always knew.

  Pops made every kid who came through the door part of the Hawks tribe. He mixed them in with his own nine kids just like they were family. They walked taller being Hawks, and they knew to be a Hawk, they had to behave a certain way.

  To them Pops was a lot like Father Tim had been to me and Mickey, only without the white collar. Instead of a gang of ruler wielding nuns, Pops had me to back him up.

  Pops had seen me fighting one night in a local smoker. When he found out I
was also a cop, he recruited me to help him run the Central Division PAL.

  The police department sponsored PALs at each division, taking in the neighborhood kids, keeping them busy and safe. We fought the other division PALs in tournaments. It was a rare fight when one of the Hawks lost on points.

  Billy Two-Shoes was one of three American Indian kids from the Chumash tribe in the Central Division PAL. He was also something special. PAL was sponsoring Billy in the Golden Gloves, but Pops himself made sure Billy’s family had food and a roof, so Billy could fight instead of work to support them.

  Pops made pennies go a long way. During his time as a cop, he’d found out where a lot of skeletons were hidden. He rattled them gently whenever there was a need. Nobody said no to Pops.

  I unbuckled Chico’s head gear and pulled his gloves off. His hands were so small I did it without unlacing them. I tossed him a towel. He put it around his neck, holding onto the ends like he’d seen older boys do.

  “Pops put you in against Billy because he knows you can take it,” I said. “He knows it will make you better.”

  Chico nodded, not sure if he believed what I was saying.

  “Who else your age has sparred with Billy?”

  Chico shrugged.

  “Nobody, that’s who,” I said. “Pops thinks you got it. So do I.”

  Chico looked at me, wanting it to be true. “Verdad?” he asked, his voice low.

  “Yeah, verdad,” I said. Truth. I held the ropes apart and he climbed out. I threw a punch at him. Chico blocked it and shuffled left ready to let loose a jab.