American Gangster

17. Swear to God

Frank Lucas took Dominic Cattano’s advice and did not let the “girl” get away — barely two months passed between Frank’s presentation to Eva of the engagement diamond and a wedding day that, for a while at least, was so perfect his North Carolina momma might have conjured it in a dream.

In the biggest Baptist church in Harlem, his brother Huey at his side as best man, Frank — in a beautifully tailored sky-blue tuxedo — stood on the altar looking out at a sea of ladies’ hats, all coral and pink. Eva’s family and friends were on one side of the aisle, and the extended Lucas family on the other, Frank’s mother gazing up at her eldest son with teary-eyed pride.

As expected, Eva was a vision in radiant white as her father escorted her down the aisle; then, in a blur, Frank was slipping the simple gold band on next to the honking diamond, and Eva was putting a gold band on his finger. The minister pronounced them man and wife, Eva lifted her veil, and their first married kiss was to applause so resounding you’d have thought Jesus Christ himself had made his long-promised return visit.

Charlie Williams, Bumpy’s old friend and a current associate, was at Frank’s side when Eva threw her bouquet.

“Most beautiful bride I ever saw, Frank,” Charlie said.

“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.

“Okay,” Toback said. “You’re doing good.”

“Not sorry you put me in charge of this?”

His boss stood, the lanky man seeming to unfold himself, as he gave Richie a wry, rumpled grin.

“Not yet,” Toback said, and ambled out, leaving Richie to his work.

The reception at the church was loud and fun and sentimental, with Frank and Eva dancing before the assembled guests and receiving another resounding round of applause, plus the requisite ooohs and aaahs.

When the bride and groom finally left the church, God played a trick and sent rain machine-gunning down on them, as they raced to the back of the Town Car. Then Doc was behind the wheel and the vehicle was pulling slowly out through the crush of happy faces below umbrellas, guests waving wildly and throwing kisses.

The downpour stopped as suddenly as it had come. A gentle blue twilight had fallen as the Town Car made its way along the rain-slicked streets, flanked fore and aft by security vehicles. In the backseat Frank and Eva held hands and cuddled and smiled goofily at each other, a couple of giddy kids. Neither of them saw the Shelby Mustang roll up alongside.

Doc instinctively reached for his rod, but then he saw the badge in the hand of the smiling, handsome, devil-bearded SIU cop: Trupo his own self, shaking his head gently, no, boy, you wouldn’t want to do that...

Pulled over in Central Park, the Town Car, security vehicles and Mustang sat and idled, making clouds of gray poison.

“Stay in the car,” Frank told Eva, giving her the slightest reassuring glance when he saw her fear; then he was walking toward the man in the black leather topcoat. Doc got out, too, but Frank said, “I’ll handle this,” and Doc passed the word to the other bodyguards, who were getting out of their vehicles, as well.

Trupo walked loose and confident across the damp grass, not far from the parked cars, and Frank met him halfway.

“Hello, Frank,” Trupo said, though they’d never met.

The two men stood facing each other.

“Detective,” Frank said with a professionally courteous nod.

Trupo glanced toward the Town Car. Eva’s worried face was in the backseat window. The detective smiled at her, gave her a little salute, and she glared at him and turned her head away.

The cop sucked in his breath and hiked his eyebrows. “Hope you’ve done the right thing, Frank. Beautiful girl, no question, but seems to got an attitude on her.”

“Listen to me,” Frank said. His tone was even, the threat strictly in the words themselves. “Before you say another word about her... or about me... remember that you’re saying it on the most important precious fucking day of my life.”

Trupo said, “Respect is a two-way street, Frank.”

“Meaning?”

The cop shrugged good-naturedly. “Meaning, guy walks around in a fifty-grand coat, and he never even buys me a cup of coffee? Something wrong there. Something out of balance.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Trupo’s smile would have been charming, in other circumstances. “You pay your bills, Frank?”

“You want to keep talking,” Frank said, an edge coming in, “talk to my lawyer — here’s his card.” Frank gave it to the cop. “You call him, ’cause we’re done here.”

And Frank started to go, but Trupo’s gaze stopped him. “Do you pay your bills, I asked you.”

Frank stared coldly at the son of a bitch. “If you’re not getting your share, it’s not my fault. Go talk to your chief.”

Trupo’s eyelids went up and something vaguely maniacal was in his expression now. “My share? What is my share, Frank? I don’t think you even know me. How do you know I’m not a special case?”

“You guys all look alike to me.”

Trupo still had his shield in his hand and showed it to Frank. “See what that says? I know you can read. I know you’re smart.”

Frank said nothing and did not look at the badge.

Trupo went on: “Special... Investigations... Unit. See, it’s right in there, the word we’re discussing: special.” With care, the detective took a business card from his breast pocket, under the leather coat. “I have a restaurant; little investment. Drop by anytime, and it’s on me... But first of the month? It’s on you. Ten grand. Delivered to this address.”

Frank did not take the card. He regarded Trupo with open contempt. “Detective,” he said, “there are some things you don’t do, unless you’re a damn fool. This is one of them — you don’t do this kind of business on a man’s wedding day.”

Trupo’s confidence buckled, just a little, his rhythm thrown by Frank’s resolve. “Yeah, well, later then... Have a nice honeymoon.”

And the detective saluted again and ambled off.

Truth be told, the honeymoon got off to a rocky start. They weren’t flying to Nassau till tomorrow, and this first night of their marriage would be at the penthouse, where — instead of carrying Eva over the threshold — Frank left her standing in the doorway, while he strode to the gas fireplace.

He lighted it with a match, then made a beeline to the bedroom without his bride and returned with the fifty-grand chinchilla coat, and threw it onto the flames. The floppy hat, too. The garments smoked and stank like hell, but they burned just fine.

Then he walked over to her and smiled and took her into his arms. She was a little afraid, but he kissed her, making it better, and they never spoke about it, the coat and hat and everything they represented now history.

But Eva Lucas would never again attempt to dictate her husband’s wardrobe.