Wheels (69 page)

With an effort, Rollie nodded.
Mule urged, "You find out who them guys was, I pass the word, we split the
dough, okay
.”

"I'll listen around," Rollie promised.
Soon after, he left the bar, his latest beer untouched.
Rollie knew where to find Big Rufe. Entering the rooms where the big man
lived, he found himself looking into the muzzle of a gun-the same one,
presumably, used nine days before. When he saw who it was, Big Rufe
lowered the gun and thrust it in his trousers waistband.
He told Rollie, "Them crummy wops come, they ain't gonna find no
pushover
.”

Beyond his readiness, Big Rufe seemed strangely indifferent-probably,
Rollie realized later, because he had known of the Mafia danger in the
first place, and accepted it.
There was nothing to be gained by staying, or discussion. Rollie left.
From that moment, Rollie's days and nights were filled with a new, more
omnipresent dread. He knew that nothing he could do would counter it;
he could only wait. For the time being he continued working, since
regular work-too late, it seemed-had become a habit.
Though Rollie never knew the details, it was Big Rufe who betrayed them
all.
He foolishly paid several small gambling debts entirely with silver
coins. The fact was noticed, and later reported to a Mafia underling who
passed the information on. Other pieces of intelligence, already known
about Big Rufe, were found to fit a pattern.
He was seized at night, taken by surprise while sleeping, and given no
chance to use his gun. His captors brought him, bound and gagged, to a
house in Highland Park where, before being put to death, he was tortured
and he talked.
Next morning Big Rufe's body was found on a Hamtramck roadway, a road
much traveled at night by heavy trucks. It appeared to have been run
over several times, and the death was listed as a traffic casualty.
Others, including Rollie Knigh
t-who heard the news from a terrified,
shaking Daddy-o
knew better.
Leroy Colfax went into hiding, protected by politically militant
friends. He remained hidden for almost two weeks, at the end of which
time it was demonstrated that a militant, like many another politician,
has his price. One of Colfax's trusted companions, whom each addressed
as brother, quietly sold him out.
Leroy Colfax, too, was seized, then driven to a lonely suburb and shot.
When his body was found, an autopsy disclosed six bullets but no other
clues. No arrest was ever made.
Daddy-o ran. He bought a bus ticket to New
York and tried to lose himself in Harlem. For a while he succeeded, but
several months later was tracked down and, soon after, killed by knifing.
Long before that-on hearing of Leroy Colfax's slaying-Rollie Knight
began his own time of waiting, and meanwhile went to pieces. Leonard Wingate had trouble identifying the thin female voice on the
telephone. He was also irritated at being called in the evening, at
home.
"May Lou who
.”

"Rollie's woman. Rollie Knight
.”

Knight. Wingate remembered now, then asked, "How did you get my phone
number? It isn't listed
.”

"You wrote it on a card, mister. Said if we was in trouble, to call
.”

He supposed he had-probably the night of the filming in that inner city
apartment house.
"Well, what is it
.”

Wingate had been about to leave for a Bloomfield
Hills dinner party. Now he wished he had gone before the phone rang, or
hadn't answered.
May Lou's voice said, "I guess you know Rollie ain't been workin'
.”

"Now, how in the world would I know that
.”

She said uncertainly, "If he don't show up . . .
"Ten thousand people work in that plant. As a Personnel executive I'm
responsible for most of them, but I don't get reports about individuals
, .
.”

Leonard Wingate caught sight of himself in a wall mirror and stopped.
He addressed himself silently: Okay, you pompous, successful, important
bastard with an unlisted phone, so you've let her know what a wheel you
are, that she's not to assume you've anything in common just because you
happen to be the same color. Now what?
In his own defense, he thought: It didn't happen of
te
n, and he had
caught it now; but it showed how an attitude could grow, just as he had
heard black
p
eople in authority treat other black people like dirt
beneath their feet.
"May Lou," Leonard Wingate said, "you caught me in a bad moment and I'm
sorry. Do you mind if we start again
.”

The trouble, she told him, was with Rollie. "He ain't eatin', sleepin',
don't do nuthun'. He won't go out. just sits and waits
.”

"Waits for what
.”

"He won't tell me, won't even talk. He looks awful, mister. It's like
May Lou stopped, groping for w
ords, then said, "Like he's wait
n' to
die
.”

"How long since he went to work
.”

"Two weeks
.”

"Did he ask you to call me
.”

"He don't ask nuthun'. But he needs help bad. I know be does
.”

Wingate hesitated. It really wasn't his concern. It was true be had
taken a close interest in hard core hiring, and still did; had involved
himself, too, in a handful of individual cases. Knight's was one. But
there was just so much help that people could be given, and Knight had
quit working-voluntarily it seemed-two weeks ago. Yet Leonard Wingate
still felt self-critical about his attitude of a few minutes earlier.
"All right," he said, "I'm not sure I can do anything, but Ill try to
drop by in the next few days
.”

Her voice said pleadingly, "Could you, tonight?
"I'm afraid that's impossible. I've a dinner engagement which I'm late
for already.
He sensed hesitation, then she asked, "Mister, you remember me?
487 "I already said I do
.”

"I ever ask you for anytbin'befo'
.”

"No, you haven't
.”

He had the feeling May Lou had never asked much of
anyone, or of life, nor received much either.
"I'm asking now. Please!
Tonight. For my Rollie
.”

Conflicting motivations pulled him: ties to the past, his ancestry; the
present, what he had become and might be still. Ancestry won. Leonard
Wingate thought ruefully: It was a good dinner party he would miss. He
suspected that his hostess liked to demonstrate her liberalitas by
having a black face or two at table, but she served good food and wine,
and flirted pleasantly.
"All right," he said into the telephone, "I'll come, and I think I
remember where it is, but you'd better give me the address
.”

If May Lou had not warned him beforehand, Leonard Wingate thought, he
would scarcely have recognized Rollie Knight, who was emaciated, his
eyes sunken in a haggard face. Rollie had been sitting at a wooden table
facing the outer door and started nervously as Wingate came in, then
subsided.
The company Personnel man had had the forethought to bring a bottle of
Scotch. Without asking, he went to the closet-Eke kitchen, found glasses
and carried them back. May Lou had slipped out as he arrived, glancing
at him gratefully and whispering, "I'll just be outside
.”

Wingate poured two stiff, neat Scotches and pushed one in front of
Rollie. "You'll drink this,"he said, "and you can take your time about
it. But af ter that, you'll talk
.”

Rollie's hand went out to take the drink, He did not look up.
4. Wingate took a swallow of his own Scotch and felt the liquor burn, then
warm him. He put the glass down. "We might save time if I tell you I know
exactly what you think of me. Also, I know all the words, most of them
stupid-white nigger, Uncle Tom-as well as you. But whether you like or
hate me, my guess is, I'm the only friend you'll see tonight
.”

Wingate
finished his drink, poured another and pushed the bottle toward Rollie.
"So start talking before I finish this, or I'll figure I'm wasting time
and go
.”

Rollie looked up. "You act pretty mad. When I ain't said a word
.”

"Try some words then. Let's see how it goes
.”

Wingate leaned forward. "To
start: Why'd you quit work
.”

Draining the first Scotch poured for him, Rollie replenished his glass,
then began talkingand went on. It was as ff, through some combination of
Leonard Wingate's timing, acts, and speech, a sluice gate had been opened,
so that words tumbled out, channeled by questions which Wingate
interposed, until the whole story was laid bare. It began with Rollie's
first hiring by the company a year ago, continued through his experiences
at the plant, involvement with crime
small at first, then larger-to the
robbery-murder and its aftermath, then the knowledge of the Mafia and word
of his ordained execution which, with fear and resignation, Rollie now
awaited.
Leonard Wingate sat listening with a mixture of impatience, pity,
frustration, helplessness, and anger-until he could sit no more. Then,
while Rollie went on talking, Wingate paced the tiny room.
When the recital was done, the Personnel man's anger exploded first. He
stormed, "You goddam fooll You were gi
ven a chance! You had it made!
And
then you blew it!
" Wingate's hands
clenched and unclenched with a complex
of emotions. "I could hill you!
"
Rollie's head came up. Briefly, the old impudence and humor flashed.
"Man, you gonna do that, you take a card 'n stand in line
.”

The remark brought Wingate back to reality. He knew he was faced with
an impossible choice. If he helped Rollie Knight to escape his
situation, he would compound a crime. Even failing to act on his own
knowledge at this moment probably made him an accessory to murder, under
the law. But if he failed to help, and merely walked away, Wingate knew
enough of the inner city and its jungle law to be aware that he would
be leaving Rollie to his death.
Leonard Wingate wished he had ignored the telephone bell tonight, or had
not yielded to May Lou's plea to come here. If he had done one or the
other, he would now be seated comfortably at a table with congenial
people, white napery, and gleaming silver. But he was here. He forced
himself to think.
He believed what Rollie Knight had told him. Everything. He remembered,
too, reading in the press of the discovery of Leroy Colfax's bullet
punctured body, and it had been drawn to his notice in another way
because, until recently, Colfax had been an assembly plant employee.
That was barely a week ago. Now, with two of the four conspirators dead
and a third having dropped from sight, Mafia attention was likely to
move to Rollie soon. But how soon? Next week? Tomorrow? Tonight? Wingate
found his own eyes going nervously toward the door.
He reasoned: What he must have, without delay, was another opinion, a
second judgment to reinforce his own. Any decision was too crucial to
make unaided. But whose opinion? Wingate was sure that if he went to his
own senior in the
company, the vice-president of Personnel, the advice given would be coldly
legalistic: Murder had been committed, the name of one of the murderers
was known; therefore inform the police, who would handle it from there.
Wingate knew-whatever the consequences to himself-he wouldn't do it. Or
at least, not without seeking other counsel first. An idea occurred to
him: Brett DeLosanto.
Since their first encounter last November, Leonard Wingate, Brett, and
Barbara Zaleski had become good friends. In course of an increasing
amount of time in one another's company, Wingate had come to admire the
young designer's mind, realizing that beneath a surface flippancy he
possessed instinctive wisdom, common sense, and a broad compassion. His
opinion now might be important. Also, Brett knew Rollie Knight, having
met him through Barbara and the Auto City filming.
Wingate decided: He would telephone and, if possible, meet Brett
tonight.
May Lou had slipped into the apartment unnoticed. Wingate didn't know
how much she had heard or knew. He supposed it didn't matter.
He motioned to the door. "Can you lock that
.”