The Fence - Dick Lehr [49]
Earlier that very morning, around two o’clock, after gunshots sent patrons of the Cortee’s scattering into the night, either running on foot or riding in cars past onrushing teams of gang unit and other Boston police officers, Lyle Jackson and his two friends headed over to Walaikum’s Burger.
To get there, Lyle’s friend Stanley drove his Hyundai up Washington Street and came within a block of where Mike Cox and his family lived on Supple Road. Stanley continued on past a high school, past Castlegate Street, and past a fire station. Washington Street then emptied into the Grove Hall section of Roxbury. The three turned right onto Blue Hill Avenue, passing the red-brick Muhammad’s Mosque #11, the Boston headquarters for the Nation of Islam founded in 1954 by Malcolm X.
The drive was no more than a half-mile long. Walaikum’s was now practically in front of them, just a block up Blue Hill Avenue—451 Blue Hill Avenue—across the street from a hairdresser’s, a fashion store, and a used-furniture shop. Walaikum’s was a hole-in-the-wall with a shabby storefront. On each side of the entrance, two air conditioners stuck out of the front wall. The neon sign hanging above the store was hokey-looking—three palm trees swayed into the squiggly letters spelling “Walaikum.” The door opened into a small room. Directly ahead was a counter where food orders were placed amid the racks of bread. To the left, four tiny tables and a bench were squeezed together, and, to the right, another counter where patrons could stand and eat. The only telephone was in the kitchen.
Lyle and his friends found the restaurant filled with other young people who’d piled out of the Cortee’s. Lyle ordered chicken wings and a hamburger. He was a steady customer and recognized many of the faces in the crowd, but mostly by nicknames, like Flavor and Pooh. The atmosphere was charged and noisy. In the kitchen, owner Willie Wiggins worked furiously to turn out the orders. In the crowd, Lyle’s hamburger accidentally got knocked to the floor. He went to the counter to order another. Everyone was still talking about the gunfire at the Cortee’s. “You can’t go out anymore,” joked someone near Lyle. “It’s getting like New York around here.”
While many clubgoers resurfaced at Walaikum’s, the contingent of Boston police hung around outside the Cortee’s, the sizzle gone from their night. The flat mood was apparent in the conversation on the police radio channel. “Okay,” Craig Jones muttered in a monotone, “what’s the game plan?” The gang unit supervisor, Sergeant Ike Thomas, replied, “The game plan? They took our ball and bat.” There was radio silence—the equivalent of no comment. “Everybody into the base,” commanded Thomas.
The gang unit and other police officers began clearing the scene.
Dave Williams, meanwhile, made his way back to the station in Dorchester, where he ran into Jimmy Burgio in the parking lot, pumping gas into his cruiser. They got to talking. Williams mentioned he was thinking about sitting on a house off Bowdoin Street, not far from the Cortee’s, known for late night parties and trouble. “See what was going on,” Williams said. Burgio was interested and agreed to ride along with him though they’d never teamed up before. Burgio left his cruiser in the lot and climbed into Williams’s. They didn’t bother telling their sergeant about their plan. Before driving back across the district, they swung by a Dunkin’ Donuts for two coffees to go.
Elsewhere, Richie Walker was no longer torn about being tied up with a speeding car arrest and not ever making it to the Cortee’s. He overheard the sour turn of events. Walker now sat with the Peugeot awaiting a tow truck so he could clear the scene, return to the station in Mattapan, and write up the paperwork on his arrest.
In yet another part of the city, Kenny Conley and his partner, Bobby Dwan, operated on a different radio channel and hadn’t even heard about the failed mission at the nightclub. But they were coming off their