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couple of weeks ago. I’m afraid I’ve been guilty of quoting myself.”

5
    W HILE everything Sara had been saying was interesting, it wasn’t quite what I wanted from her. I was after information about the two specific juvenile gangs, not the psychological and sociological reasons behind mass juvenile delinquency.
    I said, “I think we’re getting off the main target a little, Sara. What do you know about the organization of the Purple Pelicans and the Gravediggers?”
    “Not 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 know because I’ve seen the youngsters wearing their purple jackets. They have an auxiliary too, you know. The girls wear jackets similar to the boys’, and wear their hair in pony tails tied with a purple ribbon.”
    “Know anything about their criminal activities?”
    “Only suspicions. It isn’t safe to leave a car on the street down in that neighborhood, unless you want it stripped of everything detachable. There are frequent muggings, and also frequent shop burglaries, the loot usually being easily-disposable stuff such as cigarettes, candy, portable radios and so on. Most of the break-ins have all the earmarks of juveniles being behind them, and it’s a safe assumption that no outside gang is pulling them. I don’t think the Purple Pelicans would tolerate consistent violation of their territory.”
    “They must have fences,” I said. “Know anything about the adult crime organization down there?”
    “I’ve heard the rumor that a garageman at Seventh and Lucas buys stolen goods. A man named Harry Krebb. I don’t know him personally.”
    I wrote the name in my notebook. Then I asked, “Ever pick up any rumors about narcotic traffic?”
    “Only vague ones. I’ve heard there’s a barbershop and a pool hall in the neighborhood which are both outlets, but I don’t know where they are or who runs them. Several of my clients have reported discovering their teenage children were using narcotics, and wanted me to do something about it. But beyond authorizing them to take the children to a doctor at agency expense, there isn’t much I could do.”
    “Didn’t you report the kids to the police as users?” I asked, surprised.
    She smiled at me. “You don’t know much about social work, do you, Manny? Our files are as confidential as a priest’s confessional. They have to be. If I ever once reported to the police anything a client told me in confidence, nobody in the whole neighborhood would even tell me the time after that.”
    As I thought this over I saw the reasonableness of it. I protected my own sources of information the same way, and it was common for newsmen, lawyers and even, occasionally, the police, to operate under the same principle.
    “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 except occasionally to pass him on the street.”
    “You wouldn’t know of any enemies he had then?”
    Sara shook her head.
    I got up out of my chair. “Well, I guess I’ve got as much as you can give me, Sara. I don’t know whether anything you’ve told me will help, but at least it gives me a picture of the environment. Thanks a lot.”
    “Any time,” she said. “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.”
    As I started to walk away, the phone on her desk buzzed again.
    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.
    Seven twenty-two Vernon was