Chapter 15
The story of old man Dunker's slimy trail has been told, in part, by various of the people who knew him. When we learned about his operations we though they would make a good example of the type of small time pusher. He wasn't typical, perhaps, but his connection with other forms of vice made him interesting, to us.
It was impossible to find those who participated in these events, or, when we did, they would not talk. However, we have been able to piece together a very likely chronological sequence of events.
Lieutenant Otto Sunderland and Irish were of some help, but the undercover man was elsewhere during much of the following:
Dunker, over a period of years, had built up a clientele. Men who wanted young girls. Dunker was a small man, greasy and ingratiating in manner. He was very careful in his choice of girls. He usually let the girl come to him, according to those whom we knew to have been in this 'stable."
All the girls of the neighborhood were aware that Dunker could get them work, if they wanted to assume the proper position. This fact was Dunker's constant advertisement. Word of mouth.
His store was off an alley. Men could easily slip into the back without being seen from the street.
The traffic went on till late hours. Dunker was smart enough to limit his business to a one-at-a-time basis which made it as inconspicuous as possible. But the Johns paid well.
Dunker paid the girls a dollar a throw as an average.
"I got fifty cents," a young girl told us, "for one trick."
Irish found that some got as high as two dollars. "You gotta lay and suck both," A girl told him, "and the guy can have an hour on you."
Dunker's stable contained perhaps a dozen girls who were on call to him at one time. They changed sometimes monthly as girls drifted away or went into business for themselves or whatever. Some of these girls were all-round. They would do practically anything, and for them, Dunker got very good prices.
He gave these girls two to five dollars a trick.
"I had two guys work over me for five bucks," a girl told Irish. "They did everything but put their whangs up my nose," she said. "Not only that, but Dunker laid me on the couch too."
Another girl said, "Once his wife came in and watched us do it."
Irish never obtained any evidence that Mrs. Dunker knew of his operations. Not court evidence. He was positive that she did, however.
"Old lady Dunker gave me grass," a girl said. "She knew me and a guy were smoking it in the storeroom. She told me to be careful of matches."
None of these girls would testify in. court. A few were afraid of Dunker and of the mob, but most didn't care or didn't want to help cops. It never occurred to them they were helping themselves in the long run by cleaning up such slimy operations as Dunker's. They all said: "Sure, I wanna get outa the life-" But none made any real effort. The life was too easy.
Dunker curtailed some of his dealings too. He apparently was cutting down on petty stuff such as the pilfering racket-acting as fence. Irish reported that almost no stolen goods were routed through the store. Dunker was confining himself to selling H to selected customers, and running his young flesh trade.
He liked young girls. Naturally he tried out all of them. He gave them as little as possible for their efforts, when they serviced customers. If he gave them fifty cents, he probably got two dollars. If he gave them two dollars, he probably got ten. Dunker was no philanthropist. And he kept no records.
He did keep a book, however. A book of names.
Later on, the newspapers called it a little black book.' And they were right. It was black.
We reconstructed the crime as follows:
The girls came into the store. No one remembers seeing her. Mrs. Dunker was upstairs, as she was most of the time. Dunker had a counter man, Tom, who ran the food and drink part of the store. Tom saw no one, he said.
"I was working at the sink, washing dishes. I didn't see Dunker around, but then that wasn't unusual. He was in and out all the time. There was some dames in, and a few guys. Gee, I don't write down their names."
A girl came in and went into the storeroom. Dunker followed her and shut the door. He laid the girl on the couch; there were no signs of a struggle, so she went willingly. He had intercourse with the girl.
Then she stabbed him.
The police found Dunker half on the couch; he had lived long enough to try to reach the door. An ordinary kitchen knife, brand new, was still between his ribs. The knife was four and one half inches long, with a wooden handle. She must have had it in her purse.
Dunker's body was half clothed, pants about his knees. There was a good deal of blood. The wound had been enlarged by his frantic scrambling-which might have lasted a minute.
"I made a special trip just to see Dunker," Otto Sunderland said. "It was worth it-off the record. I'd rather have had him on a witness stand, but if we couldn't do that, then this way was fine by me."
Irish said: "Somebody saved the taxpayers a lot of dough."
The police theorized that the killer had blood on her, but there were no threads to follow. She could have been young, or old. Dunker knew both kinds of whores, of course. A number of people were questioned, but no one was arrested. The case is still unsolved.
But the police did find the little black book.
Undoubtedly a number of men slept nervously if at all for a while. It was a book of Johns-customers. It contained likes and dislikes of each, prices and bits of information that the police found useful and informative. They subsequently questioned a large number of the men whose names they found in the book.
Mrs. Dunker sold the store and moved into an apartment. No charges were brought against her. Her bank account was fat, she lived very comfortably. For her, at least, crime paid well.
LUIS SCALICI: "We wanted that black book. Dunker, the sonofabitch, had been warned about keeping them kind of records.
The mob tried to pay off a couple of weak cops, but no dice. For a while the heat was on. The papers made a big deal out of it. Dunker's connections with young stuff gave 'em a chance to run them sexy pictures of young broads. The public ate it up.
But it wasn't a diary. That's about all that saved us. Guys who keep diarys are poison. We went through every house looking for that kind of thing. We found stuff that shook us a little. You know a guy can get to thinking he's plugged all the holes, then you get a shit like Dunker.
I was glad to see him go. There wasn't hardly anybody at his funeral. Old lady Dunker bought him a cheap casket and a few flowers. It was more than he deserved.