Sal had known the family over twenty years, having first come in contact with them while investigating an assault when he was a patrolman. A black man had been badly beaten, pulverized into a temporary coma in the alley by the garage. Young Cleamon was questioned but not arrested. Throughout the following nearly two decades, after the brothers, Cleamon and Bobby, had grown into Big Evil and Terminal, LaBarbera would visit the home on a nearly monthly basis, looking for one or the other of them, sometimes both. Mrs. Desmond would be pleasant sometimes, curt others. “I am sick and tired of you coming around here every time someone gets shot. Are Cleamon and Bobby the only suspects in this city? Get out of here. Tired of your damn knock, too.” So, when they heard that powerful single knock on the door, the Desmonds knew who it was. “Hello, Detective Sal. Johnny. So who did Bobby supposedly shoot now?” “Can we come in?” “Here we go again. I’m too tired to argue. I had a strange day.”
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