Young and Violent

by Packer, Vin

  “Horse doesn’t improve your health either, does it?”

  “It doesn’t give you cancer, dad.”

  “Dan’s the name, Pontiac.”

  “So maybe I miss my old man or something, dad. You know I saw him last time when I was pushing nine. Haven’t seen him since.”

  “Um?”

  “He’s a four-time loser, cooling his heels up in a place called Pontiac. That’s why I took the name Pontiac. Sounds like home. You know the song? Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like prison.” For the first time Flat Head smiles; then guffaws. Dan sits smoking, letting him play it his way. “Yeah,” Pontiac continues, “he was a real creep, my old man. You psychologists got a better word for creep, dad?”

  “I’m not a psychologist.”

  “No? I heard you was Sigmun Frewd.”

  “Sorry.”

  “That’s okay, dad. Don’t let it get you. Yep, you definitely bring back memories of my old man. You know something, dad? You know one day he come home, see — we had a nice home — see? Well, on this particular day I’m stretched out in front of a roaring fire, just sort of relaxing like, see? An the old man, he just come in the door and beat me silly. He was a very sick man.”

  “Sounds sick.”

  “Just because we didn’t have no fireplace. He gets all burned up. That’s sick, isn’t it, dad?” Pontiac’s sides shake with laughter at his own joke. Dan smiles grimly.

  “My mother though, dad, she’s a gas. Real groovy, my mother.”

  “Ummm.”

  “You see she was always a couple years older than the old man. She was smarter than him, probably because she was older. You know, my mother, dad — we’re celebrating her ninety-ninth birthday come Sunday. Imagine that, dad?”

  “Congratulate her for me, Pontiac.”

  “Oh, she won’t be in on the celebration, dad. She come down with a cure there wasn’t any disease for when she was twenty-nine. Went just like that — ” Pontiac snaps his fingers, all the time grinning and guffawing.

  “Okay, Pontiac,” Dan says, “your routine’s real groovy. Now, what’s the point?”

  Pontiac sits solemnly for a few moments, shuffling the deck of cards in his hand, looking at them through his narrowed eyes. Finally, still with his eyes on the cards, he says, “The Jungles feelings are hurt, dad. The Jungles wonder why no worker been assigned to study them, dad.”

  “I gathered that, Pontiac. What do you want me to do about it?”

  “Well, that’s what we figure. We figure there’s not too much you can do, dad. We know you’re not the boss man or anything. So we’re going to sort of put things in motion on our own, dad.”

  “Look, Pontiac, for your information, the Youth Board is sending you a worker in a month or so.”

  “Not soon enough, dad. Not nearly soon enough. We got a rep to consider. Of course, we’re not as big a gang as the Kings, but we’re tougher. We’re going to prove that, dad.”

  Dan puts his cigarette out in the glass ashtray on his desk, and leans forward. “You mean this rumble coming up is all because the Jungles don’t have a worker assigned them?”

  “That’s one gripe, dad. All the tough gangs got workers assigned them.”

  “And if you got a worker assigned you tomorrow, then you’d call the rumble off?”

  “Dad, you’re real crazy the way you come on. Dad, you don’t get the picture. It’s too late now, dad. We put the seeds down for a rumble and they’re going to grow. We don’t chicken, dad. There’s not a Jungle punk in the lot of us. We got plans. You should know our plans. We got ways and means of breaking up that whole pack of Kings; maybe even sort of absorbing them, dad.”

  Dan sighs and leans back in his chair; he picks a pencil off his desk and plays with it as he talks. “So what you’re here to say is that there’s no way to stop this rumble?”

  “You’re in Correctsville now, dad.”

  “That’s your whole point, Pontiac?”

  “That’s my whole point, dad.”

  “Just to say you’re going to rumble, come hell or high water.”

  “Just to tell you, dad, that it’s too late. Maybe you pass the information on to those ass-high boss men of yours and it won’t come off like this again.”

  “And what are you going to gain from it, Pontiac? A shiv in your side? A rock in your head? A vacation up the river?” Dan tosses the pencil down disgustedly. “What are you going to gain from it, you and the other Jungles?”

  Pontiac stands up. He tosses the cards into the air in a straight row; catches them with his hand, and snaps them into his palm smartly. He grins at Dan Roan. “I’m going to be promoted, dad. From pupil to teacher. That’s groovy, dad, you dig me? I’m going to teach a bunch of joe colleges a course in juvenile delinquency; its causes and cures, dad. Isn’t that a gas?”

  “Then Babe Limon really hasn’t very much to do with it?”

  “She is the means by which I reach my end, dad.”

  “And just suppose, Pontiac, that Gonzalves no longer goes with Babe?”

  “Come off it, dad. You know the rules of the game. Technically she is his chick. Everybody knows that, dad. After I make my play for his broad, a rumble is inevitable. You like that big word?”

  “It’s swell, Pontiac.”

  “I thought you’d flip over a big word like that. Look, dad, the votes are in, see. It’s in the cards. If the Kings chicken, it’ll be the chicken of all chickens.”

  Pontiac lingers momentarily, flipping the cards from one hand to another, leaning in the doorway.

  “Good-by, Pontiac,” Dan Roan says emphatically.

  Pontiac starts to go. He pauses halfway out, turns, and smirks at Roan. “You know, dad, you’re a sick man! I could tell the way you just said good-by. Yes sir, dad. You’re a very sick man.”

  Pontiac quits the scene then; sweet and cool as when he arrived.

  • • •

  Coming down 106th Street at eight o’clock that Monday evening are Tea and Eyes. Before they notice the car which is parked up in front of the Youth Board, they talk. Because it is a sticky night, neither wears the black leather jacket of the Kings, but instead, white T-shirts, stamped with crowns; garrison belts with two small gold crowns affixed to them; levis that hang just below their bellies and turn in tight, hugging their ankles; soiled sneaks and sweat socks. This is the informal street attire the Kings favor. Eyes, taller than Tea, looks down at him as they walk; and the two pass lazy tenants of the dilapidated apartment buildings lounging on their doorsteps, fanning themselves, reading, staring, chatting, and kids playing stick ball in the streets; girls in groups, their faces made up freshly, their eyes interested in Eyes and Tea, their laughter high-pitched, their Spanish, fast and soft, like a buzzing sound. And there’s a cop or two pacing with his night stick swinging, and storekeepers in white aprons standing out front to escape the flies inside.

  Eyes is saying, “… so I smelled around in Jungle turf solo, Tea, because you didn’t show at Dirty Mac’s, and Gober said we should case them.”

  “I was trying to score. I still got a lead where I might yet. I think the heat’s on Ace. If so, I feel a foul-up coming on. Man, like, I can’t goof on the hopheads that depend on me for their snow. I gotta deliver — and take care of me too.”

  “You sure are a cat who really loves to boot up, Tea.”

  Tea shakes his head and rubs his arms where there are marks of popping for joy. “Yeah, yeah,” he agrees; “si, si. So what’d you find out from Jungle land?”

  “They’re going to play the rumble by the rules. They don’t figure we’ll jap them; they figure on Saturday night. Pontiac plans to tell Gobe, after he’s come on with Babe, ‘If you don’t like it, show up with your punks Saturday night at Park, in the lot there.’ “

  “Who told you this, Eyes?”

  “A very reliable source. You know their lookout, Silly Charlie?”

  “Sure, he’s a stupido. A moron.”

  “Yeah. Well, he does
n’t like the fact they make him lookout, see? And don’t let him in on all their doings, see? So I told him he could be a scout for us, and we’d take him into the Kings as a War Counselor if he proved himself.”

  “That’s good tactics, Eyes. Gotta hand it to you.”

  “He says Pontiac figures Gober would never jap, because Gober is so straight, you know? Like, Gobe don’t steal or get with the rackets much, so he figures Gober ain’t the kind would jap. Besides, Pontiac wants a big show, see? And if you jap, he figures, you can’t always have a big show, see? You know, you surprise a bunch and there might not be much but a — ”

  “Hey, amigo — lookit! Lookit up ahead!”

  Eyes and Tea stop dead in their tracks and stare at the shiny new Buick convertible parked in front of Dan’s offices. It is powder-blue, and hanging from the radio aerial is a mink tail with a red ribbon around it. It is sleek and full of chromium; and behind the wheel is Flat Head Pontiac, smoking a cigarette out of an extra-long powder-blue holder. He has the radio turned on and up, and he is just sitting there like that, looking very much like a very big man, a smart money man.

  “Idioto!” Tea says. “Ratero!”

  Eyes says, “Jesus Christ!”

  The pair continue on their way now, walking toward the car, making only inane conversation between them, and cursing, and watching Flat Head.

  “I hear that ain’t even his car,” Eyes says. “I got the news was his brother’s car, on loan while he does time up in Auburn.”

  “His whole family’s in the clink, I hear,” Perrez says. “Where else you gonna keep ‘em, make society safe?” “Could bury ‘em,” Tea says.

  As they come alongside the Buick, neither Tea nor Eyes looks at Flat Head. They pause before the Youth Board. “You going to see Detached Dan, ah?” “Yeah. You coming?”

  “Naw, I gotta lead on Wintersville. Gotta case it for snow. I’m really rifty about why Ace never showed.” “Then I see you around tomorrow. School.” “Yeah.”

  Just as they salute and start away from one another, Pontiac halts them, by yelling at Tea, “Hey, Perrez. What’s a matter, Perrez? You look pale or something.”

  Eyes and Tea give him a cool look.

  “You didn’t make your connection with Ace today, did you, dad? That why you’re caving in in the middle?”

  Tea shouts, “Besame el culo!”

  “Kiss mine!” Pontiac laughs back.

  Tea shouts the vilest of Spanish oaths. Cool as he is, Pontiac steams when he hears it. His face flames in anger. “You’re going to see, dad. Wait until you want a flake from the tall white horse, dad. I dig spic talk, dad.”

  “Ah, besame el culo!” Tea repeats again.

  Pontiac turns his key in the ignition, the cigarette holder between his teeth, clamped by angry jaws. He guns his motor. He backs his Buick into the truck parked behind him, lets it ram it, and then gives it the gas, swings the wheel furiously, and takes off.

  Tea yells an obscenity after him, and Eyes stands laughing.

  Once Pontiac is out of sight, Eyes says, “That’s laying it on him, Tea Bag! Did he cut out!”

  “Yah! Yah! He’s all talk and no action.”

  “Take it easy,” Eyes waves as he turns in at the Youth Board.

  “It isn’t hard,” Tea grins.

  • • •

  After Dan Roan has read the letter Red Eyes handed him, he puts it down on his desk, rubs his eyes, thinking, and sighs. A few boys have wandered into the room outside his office, and he hears the noise of the ping-pong balls being hit across the wooden table, the phonograph blaring, and the sound of the boys’ gruff voices intruding on the still interior.

  Sitting on the edge of his seat, Eyes searches Dan’s face anxiously. “Of course I don’t know where I’m going to get seventeen dollars, Dan, that’s the only thing. I mean, I just don’t have that kind of money.”

  Dan nods. “Umm,” he says, meditating.

  “It’s a swell letter, isn’t it? Geez, I never even got a letter before, and this one’s swell.”

  “They don’t mention the title of your song in the letter, Red Eyes. Is it one I know?”

  “I don’t think I ever sung it for you, Dan. It’s a recent one. I mean, it’s serious, you know?”

  “You want to sing it?”

  Eyes glances at the open door nervously, and Dan stands, pushes it to, and sits back again in his chair. “Go ahead,” he says.

  Whenever Eyes sings a song he has written, he sings it on his feet, in a rigid posture, with his hands at his sides.

  Invariably, his face reddens, and he cannot look anywhere but at the floor.

  He mumbles, “It’s called I’ve Got Some News.”

  He waits a moment, shuffles his feet, draws a breath, and then sings his song.

  I’ve got some news for you

  I cruise just you

  I flip more than on booze for you

  Your lips are the sweetest lips

  I’ve ever tasted

  For your lips, for your kiss,

  I’d even get wasted.

  I’d take a lickin’, dear

  I’d chicken, dear

  I’d punk out without any fear

  If you would only say “I do”

  I’d do anything you wanted me to …

  I’ve got some news for

  you I cruise just you

  I even sing the blues for you …

  So say okay, say sure, say yes,

  Say by the way, I too confess

  I’ve got some news for you….

  When Eyes is finished he slumps down in the armchair opposite Dan and blushes, and pulls at his nails, not looking up at Dan.

  Dan says, “It’s a good song.”

  “Geez, thanks, Dan! Course, you understand the music I sung to the words ain’t going to be the music. I mean, the music I sung is just stuff I put to the words myself. That’s why I need the seventeen. To get some real classy melody to the words. I’m strictly a words man, you know? A lyricist.”

  Dan doesn’t say anything for a while and it makes Eyes uncomfortable. He says, “I thought maybe even I’d take a job or somethin’. Earn the moola I need. You think I could take a job, Dan?”

  “I’m sure of that.”

  “You think that’s the best idea?”

  “I think it’s a swell idea for you to take a job. Not just for this, but because you’d earn yourself quite a bit, be sort of free from dependence on home.”

  “Home! For Chrissake, only money I get from home, I get takin’.”

  “How do you have any to spend, Red Eyes?”

  “Lorry — I mentioned her before — she gives me a little now and then from what she earns, but not much. And I don’t like to take it from her!” Eyes says emphatically.

  “So?”

  Eyes shrugs. “So I do errands for the numbers boys, or pick up a little here and there. Nothin’ really against the law, you know? Small time stuff, just like all the other guys.”

  “Well, I think a job would be swell. I’ll start working on one for you.”

  “When I get seventeen dollars, I quit. I’ll make big money then. Geez, these songs make a lota moola, Dan. Records, and all.”

  Dan stands up and walks to the window, his fists leaning on the sills. The scene outside is backyards of tenements; and smoke from trash fires. He says, “Eyes?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You want me to give it to you straight?” “Sure, Dan, only no preaching.”

  “No, I’m not going to preach. I’m just going to explain something to you.” “Go right ahead.”

  Dan turns and faces de Jarro, who stares up at him blankly.

  “This letter, Eyes — this alleged song-publishing house — it’s a racket. It’s a racket aimed at getting money out of you. No matter who sent a song poem in to them, no matter what the lyrics were, a letter like this would be sent out.”

  For a moment, Red Eyes cannot comprehend what Dan has told him.

  “It�
�s a racket,” Dan continues, “and nothing more. Sure, they’ll put music to your song — after you’ve invested enough so they can make a profit. But your chances of ever getting that song before the public eye are almost nil. I hate to take the wind out of your sails, but those are the facts.”

  Eyes argues, “How can they advertize a racket in a magazine, for Chrissake? I seen this right in a magazine.”

  “Just take my word for it — they can. It’s a more subtle racket than the numbers or the horses, but it’s crooked just the same.”

  “Then you mean — ” Red Eyes’ voice trails off.

  “I mean you’ve been taken, Eyes, plain and simple. You’ve been taken in — but luckily you didn’t lose any money.”

  “You sure, Dan?”

  “Positive.”

  “Yeah? Geez.”

  Eyes sits dolefully, playing with his hands, his head bent. Dan walks over to the desk, folds the letter and puts it back in the envelope, and hands it over.

  Eyes pushes his hand away. “I don’t want it!” he snaps.

  Dan says, “At least you’ve learned about another racket, Eyes. That’s something.”

  Eyes is not listening to him. He is thinking his own private thoughts. Finally, he says, “You said my song was good.”

  “It is good.”

  “Well, maybe — maybe you could find some way I could get a melody set to it and get it published. You do that, Dan?”

  “Number one, Eyes, I don’t have those kind of connections. And number two — well, I’m going to give it to you straight again. The song’s good, but it’s too limited. The words you use, for instance — people don’t know them.”

  Eyes grumbles, “So I suppose they know words like ‘ko-ko-mo, I love you so.’ You ever heard that? Hell, I don’t even know what ko-ko-mo means. People don’t have to understand the words!”

  Dan grins. “Well, you’ve got a point there.”

  “Sure! Who needs to know the words? Besides, everyone would catch on to what I mean. What’s so difficult?”

  “How many people know what ‘to get wasted’ means?”

  “Who don’t, for Chrissake? Everyone in New York City knows, anyway, and New York’s biggest city in the world!”