by Sol Yurick
The Junior looked up and saw that the station was 137th Street. He poked Dewey and wanted to know if they shouldn’t change yet. Dewey was no help; he was the older brother and he should have given counsel, but instead he said for The Junior to read his literature while he tried to figure it out. The Junior tried to interest Dewey in the book, but Dewey snorted and his eyes were scornful behind his thick, horn-rimmed glasses. “Spears, Man? Who uses spears? I mean the Powerman, or the Atomman, he blows a man’s arms off with them cosmic rays; things like that. Or the Rocketman. They punch a bleedy hole in you, big as a melon. Spears? Man!” and he turned away.
The Junior asked if maybe they shouldn’t take out their war cigarettes and take off their pins. Dewey looked indecisive and didn’t say anything. They couldn’t decide it, but they knew that their situation might be desperate. What if they had been spotted? Finally, Dewey said if they did that and nothing happened . . . Remember the way Hinton had been put down. Those pins, they were the Family sign and they stood or fell with their signs, and it was the mark that a man belonged—they were one. To take them off was to be like any heartless slob coolie who wouldn’t take chances; without important affiliations. And so they must go along with the whole bit. It made them men. The Junior nodded and agreed. It was like those Greeks and their crazy haircrest helmets. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if the Family wore helmets like that? The Junior agreed, and said he was only talking, for the sake of argument, and that he was patriotic.
The Junior was fourteen, Dewey reasoned, and that meant he wouldn’t have much trouble anyway if he got caught; he knew that. True, Dewey was sixteen, but then, what could they really prove? What could they really prove? None of them had the slice on them. “What do they know?” Dewey asked. “I mean, man, really, like what do they know?”
“Nothing,” The Junior said. “I was only talking for the sake of the argument.” They felt a little better for having decided to keep on wearing the insignia. It showed that they were men, and more, men in danger, and they were upholding their rep and that rep consisted, among other things, of having killed their man.
“Look at this,” The Junior showed Dewey.
“Man, that’s punk-stuff,” Dewey said, but having nothing better to do, he looked at the comic book with The Junior. They followed the story. The heroes marched through deserts; they marched over mountains; they marched in the rains and in snows. They fought every inch of the way. The artist was good because the silver of the spears almost glinted and the red of the blood stood out very clearly.
July 5th, 3:10–3:35 A.M.
Hector and Lunkface vaulted over the turnstiles, one hand on the turn bars. Bimbo scuttled after, going down and under the stile bars. They climbed the stairs, two and three at a time, and were out at 93rd Street and Broadway. Because it was the easiest way to go, they turned right and ran downhill in the direction of the Hudson River, though they didn’t know where they were or where they were going. They passed chalked-up signs announcing whose turf this was, but they didn’t stop to read. Bimbo looked behind to see if that cop had followed. They were in the clear. They didn’t run; to run was to bring down Law. When they had crossed the street, Lunkface took off his handkerchief, threw the war cigarette away, folded the handkerchief around the insignia and put it into his pocket. Hector wanted to know what he thought he was doing.
“Man, I’m taking it off, that’s what I’m doing. I’m not going to be spotted,” Lunkface told Hector.
“You can’t do that.”
“You think I’m going around and making a show of myself so I’ll get picked up? You think I’m going around and saying, here, Fuzzy John, here is Lunkface, sir. Come and get me and run me in, sir. You think I’m going to wear the sign so that the armies who hold this territory can worry us? No, man, oh no.” His face was angry; Lunkface was working himself up into a temper.
“Cool it, man; cool it, sonny,” Hector told Lunkface.
“I’m cool, man. Who says I’m not cool? I am like ice.”
“I thought we swore. We’re a family, a war party. We move as an army.”
“But man, it does not pay to advertise. It’s cost us, man.”
“Who gives the orders here? Doesn’t Father know best?”
The invocation didn’t work on Lunkface. “Hector . . .”
“Call me Father, you hear?”
“I’m not challenging you, man, but look. We won’t go for ten minutes without the fuzz buzzing us and tailing us. I mean they know, man. They know all about tonight and their eyes are out in all directions. I’ve been busted before. You think I’m happy with it, Father? I’m tired of being shoved here and there and I got to make it back to that homeland.”
Hector saw that the more he talked, the wilder Lunkface got. It was pointless to reason and say that their getting chased had nothing to do with the pins, or the rumble, or the stomping. And after all, you couldn’t tell; maybe the word really was out. Bimbo watched one face and then the other to see who had won it, so Hector knew that he had to make it look as if he had given the order, or he would lose his position. They crossed a street and were by a park. They were on a little rise; ahead, park beyond, cars were going up and down on the West Side Highway.
“You might be right, but this is not the way to do it,” he told Lunkface. “There are ways of having your say . . .”
“We don’t have conference time . . .”
“We’ll talk about it later, you understand me, son?” and Hector lingered on son.
“I understand you, Father,” and Lunkface drew out the word father. “I understand you the most. I mean you’re a man, and I’m a man. I know you and you know me. All right. We’ll mediate it later.”
Hector turned and valuted over a low, iron fence that ran alongside the grass. He walked a few steps and turned around.
“All right, children, we take off the signs,” he told them.
Bimbo followed Hector, but Lunkface didn’t; he just waited. Bimbo looked back at Lunkface. Lunkface shrugged and turned away. Bimbo kneeled in front of Hector; he felt silly because he was the only one. Hector took the cigarette out of Bimbo’s hatband and put it into the red cigarette case; he took out his own cigarette and put it away. “Unpin,” he told Bimbo. Bimbo looked a little uncomfortable, but shrugged his shoulders. Hector unpinned Bimbo and took off his own hat and removed the Mercedes-Benz three-point star pin. He put them into his pocket. They came back to where Lunkface, trying to look detached and contemptuous, was waiting. Lunkface was a little sorry for what he had brought about. He hadn’t thought he would feel it this much. Of course this wouldn’t have happened if he was the Father. But on the other hand he didn’t have the kind of smartness, the special power. He couldn’t be clever like Hector or Arnold. Nor was this the time or the place to take the Fathership over. If he had taken control it would have meant a fight, and a fight would bring the fuzz.
They all turned into the park and went south, mostly because Hector went that way. They had lost the identity of oneness and were almost like three squares, coolies, three men who no longer had the special power. They all felt uncomfortable, detached, somehow—naked, like any three who happened to know one another and be dressed alike. They didn’t talk. Beyond the highway they could see the Hudson River, a broad, shimmering path of floating lights, and the darker Palisades looming over the water, and the escarpment light-spangled. To their left, the apartment buildings lining the Drive towered over them. A few last tired firecrackers were going off; abortive rockets sputtered defectively.
Hector said that they would continue to walk south, cut back in the direction they had come, take the train further down the line, continue and meet the others, if they hadn’t been picked up, at Times Square. They kept walking. Every thirty feet or so there was a bench under a lamp, but no one was sitting on any of them. Names were carved all over the bench woodworks: gang titles, names of gang members, instructions to one another. The park seemed deserted.
She was sitting about
a half a block ahead of them. Her bench was screened from the river by bushes, but she could still see the sky. She was a little drunk and half-sleepy; she kept lolling on the bench and dozing and waking. She had seen great sheaves of fire exploding in the sky, fire-fruits blooming, stalks of flame efflorescing, blazing leaves had grown in the sky. She didn’t quite know if something was really there or, because she was wearing her silver-rimmed reading bifocals, the flowering lights were out of her imagination, distorted and wild when seen through these lenses. But altogether, it had been a lovely Fourth. From time to time she reminded herself that it was late, very late, and she should be going home now or they would be worrying about her.
And she remembered, again, it was the Fourth, the Glorious Fourth, the safe and sane Fourth, the drunken Fourth. Not that she was drunk, because she had only taken a few at the hospital where she was a nurse; she hardly ever touched the stuff. And before you knew it, here she was, sitting on a bench in the Riverside Drive Park to sober—to clear her head. The wind coming in off the river was blocked by the bushes, so it was all still and smelled seafishy and seaweedy and of barge oil and ocean garbage. She thought sleepily of moving to another bench where she would get the cooling breezes, where no bushes stood in the way, where a woman could cool the heat of her face and let the winds play around her. But every time she got ready to move, it was too much trouble. Her legs wouldn’t function right; her big pocketbook was much too heavy. Maybe it was her week’s pay; maybe it was the small bottle of medicinal whiskey. She giggled, moved, and the bench creaked. She was a big woman.
Bimbo saw her first and nudged Hector. In the light from the park lamp, they could see that her head lolled back and her eyes were closed. Her glasses had slipped down her flat nose and she had a silly smile that distorted her big, flat cheeks. Her legs were sprawled apart, they closed and opened, shuttling, seeming to weave. Her head rolled a little and she kept smiling at some private joke. They saw she had great thick calves, but her ankles were narrow, almost bony; her skirt was hitched halfway up her white-stockinged thighs. Her nurse’s cap, held on by one hairpin to her blond or white hair—they weren’t sure which—hung loosely over her forehead.
Lunkface’s body tensed; he became uncomfortable in his tight pants. He looked around—no one in sight at all. Bimbo, knowing Lunkface, was watching him and grinning. Show Lunkface a little and he was gone, Bimbo thought. That was because he didn’t have a steady woman. Only Hector kept a serious face. He didn’t like the whole thing.
Lunkface walked ahead. The others followed. They stood in front of her. She didn’t seem to notice. Lunkface squatted and looked up under her skirt, stood up and shook his hand up and down, loose-wristedly. Hector shook his head. Bimbo looked from one to the other. They whispered. Hector said it would be a foolish act. Besides, what did they want with an old woman, someone old enough to be your mother?
“Like it’s whiptight and singing for it in my pants, man, and I got to, now now now now,” Lunkface said.
“Don’t you ever get enough? Stay cool. Don’t we have enough trouble? Stay cool.”
“Stay cool, stay cool,” Lunkface mimicked. “That’s easy for you to say; you have a woman and get it all you want.”
Bimbo said, “Man, this old cunt, she should be home. And if she’s here, she’s asking for it, coming out like this. Don’t she know the parks, they’re not safe after dark?”
Lunkface said, “And she’s going to get it, but good.”
“Now cool it,” Hector snapped.
“Now, man. Now. You can’t jive me out of this,” Lunkface said. “If you want to cut out go ahead. I’m Down to Kill and I’m going to have it, but good.”
She opened her eyes and dimly saw the three standing in front of her. Men. Boys. Young men. Only the one in the middle seemed to have any light on his face; that was because he was standing straighter than the others. She liked his posture. She saw, over her glasses, that he had a beautiful face and blond, wavy hair curling down from his set-back hat. “You’re a pretty one,” she told Hector. “A pretty boy.” She shook her head and closed her eyes.
“Lady, are you all right?” Hector asked her.
“And a pretty voice you have, so soft it is,” she said, opened her eyes and smiled on the middle one. This time she noticed his two friends. They were darker-skinned. The short, squat one was a muddy light brown and had a little fuzzy mustache and looked Indian-faced. The other one was bulky-big, quite dark, ugly, Negro-faced.
Bimbo nudged Hector again. Hector shook his head and moved as if to keep on walking, but Lunkface wouldn’t move. Hector saw the way it was going to be. He knew when Lunkface got that way he was uncontrollable. You could shoot him and he wouldn’t notice. Rather than risk another loss of face, Hector decided he would anticipate Lunkface and do what he wanted to do. “Well,” he said; “The family that lays together stays together.” Bimbo giggled. “Not here,” Hector whispered to the two of them. Lunkface adjusted the hard tightness in his groin so that it sat a little better in his pants, up against his stomach.
“Lady, you need a little help?” Hector said gently, conning her.
She opened her eyes and looked at the beautiful boy in the middle. She made patting motions on the bench beside her and nodded to him and told him to sit down beside her. Hector gave her his short, full smile; he was always very smooth; he never frightened them; he never got that stupid, lustful look like Lunkface. Hector was beginning to get a little excited himself. He sat down beside her. Lunkface sat down on the other side of her. Bimbo went around to the back of the bench. She put her arm around Hector and told him, “You know, I’ve got two nephews, one prettier than the other, and you remind me of them.” And she grabbed him close to her, pulling his head down a little. The arm flesh puffed out of her tight sleeveband and against his cheek; her body was warm; Hector was surprised at how strong she was.
Lunkface put one hand on her thigh, just above her knee, and was kneading the flesh there. She became aware of it, looked down and saw the dark hand on her white stocking and said, “Get your hand off; what kind of a woman do you think I am?” Bimbo grinned behind her. Lunkface didn’t remove his hand, but just slid his grip to the inside of her leg. She turned back to Hector, but told Lunkface, without looking at him, “Get your hand off.”
“Lady, you feeling all right? Lady, you need a little help?” Lunkface asked, trying to sound smooth like Hector.
“I’ll bet that all the girls like you, a beautiful boy like you,” she said to Hector, holding him around the neck. His neck began to feel abraded. “You get them girls, don’t you sweetie? A sweet boy like you?”
Hector didn’t like being controlled. The smell of liquor on her breath bothered him; from close-up you could see that she was even older than they thought. He leaned away. Lunkface slipped his other arm around her waist and was trying to reach around to squeeze her breast. Bimbo was leaning over her and trying to see down the front of her uniform.
She sat up suddenly and made waving motions with her hand, as if she were brushing insects away. She stood up suddenly, her hand still holding Hector, and he was pulled up with her. “Get away, Nigger,” she said to Lunkface, and he sat there, stunned for a second. As she stood, they saw she was an enormous woman, about two inches bigger than Lunkface, and much wider. Bimbo laughed. Lunkface rose slowly, ready to start punching her in the face for the unjustness of the insult. He was American, a Puerto Rican of Spanish descent, but she had turned and said to Hector, still holding him, “Come on, little baby, let’s go off somewhere where we can be alone and you can tell me all about your adventures with the little girlies.” And she giggled and lurched a little, and steadied herself on Hector and almost knocked him down, pulled him along for a few steps on the walk, and then off onto the grass and they were walking through the bushes and onto another part of the lawn. Lunkface nodded at Hector to go ahead. Bimbo nodded, too. They followed.
Her legs wobbled a little on the grass and her shoes shone wh
ite on the dark lawn. She leaned on Hector and held him closer and closer; her body was hot; her other hand stroked his slim-muscled arm, feeling through the jacket, stroking over and over again, telling him how cute he was, as they walked toward a grassy, half-enclosed grove. Bimbo and Lunkface followed, looking around to make sure that there was no one else in the park. Their faces had set into grins, though they weren’t even aware that they were grinning. They would fix her when they got her a little way off; they would show her; they would show her who was a nigger; they would show her what men were like. That old bitch. They came to an open space.
Bimbo and Lunkface separated and came at her from two angles and behind. Lunkface was determined to be the first one. Hector, who didn’t really want her at all, knew they were coming up, had turned toward her and was standing still while her hands were rubbing his chest, and she started to say things like it wasn’t nice to have things to do with those young girls. She knew, she was a nurse. They were all evil nowadays, and diseased and dirty-minded, and they did terrible things, and did he do those things, those dirty French things, with those diseased little sluts, and was he a man yet?
Hector told her he was a man, his face cool and set, and he said he had heart and everything else that was required. She said that of course he was a man, what a pretty man he was, but she didn’t care about his heart, and she laughed and laughed, and it made Hector angrier because he was sure this old bitch was laughing at him. But she swung him tight to her and her arms were around him and half-smothering his face into her talcum-smelling breast-cut, and she was rubbing him against her and he couldn’t get free to do much to her, even if he wanted to, and he began to try to jerk free to do it, because he was the man, and it was the man who did things, not the woman, not some woman they were going to give it to anyway. Great waves of heat emanated from her and her face shone and glowed and she looked younger and Hector had never felt such heat from a human being.
