Mike Shayne's Torrid Twelve

by editor Leo Margules

  Rick looked at his father with amazement. The circle Rick moved in did its best to emulate what it thought was college-level behavior. He belonged to a national high school fraternity, unrecognized but tolerated by the school, and he and his fraternity brothers wouldn’t have dreamed of being seen in public with a girl who didn’t belong to one of the national high school sororities. In its own estimation Rick’s circle was a highly sophisticated group which tended to look with patronizing amusement at all other levels of teen-age society.

  “One of those teen-age black leather jacket outfits?” Rick asked with raised eyebrows. “That’s for the movies, Pop. What would I be doing with a bunch of squares?”

  “Well, you just mind what I say,” big Sam said gruffly. “There’s gonna be no juvenile delinquents in this family. I had to be sure you’d understand that.”

  Beneath his gruffness there was relief. Big Sam had confidence in young Rick’s judgment. But with all the stuff in the papers about juvenile crime, a parent couldn’t be too careful.

  Rick described his conference with his father to Junior Carr. They both had a good laugh over it.

  “Boy, what parents can’t think of to worry about,” Junior said. “Guys like us getting tied up with one of those punk kid Apache-haircut outfits. Wonder if Iota Omega has a chapter at the school we’re going to?”

  Junior Carr was as tall as Rick, but only weighed a hundred and thirty pounds. He was too light for athletics and too uncompetitive to go out for less strenuous school activities. His high school fraternity was the most important social activity in his life.

  “No,” Rick said regretfully. “I looked it up. Had some fellows in other frats check their chapter lists, too. I don’t think they have any fraternities there.”

  “Maybe we can start a chapter,” Junior said with an air of hope.

  Rick’s family settled in a four-room flat on Sterling Place, a quiet street of uniform-looking apartment buildings and small neighborhood stores. It wasn’t Brooklyn’s finest residential section, but neither was it shabby. Aside from the fact that most people in the area lived in apartments instead of individual houses, it didn’t differ from the middle-class residential sections of any big city.

  Junior Carr’s family rented a flat just around the corner from the Hendersons, on Underhill Avenue.

  The move took place over a weekend. It was Sunday evening by the time both families were settled enough for the boys to have a chance to look over their new neighborhood. Immediately after dinner they met in front of Rick’s apartment building.

  Instinctively they headed for Flatbush Avenue, the nearest main street. After wandering down to Grand Army Plaza without seeing anything more interesting than a subway entrance, they turned around to explore Flatbush in the opposite direction.

  Flatbush Avenue in this section is a heavily traveled street dotted with taverns and small stores. Rick and Junior glanced into each place they passed. Neither was consciously looking for anything in particular. They were merely exploring. But subconsciously they were searching for companions their own age. They found them near Atlantic Avenue, in a combination soda fountain and candy shop named the Cardinal Shop. The place was crowded with teen-agers.

  In tacit accord they entered the shop and stood looking around. There were no vacant seats at the soda fountain and no unoccupied booths.

  The customers ranged in age from about fifteen to eighteen, and there seemed to be twice as many boys as girls. For the most part the boys wore well-pressed slacks and either sweaters or jackets, with an occasional sport coat and open-necked sport shirt. The girls all wore skirts and loose sweaters, flat-heeled pumps and bobby socks. The dress was a little more casual than Rick and Junior had been accustomed to in Philadelphia, but they instinctively recognized the group as kindred souls. This was the high school “popularity” crowd.

  Rick and Junior felt a little overdressed in their neat suits, white shirts and neckties.

  A few couples were dancing to a juke box playing rock-and-roll. The remainder sipped soft drinks, carried on noisy conversation punctuated by much laughter, or wandered about the place from table to table. Everyone seemed to know everyone else there.

  It seemed such a happy scene that Rick and Junior grinned with spontaneous pleasure. Then their grins gradually faded as the other customers began to notice them.

  It started at the soda fountain. A youngster of about sixteen glanced their way, elevated his eyebrows and said something to the boy next to him. He in turn stared at Rick and Junior, then passed the word on. Within a fraction of a minute everyone at the counter had swung round to gaze at them silently.

  The reaction spread from the counter to the booths. All conversation stopped. The dancers halted, and they too joined in staring at the newcomers. One of the boys who had been dancing went over to the juke box and shut it off by pulling out the cord.

  Junior glanced around uneasily. Rick’s face began to redden with a mixture of embarrassment and anger. A blond boy of about Rick’s size, but probably a year or so older, lazily rose from a booth and moved toward them. He didn’t exactly swagger, but there was the confidence of authority in his movements.

  The thin, bald-headed man who was tending the fountain, and who apparently was the proprietor, scurried from behind the counter to head off the blond boy.

  Raising placating palms, he said, “No trouble now, Max. Not in here.”

  Max paused long enough to give the bald-headed man a reassuring grin. “We ever give you trouble, Pop? If anything builds, we’ll take it outside.”

  Junior whispered, “We better get out of here, Rick.”

  Rick’s gaze jerked to him. He didn’t say anything. He merely stared at Junior until the latter uneasily averted his eyes.

  Then Rick faced the blond boy again, gazing at him in challenge.

  2

  The blond Max brushed past Pop and unhurriedly closed the rest of the gap between himself and the newcomers. Other boys drifted behind him from the counter and from the booths, until more than a dozen formed a semicircle around Rick and Junior. None of them said anything. They merely waited for Max to speak.

  Dismissing Junior with one contemptuous glance, Max ran his eyes estimatingly over Rick.

  “You guys are a little off your turf, aren’t you?” he inquired.

  Rick gaped at him steadily as he thought the question over. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked finally.

  “You’re no citizens. What makes you brave enough to come this side of Atlantic?”

  Again Rick struggled for the blond boy’s meaning. Eventually he said, “You think we’re from overseas? Foreigners, or something?”

  A feminine titter from a rear booth broke the silence hovering over the room. It rippled from youngster to youngster like a wave, then died away. None of the boys in a semicircle around Rick and Junior so much as smiled. The blond Max said without expression, “A comedian, huh?”

  Rick said hotly, “I just don’t know what you’re talking about. What you mean, this side of the Atlantic? We were born here.”

  Max’s eyes narrowed. But not menacingly. A look of comprehension began to grow in them. “Atlantic Avenue,” he said. “Aren’t you Purple Pelicans?”

  Rick’s anger began to fade as his puzzlement increased. He said, “You’re talking Greek, fellow. I never heard of Atlantic Avenue. And what’s a Purple Pelican?”

  Max’s expression underwent a subtle change. He was still authoritative, but the threat disappeared from his manner. In a merely condescending tone, he said, “Where you live, man?”

  Rick considered whether to answer or tell him it was none of his business. Finally he said with a touch of belligerence, “Sterling Place.”

  Max hiked an eyebrow, then turned to give Junior an inquiring look.

  Junior licked his lips. “Underhill Avenue,” he managed.

  Max said, “How come you’re strangers, then?”

  “Because we just moved in today,” Rick snapped.
He added in a more temperate tone, “From Philadelphia.”

  Max ran his eyes over the semicircle of faces around him. He said indulgently, “Why push it? They didn’t know.”

  “Didn’t know what?” Rick inquired.

  “You’re living on Prospectors’ turf now,” Max explained. “It’s a club. The Cardinal Shop’s our personal, private spot. Non-citizens don’t come in without an ask.”

  “Who’s a non-citizen?”

  “You don’t read the lingo too good, do you, man?” Max said. “A citizen’s a club member. Don’t they have clubs down Philadelphia way?”

  “We belong to a fraternity,” Rick told him. He pulled aside his coat to show the pin on the breast pocket of his shirt. “Iota Omega Upsilon. The I.O.U.s.”

  A tall, lean boy of about eighteen in the semicircle snickered. “Fraternity boys. Pour me a cup of tea, Mother.”

  Some of the others grinned. Their grins faded to expectant expressions when Rick stared unblinkingly at the lean boy. The boy gazed back at him with equal steadiness.

  A feminine voice broke the silence. “Why don’t you invite them to stick around, Max?”

  Everyone glanced around at the red-haired girl who had come up behind the group. She was about Rick’s age, slim and ripe-looking, with green eyes and delicate features. She was regarding Rick with unconcealed interest.

  The lean boy growled, “You keep out of this, Pat.”

  “Why?” the redhead inquired. “You don’t own this place.” Moving into the group, she looked up at Max. “They look like nice boys, Max. Ask them to stay.”

  Max glanced from her to the lean boy. He seemed to be amused. “Got any objections, Artie?”

  Artie moved forward to glare down at the redheaded Pat. “Butt out and go back to your booth,” he ordered her. “This is man business.”

  Elevating her chin, Pat said, “You don’t own me either, mister. I was talking to Max.” She glanced back at the blond leader.

  Max shrugged. “It’s all right with me if they want to stay. You’re on your own, Artie.”

  He looked from Artie to Rick, and his amusement seemed to grow. The air of expectancy increased in the rest of the crowd.

  Artie swung to confront Rick. “You better blow,” he said stiffly. He jerked a thumb at Pat. “This is my witch.”

  “Was, you mean,” Pat said loudly. “I told you nobody orders me around.”

  After glaring at her for a moment, Artie said to Rick, “You heard me, stud. You gonna take off?”

  Rick ran his eyes over the circle of faces, let his gaze settle on Max. He wasn’t quite certain of what was expected of him. If Artie was pushing for a fight, Rick was willing to accept the challenge. But not if the entire group meant to pitch in on Artie’s side. In that case, he and Junior would be lucky to get out of the place alive.

  Reading his thought, Max said amicably, “Nobody’ll gang up on you, man. It’s strictly between you and Artie.”

  That was enough assurance for Rick. Facing Artie, he said belligerently, “You want me to leave, fellow, you put me out.”

  Abruptly Artie did an about-face and marched toward the rear of the shop. Customers spread to make a path for him. Rick gazed after his retreating back in surprise.

  Max grinned at the expression on Rick’s face. “He’s not walking away from you,” he said. “We don’t fight in here. He’s just heading out back.”

  Even as Max spoke, Artie jerked open a back door and stalked outside. After a momentary hesitation, Rick followed. Junior and the rest of the crowd trailed after him. From the corner of his eye Rick saw the bald proprietor standing behind the counter wringing his hands. But the man made no move to stop what was going on.

  The rear door led into a back yard enclosed by a high board fence. A street light in the alley cast a murky glow over it. Artie stood in the center of the yard, stripping off his cloth jacket.

  Rick came to a halt three feet from the other boy. The crowd formed a circle around them. Artie tossed his jacket to one of the boys in the surrounding ring. Rick slipped out of his coat, located Junior’s pale face in the crowd and tossed the coat to him. He rolled his sleeves to his elbows.

  Max stepped forward as referee. He said to Artie, “Fair fight?”

  Artie gave a stiff nod and Rick asked. “What does that mean?”

  “Like in the ring,” Max explained. “No knives or knucks, kicking or gouging.”

  Rick said, “That’s the only way I ever fight.”

  “You’re lucky Artie wants it fair, then,” Max told him dryly. “He’s pretty good with his feet and thumbs.” He held out a hand palm up to Artie. “Give, man.”

  Reaching into his pants pocket, Artie brought out a switchblade knife and laid it on the extended palm. Rick’s gaze followed it fascinatedly as it disappeared into Max’s pocket. He wondered what he would have done if Artie hadn’t agreed to make it a fair fight. The thought made his stomach lurch.

  Max backed into the crowd. “Whenever you’re ready,” he said.

  Rick conquered the queasy feeling in his stomach and examined his opponent with a practiced eye. Artie was as tall as he was, and looked bone hard. He probably weighed only about one sixty-five, though, which gave Rick a fifteen-pound weight advantage.

  Under ordinary circumstances Artie’s age might have been a psychological advantage, for at sixteen boys tend to regard eighteen-year-olds as grown men. But Rick’s high school boxing instruction, rudimentary as it was, tended to put him at ease when facing boys of any size or age. He’d put enough older boys on the floor of the school gym not to be impressed by his elders.

  Artie moved forward in a boxer’s stance and feinted with a left. Ignoring it, Rick expertly caught the following right on his left forearm and countered with a solid hook to the jaw. Artie took two backward steps and sat heavily.

  A mixed murmur of admiration for Rick and groans for Artie came from the crowd.

  Scrambling to his feet, Artie made an enraged rush at Rick, swinging a roundhouse right as he came in. Rick stepped inside of it and landed a crashing one-two to Artie’s jaw.

  Artie sat again. This time he remained seated, dazedly blinking his eyes.

  Again there was a murmur from the crowd. Several boys and girls shouted encouragement to Artie to get up. When it seemed apparent after some moments that Artie either was incapable, or unwilling to get to his feet, Max stepped forward and gave Rick’s shoulder a congratulatory slap.

  “You know how to handle your dukes, man,” he said. “Shortest fight we’ve had around here yet.”

  Then the crowd was milling around Rick, patting his back and offering congratulations. Someone helped Artie to his feet and thrust him forward. Sullenly the older boy offered his hand to Rick in token of admitted defeat, Rick shook it gladly, suddenly so exhilarated by the adulation he was receiving that he actually felt affection for his recent opponent.

  Then he was moving back into the Cardinal Shop surrounded by the admiring throng. To his surprise he found the redheaded Pat clinging to his arm. She was carrying his coat.

  3

  The rest of the evening was as pleasant a one as Rick had enjoyed in some time. Social acceptance is important at any age. At sixteen it’s crucial. And Rick found himself accepted as an equal by the entire group. Junior Carr found acceptance too, simply because he was with Rick.

  The boys and girls were all from families of about the same economic level as Rick’s and Junior’s. The redheaded Pat’s father was the pharmacist manager of a chain drug store. Artie, whose last name Rick discovered was Snowden, was the son of a subway guard. Max’s surname was Jelonek, and his father was a liquor salesman.

  Rick found that it was accepted by everyone present, including the defeated Artie, that Pat was his girl for the evening. They sat in a booth across from Junior and a good-looking Italian boy of about fifteen named Salvatore Bullo, who went by the name of Duty.

  Pat’s full name was Patricia Quincy and she, like Rick and Junior, wa
s a high school sophomore.

  Pat explained that every boy present was a member of the Prospectors, which got its name from Prospect Park, the approximate geographical center of the area the Prospectors claimed as its own turf. There were a lot of other members who weren’t present, she added. Altogether the club had about a hundred and fifty members, plus a girl’s auxiliary of about a hundred. She said that Max Jelonek was the president.

  “What is it? Just a social club?” Rick asked. “Sort of like an unchartered fraternity?”

  “I guess you could call it that,” Pat said. “It’s the thing everybody who is anybody belongs to. A boy from around here who doesn’t get asked in is nowhere. The Prospectors run everything.”

  “You mean in school?”

  Duty Bullo laughed. “In school and out, man. You want to make the football team, you better be a Prospector first. You got a yen to work on the school paper, you don’t ask your school adviser. You ask Max. Outside of school you get the urge for some witch, she wouldn’t look at you unless you’re wearing the belt.”

  “What belt?” Rick asked, looking puzzled.

  Duty unzipped his jacket to display a brown elastic belt with a silver buckle bearing the raised symbol of a pickax. Rick and Junior examined it with suitable respect.

  “How do you get in this club?” Junior asked.

  “You don’t, unless you’re asked,” Duty told him. After a moment of general silence, he added generously, “Most all-right guys are eventually asked. You guys already got a good in. I mean Max letting you stick around tonight and all.”

  Pat gave Rick’s arm a squeeze. “Don’t you worry,” she whispered in his ear. “They’ll ask you in.”

  It was midnight when the group began to break up. Rick offered to walk Pat Quincy home, and got a surprised look in return. Apparently she had taken it for granted that he’d walk her home, and considered the offer superfluous.

  Junior and Duty left with them. A moment after they got outside the Cardinal Shop, Max, Artie and another boy who went by the nickname of Eightball came out too. Max called to Rick and his companions to wait, as they were all going the same way.