Bernardo heard someone call and stumbled awkwardly to one side, then saw that Diesel had also stepped backward. “Just hold it!”
“It’s Tony,” someone called. “Better late than never.”
Tony breathed heavily as he stood between them.
“What’s with you?” Riff said, stepping forward.
“All of you, hold your water,” Tony said as he moved to keep Bernardo and Diesel from throwing punches at each other.
“Man, you’re in deep water,” Riff said angrily. “Just what the hell are you doing? You better talk fast, Tony.”
Resting easily, breathing through parted lips, Bernardo corkscrewed the knuckles of his right fist into his left palm. “Maybe he has found the guts to fight his own battles,” he observed, and smiled as the Sharks laughed at his joke.
Tony also laughed and the smile stayed on his lips as he offered Bernardo his hand. “It doesn’t take guts if you have a battle, ’Nardo. But we haven’t got one.”
Bernardo slapped the side of Tony’s hand before he gave him a hard push and sent him sprawling into the dirt. “To you and all other trash, the name is Bernardo, and after tonight it’s gonna be Mr. Bernardo.”
“That’s enough,” Riff said, as he helped Tony to his feet and gestured for the Jets to relax, that he had the situation covered. “The deal is a fair fight between you and Diesel.”
Bernardo moved in and hit Tony a light backhand slap across the face. “Don’t be impatient, you’ll get yours later,” he warned Diesel. “First I’m gonna take on pretty-boy for a warm-up.” He taunted Tony, who was rubbing his cheek. “What’s the matter, pretty-boy? You afraid? Chicken? Gutless?”
Riff pushed Tony behind him. “Cut it,” he warned Bernardo.
But Tony refused to line up with the Jets. He could see now how serious an error he had made.
It would have been better—no matter what he told or promised Maria—to have let them have it out. If Diesel had taken Bernardo, everything would have been settled, and he could then have made a real grandstand play by offering to take on Diesel to prove to Bernardo that he wanted peace between them.
If ’Nardo had taken Diesel, he could have offered to shake hands with his future brother-in-law, and if ’Nardo had refused, and pushed him around, tried for a clean shot at Bernardo. Then when he came to, he could have offered to shake hands or put him away again.
It was too late to do any of these things now, and Tony trembled as he felt Bernardo’s cold hatred. There was nothing he could do now. It was too late. But for Maria, he had to try; he was even willing to crawl.
“Bernardo, you’ve got it wrong.” Tony kept his voice low and steady.
Bernardo shook his head. “I’ve got it right. You’re chicken.”
“Why won’t you understand?” Tony asked, as he signaled for Action to keep his mouth shut.
Bernardo stepped in, one hand cupped at his ear, as the other flicked Tony’s nose. “Can’t hear you, chicken,” he taunted Tony. “What did you say? A-Rab wants you to get me. But you’re too chicken.”
“Bernardo—don’t.”
Delighted with himself, Bernardo danced around Tony to flick at his nose, his chin, to slap him across an ear, to pirouette like a bullfighter. “I can’t call him toro because he’s a chicken,” he told the delighted Sharks. “Come on, chicken,” he continued to taunt Tony. “What have you got to say before I start making you lay eggs?”
It was too much for Riff to take. He thought with shame of all the times, the days and weeks and months, he had spent in defending Tony, his best friend, against Action and Diesel, even against Baby-John and Anybodys. It didn’t make sense. No white man who had any pride would take what this spic was dishing out. Was Tony sick in the head or something to take crap from a goddamn spic? Maybe Tony didn’t feel ashamed, because someone who was sick, or without guts, couldn’t, but he did. He touched his hip pocket and felt the reassuring bulk of his switchblade knife.
Bernardo slapped Tony again. “Yellow-bellied chicken…”
“For chrissake, Tony!” Riff shouted in anguish. “You crazy son of a bitch, are you crazy! Don’t let him do that!”
“Murder him, Tony!” Anybodys screeched.
Baby-John hopped up and down. “Kill him!”
“Kill nobody,” Bernardo mocked. “You dirty, lousy…”
With a cry of rage, Riff pushed Tony aside and leaped for Bernardo’s throat. He knocked him off balance, reached down, yanked him to his feet, and pounded his fist squarely into Bernardo’s mouth.
Bernardo felt his mouth fill with blood, but lowered his head to butt Riff squarely in the face, and as Riff lost his grip and stumbled backward, Bernardo had his knife out. As he wiped his mouth, he saw the glint of Riff’s blade. This was it, the way it should be. He ordered the Sharks to stay back, that was what he wanted. From the corner of his eye, he saw Tony start forward but Action and Diesel grabbed him.
Jockeying for position, feinting, moving the knives in defensive circles, both leaders decreased the distance between them. Each had had enough experience to know that this kind of fight never lasted long. It might be over with one thrust; it never took more than two or three.
Around them the perimeter constricted, and as Diesel and Action moved forward they loosened their hold on Tony for a moment, which was enough time for him to break free.
The action was a blur. He heard Riff shout at him to get back, goddamnit, and as Riff gestured to make the command more emphatic, he swept his left arm wide. It provided the few seconds Bernardo needed to come in fast and swing the knife upward in a hard lethal arc that ended in Riff’s ribcage, just under the heart.
Riff was dead before he fell, and with a cry of anguish, Tony scooped the knife from his limp hand and charged forward with such sudden speed that Bernardo was caught unprepared. Unable to shift his feet properly to defend himself, all ten inches of the blade pierced his side, and dying, he fell to the ground.
The rattle and gasp of death, the darkening earth, the limp forms so suddenly cut off from hatred, violence and life, seemed too awful to endure. Then the howl of a siren, a police prowl car screaming to a stop above them, a searchlight beam probing the side of the highway, scattered the Jets and Sharks.
Diesel grabbbed Tony’s arm and as Tony ran, his eyes blinded by tears, his world going up in flames, he called her name again and again and again, but only the wild despairing sound of the siren answered him.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The transistor radio was tuned to a station that prided itself on playing only fast, driving records, with a simple primitive beat and senseless lyrics. The girls on the roof moved their feet and their shoulders, as they stared impatiently off into the darkness. Why, it was nine-thirty already, and this could only mean real live strong action. Oh, they were impatient—the loving was going to be furious tonight.
Consuelo looked at herself in a pocket mirror and decided she preferred her left profile—longer false lashes, and larger falsies. “This is my last night as a blonde,” she announced.
“That’s no loss,” Rosalia said.
“A gain!” Consuelo returned the mirror to her large purse. “The fortune teller told Pepe a dark lady was coming into his life.”
“So that’s why he’s not taking you out after the rumble!” Delighted with her wit, Rosalia crossed the roof to tell Maria in detail how she had just told off Consuelo, who was even more stupid than she admitted to.
The criss-crossing sounds of racing sirens in the streets below made Maria shudder. There were certain sounds she disliked, hated, even feared, and the sound of sirens inspired in her all three reactions. Sirens almost always meant trouble—illness, an accident, death, fire. Still these sirens had nothing to do with her.
“There is not going to be a rumble,” she said to Rosalia.
Rosalia pointed at her. “Another fortune teller!”
Maria looked over the ledge at the street below and wondered how much longer she would have to wait f
or Tony. Not that there was any need for him to hurry for her mother and father had gone to the movies with her younger sisters.
She had begun to quarrel with her younger sisters when her father, to end the quarrel, had suggested they all go to the movies. The little girls were sure to fall asleep and as long as they were in the theater, they would certainly be more comfortable than at home.
She had sponsored this suggestion with enthusiasm, but told her mother and father she would stay at home because she would be going out with Bernardo and Anita and some of the other girls who were coming over.
“Where is Chino escorting you after the rumble that is not going to be a rumble?” Maria heard Consuelo ask.
Maria turned toward her to smile enigmatically. “Chino is escorting me no place.”
“She is just dolling up for us.” Rosalia said, as she pointed to Maria in her white dress.
“No, not for you.” Maria shook her head. She contemplated the girls and wondered how much she ought to tell them. “Can you keep a secret?”
Consuelo clapped her hands. “I’m hot for secrets. Tell me one and you’ve told everyone, which saves a lot of wear and tear on your own mouth.”
“Tonight I’m waiting for the boy I’m going to marry.”
“So what’s the secret?” Consuelo was disappointed. “You know something, Rosalia? Chino is all right. He doesn’t talk as much as the others about what a great lover he is. And he doesn’t talk big about going to work, because he goes to work. So you know what I figure?”
“What?” Rosalia asked patiently.
“He’s a doer, not a talker—and they do the most in everything! When are you going to marry this great lover?”
Maria took a deep breath. “I am not waiting for Chino.”
“Poor girl!” Consuelo placed her hand on Maria’s forehead. “The heat’s got her. She’s way out of her mind.”
“I am!” Maria’s eyes danced with excitement. “I am out of my mind and out of this world with happiness. Tell me, do you think Chino could make me look like this?”
Puzzled, Consuelo looked to Rosalia for an explanation, but Rosalia shrugged. “I’ll say this,” Rosalia observed, “Maria does look different.”
“I do?” Maria asked. “Even if I did not look different, can’t you see that I feel different?”
Rosalia nodded. “Very different, like you were lit up with sparks.”
“Which is how I feel!” Maria exclaimed. “I feel wonderful, marvelous and beautiful. I feel I could fly, if I wanted to. I could run along the edge of this roof and jump to that one.” She pointed. “I only see stars in the sky. Four or five moons. I’m in love with the most wonderful, wonderful boy.”
“Of course,” Consuelo said. “Chino.” She turned to her friend again. “He must really have something.”
“A job,” Rosalia snickered. “A big one.”
“Oh shut up,” Consuelo told her. “You are thinking practical and Maria is thinking romantical. I wonder…?”
Rosalia shrugged. “She hasn’t told us that part of the secret, so we can’t broadcast it.”
“But we can say she did—” Consuelo suggested.
Maria knelt to shut off the radio, then leaned over the side of the building. “Someone is calling me. Hello! We’re up here, up on the roof.” Joyously she turned to the girls. “Now you will see him!”
She ran to the door, held it open, and waited. Poor Tony, he must have knocked at the door, and found it locked.
“Up here!” she called. “Hurry! I want you to meet some friends of mine.”
She paused and blinked because it was Chino on the landing below.
“I must talk to you,” he called to Maria. “Who is up there with you?”
“The girls,” Maria replied. “Chino, what is the matter? You look like you were in an accident!”
“Anita?” he asked.
“She’s not here. Chino, you look sick,” Maria said as she descended several steps. “What is the matter?”
Chino leaned against the wall, stared at his hands as if he had never seen them before, and wiped his streaked and sweaty face with the sleeve of his shirt. “Come down, Maria.” He pointed to the other girls. “Stay where you are, don’t listen.”
“We don’t have to be kicked out more than once to know when we’re not wanted,” Consuelo said to Chino.
“Let him alone!” Maria ran up the stairs to shut the roof door and returned to Chino. “What is it?” she asked. “You’re in trouble?”
“Where’re your father and mother? The kids?”
“They went to the movies. Chino, you’ve been fighting!”
Chino moaned, and covered his face with both hands. “It happened so fast.”
“What happened so fast, Chino?”
“Maria, at the rumble—”
“There was no rumble,” she said.
Chino turned from her. “There was. There was. Nobody meant for it to happen. Nobody.” He pounded his fist against the painted plaster for emphasis.
Maria felt the cold breath of fear against her face. “What is it?” she asked. “Tell me. Tell me fast. It will be easier if you say it very fast.”
“There was a fight,” Chino began, “and ’Nardo…”
“Go on.”
“A knife…”
“Tony!” she shrieked as she whirled Chino around. “What happened to Tony?”
Eyes large with disbelief, Chino rested with one cheek against the wall. Then, for the first time, he saw that Maria wore the white dress and high-heeled shoes, even lipstick, and knew it was not for him.
“Tony?” He was savage. “He’s all right. Fine! He just killed your brother!”
“You’re lying. You’re lying!” she said as she began to beat him with her fist. “You are making up a story, Chino, and I hate you! I will tell ’Nardo that you are not to come here any more. You are lying, lying, lying!” She paused at the sound of a police siren. “Why do you lie?”
Pressed against the wall, Chino also heard the siren, and the shrill sound released him from the agony of the moment. He sprang forward and pushed Maria aside and ran downstairs to the flat, because he had work to do.
Not that ’Nardo or any of the Sharks had given him orders, but all of them would be looking for Tony Wyzek, and he—Chino Martin—had the most reason for finding him. And because ’Nardo had thought of him as a brother-in-law, ’Nardo had told him where he kept the gun. Chino reached behind the bathtub and felt the hard, compact package that Bernardo had concealed, and fear left him and he knew from this moment on he was an unfeeling extension of the trigger.
He unwrapped the gun and broke it to make certain it was loaded. The gun thrust into his pocket, Chino turned and pushed past a dazed Maria, who had just entered the apartment.
Now, he could see, she believed him, but there was no time for explanations, no time for anything but to find Tony Wyzek and kill him.
For a moment Maria thought of running after Chino, then she crossed the kitchen to kneel before the figures of the Holy Family, and looking directly at the Mother, she rocked in silent agony and prayer. She began to pray aloud in Spanish, attempting to remember every prayer she had ever heard or learned.
“Make it not be true,” she pleaded. “I will do anything. Make me die. Only please—make it not be true.”
Her prayers were interrupted by firm strong hands on her elbows, hands that wanted her to stand. It could not be, but she saw him and knew it was Tony, and he was no longer young. His eyes were old, sunk deep in his head, and his mouth twitched, as he breathed in deep, racking spasms.
Maria’s hand struck him once, again, and again as she began to beat him with more violence than she had shown Chino. He made no effort to defend himself as her fists beat against his face. “Killer!” she wailed and moaned wildly, without stopping, “Killer killer killer killer—”
Suddenly she fell forward into Tony’s arms, and together they slumped to the floor. Wet cheek pressed against his,
she attempted to kiss away his tears, before she cradled him in her arms, where Tony wept with the anguish of the doomed.
“I tried to stop it. I did try,” he cried brokenly. “I don’t know how it went wrong. I didn’t meant to hurt him. I swear it. I swear it. I didn’t want to. But Riff—Riff was like my brother. So when Bernardo killed him…”
“God save them,” she whispered.
Tony pulled Maria into his arms, began kissing her eyes, her cheeks, her hair, as he continued to pour out his grief.
“I had to tell you,” he said. “I had to ask your forgiveness before I went to the police.”
“No,” she whispered. “No.”
“It’s easy now,” Tony said. “I’m not afraid.”
“No,” she repeated wildly. “Stay with me. Stay with me. I’m alone. Stay with me.”
He clapsed her again in his arms, felt the warmth of her breasts, her hair, the tears against his cheeks. “I love you so much, Maria,” he whispered. “And I killed someone you love. Help me—please help me.”
“Hold me tighter,” she answered. “Make your arms tighter. I am so cold.”
How could there be any hours or days or future beyond tonight, beyond the moment when her mother and father returned from the movies?
“You must rest,” she said. “On my bed. Anton, please.”
“I’ve gotta go,” he said.
“To the police?”
“To the police.”
“After the rest.” Maria stood and offered him both hands. “A little while ago I was talking to the girls on the roof about my wedding. And we were married, Anton. Don’t you remember, this afternoon?”
“If we could only go back to the afternoon.”
“It is afternoon. It will never be later for us. Now you must rest.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Baby-John called on Superman, Batman and Robin, Wonder Boy and Planet King, Green Arrow and Green Hornet, Spaceman, Jack Blastoff, and Orbit Oscar to come to his rescue.
Sitting in the dark body of the wrecked truck, knees drawn to his chin, and eyes fixed on a star that he could see through a break in the metal side of the truck that rested on its axles in the junk yard near the river, he waited for a bright streak of light, like that of a meteor, marking the path made by one, possibly all of his heroes.
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