The other boy swallowed heavily, his cheeks went white. “No, Checker, I ain’t spookin’ ya. If you say you’d of done it, I believe you. Honest to God, Checker!”
The enraged Striker released Julie’s shirt, pushed him against the back of the booth. “Then shut your goddam mouth.”
“Chrissakes, you’re jumpy,” Julie added, making certain his tones were level and inoffensive.
Checker’s face softened. Julie drew back as the dark boy poked playfully at him. Tapping him lightly on the bicep, Checker said, “Yeah. Sorry, Julie. I been edgy ever since the rumble petered out.”
Cherry nudged Vode. “Lemme out,” she demanded. He slid out of the booth, and she moved past him. The girl walked slowly up to Checker.
Taking his arm, she said, “Come on, Check, let’s you and me go for a little ride. Get your mind off the rumble. We can use Vode’s car—can’t we Vode?”
Vode watched with growing anger. Cherry had been making too many catting motions around Checker lately. It might mean a stand, and Vode didn’t want that. He didn’t much like the idea. Checker was hard. Vode had seen him in a couple of rumbles—one of them with the Jolly Stompers, the roughest bunch in Brooklyn—and he was a mean cat to toy with.
He couldn’t refuse the car and risk getting Checker down on him. He wouldn’t make a play now, but something would have to happen soon. Cherry was too hot an item to let Checker swipe her.
He dug into a pocket of his jeans, brought out the ring of keys. He tossed them to Checker. “Here. But take it easy and get back soon. We want to check out early.”
Checker looked down at the keys, then at Vode. “Thanks,” he said, but it didn’t sound like thanks.
He closed the knife and put it in his sleeve. He shook his arm up toward the ceiling, and the knife dropped up the sleeve.
They turned to leave. Vode took a half-hesitant step toward them. “Cherry…” he started, but when she turned, he shook his head. “Nothing. Go on.”
She smiled sardonically, and moved with Checker toward the door of the diner.
Outside, the girl piled into the front seat and slammed the door, yelling to Checker. “Come on, Lover, let’s put some tar on these tires!”
Checker slid behind the wheel of the souped-up Ford and turned the key in the ignition. With a roar, the motor leaped to life and the car zoomed out into traffic, cutting off a line of cars that had beaten the light.
Checker spun the wheel hard, tire-screeching around the corner, across the slick, shiny asphalt, and into traffic.
They sped uptown, catching the timed lights just as they fell. “Like a hackie!” Checker laughed, and Cherry moved closer, her thigh touching his. She slipped one arm through his, and leaned toward him.
“Let’s move!”
Checker bent down on the accelerator and the Ford leaped ahead, dodging in and out of lanes. They headed uptown, and soon found themselves in Morningside Heights.
“Where now?” Checker asked, his eyes bright, his hands warm and sticky on the wheel.
“Let’s go down onto the Drive and park someplace,” Cherry said, her eyes half-closed. “We can sit and…listen to some music,” she said quickly, flicking the car radio on.
As Checker turned down toward the river and the Drive, the wail of a lonely saxophone filled the car. Cherry’s fingers punched at the buttons on the radio. “Let’s have something hot.”
The radio settled at an all-night jazz show, with creeping rhythms and the constant heated beat of snare drums.
“Smooth, ain’t it?” she asked.
“Um. Smooth.”
They turned onto the Drive, joining the hordes of late-evening commuters, streaming away from New York. The Hudson River Parkway turned and sprawled for miles, with the Ford riding it recklessly and quickly.
Then, when a dark draw-off area by the River showed itself, Cherry, straightening up, nudged Checker in the side. “There,”-she said, excitement edging her voice, “pull off there!”
Checker pulled onto the gravelly section, and cut the motor. Behind them, the unabated whanging of cars speeding past kept up a constant background noise.
Checker shrugged his shoulder muscles, loosening them from the tension of steady driving. He looked out across the hood of the car at the dark, silent Hudson.
“Cigarette?” he asked, offering the pack to Cherry.
She shook her head no, moved a little closer to him.
“You know, Cherry,” he said, “I ain’t very bright, but if I didn’t know better, I’d think you was makin’ a play for me. Now what would our buddy, Vode, say to that?”
He grinned, and turned to look at her.
“You know what I think of Vode,” she snarled. “He got to me when I first joined the Club. I don’t dig him nohow! And I don’t give a damn what he thinks!”
She turned toward him, moving closer, rubbing her breasts against his arm. “Now, with you, it’s different.”
Checker was playing it cool. “Yeah?”
“I been watching you since you joined the Strikers. You got it, Checker.” Her eyes were bright. She moved closer, shoving Checker against the door.
“Maybe I got it,” he admitted, “but what about Vode? He won’t dig your liking me. I hate to stone any buddy, but we can’t make noise till Vode drops you.”
She drew back petulantly. “Ain’t no guy dumps me!”
“Then how do we get rid of Vode?” Checker asked calmly.
“Simple,” Cherry said, looking down at her red-tipped fingers. “You got a rumble comin’ up with the Stompers, don’t you?” When Checker nodded his head slowly, Cherry continued. “Then during the war, when he turns his back, pin him with your switchblade. It’s been done before,” she explained.
Checker did not draw back. He looked out the window and lit a cigarette. His voice was level. “It’s an idea. I’ll think about it.”
She moved closer once more, her face lit by the light from the radio dial. The music seemed to swell, filling the car. “You’re not going to think about it now, are you, Check?”
Checker looked down at her; she was licking her lips again.
He flicked the cigarette out the window.
They slid to a stop in front of Greasy Ernie’s. The big rainbow-shaped neon sign that arced over the diner was blinking on and off pinkly, frantically:
THE NICEST PEOPLE IN THE WORLD EAT IN THIS DINER!
Cherry opened her door, slammed it behind her, and flounced up the steps, into the diner. Checker right behind her.
Checker saw Vode rise to his feet, still sitting in the same booth where they had left him. Some of the Strikers had checked-out, but most were still there, passing the gab, waiting for something to pop.
Checker tossed the keys to Vode. “Where the hell were ya?” Vode inquired angrily. “It’s been two and a half hours!”
Cherry slid into the booth, pulled Vode by the sleeve till he sat down next to her. “Oh, just out the Drive.”
“Yeah. And I’ll bet you parked a while, too,” he said accusingly.
Checker sat down opposite him, let the switchblade slide down into his hand, clicked it open. “That’s a pretty unkind thing to say about a chick as faithful as little Cherry is to you, Vode,” he answered, watching the other boy evenly.
Vode stared back steadily. They watched each other, eyes locked, till Vode flickered and slowly lowered his. “Yeah. Yeah. I suppose so,” he murmured.
The sounds of the diner came back around them, mixed and mingled with the noises of the streets and the noises of the ebony rain pelting into the gutters. Someone yelled for a piece of apple pie with cheese on it.
Checker toyed with the knife. It seemed as though time had doubled back on itself—as though he and Cherry had never gone on that ride.
“Y’know, I’d like a shot at that lousy Johnny Slice,” Checker stated, remembering his anger of two and a half hours before. “A real shot. Man, I’d pile his bricks!”
Checker wanted another chance to r
umble with the Jolly Stompers. He wanted a chance at Vode. Cherry was worth it! He knew they’d gone on the ride.
“Don’t forget the cops, Check,” said Cherry, from across the booth, playing with him, smiling inside while the outside was serene. Abruptly a thin smile played across her full lips and she tossed her auburn hair coquettishly. Vode watched with annoyance.
“Cops!” Checker snorted at her. “Cops! I eat ’em for meatless Friday; they’re just like jellyfish!”
Vode’s head came up sharply. This was more interesting! Suddenly the. conversation interested him; this was too much between Cherry and Checker. He was going to have to get rid of Checker. This might be an angle. He saw a sharp way to get Checker off his back—and away from Cherry.
He leaned across the table. “You don’t like cops, right Checker?” His sallow face was alive with excitement; a grin broke the even blankness of his expression.
“I hate the stupid jerks,” Checker answered, as though the question were unnecessary. He had been idly fingering the knife. Now he raised it again. “I’d like to let a cop field this steel in his tummy!”
Vode licked his lips nervously. “Okay, Checker. We been buddies for quite a while now. Right?”
Checker nodded warily, still not understanding. “So?”
“So I got a proposition for you, buddy-O. A bet. A real bet.” He was wagging his finger in emphasis. “You want in?”
Checker leaned back in the booth, watching the faces of the other Strikers, who listened now, their interest drawn. He looked at the plain whiteness of Vode’s face, and the ripe beauty of Cherry’s sardonic grin. “Maybe,” he replied. “Depends what kind of a bet it is.”
“You’re not chickie, are you?”
Checker slid forward, the knife ready. “That wasn’t nice, buddy-O. I said maybe—depending what kind of bet you got in mind.”
“I’ll bet you a death!” Vode said abruptly.
Checker’s brows drew down. “What? What the hell are you talkin’ about?”
The other boy let his tongue slide onto his lower lip for an instant, then said, “I’ll bet Cherry against your killin’ a cop. You cool a harness boy, you get Cherry. You don’t—you stay off my turf with her.”
The sudden silence of the diner was broken only by a customer clicking his fork against his pie plate, and the sizzle of the grill.
The Strikers looked at Vode, then at Checker. There was a hushed murmur of disbelief. As it washed through the crowd of teen-agers, Checker let his breath out slowly. “Sounds interestin’. Tell me more.” He was looking at Cherry, who was licking her lips, a faint grin on her face. She was enjoying this.
“We’ll go out, the bunch of us, and tag behind you. When you find a cop, you give him the shank. If you do, you can have Cherry, with no beef from me. If you don’t, then you stop makin’ the hot-looks on her. Deal?”
Checker’s face flamed. Cherry made an angry noise.
“What the hell you mean, me makin’ the hot-looks on her?” Checker snapped.
“What the hell you think I am, a raffle ticket?” Cherry growled, turning on Vode.
The pale boy held up his hands in resignation. “Look, don’t argue with me. If you dig the bet, Checker, you’re on; and if you win, I don’t think Cherry’ll put up too much of a beef. Now, which is it?”
Checker’s face was a blotched mask. His eyes were deeply hidden in shadow. He looked down at his hands. The naked switchblade lay in his palm. He closed his fingers over it once more.
“Is it a bet?” Vode persisted. “The boys wanna see if you’re a hero, Checker.”
Cherry strained forward in her seat. The Strikers edged closer. Even Greasy Ernie, behind the counter, had taken in most of the discussion, and he ignored his customers, eager to find out Checker’s decision.
Checker watched his hands, as though the answer would come from there. He knew he couldn’t back down. To back off was to show yellow, to show chickie; Besides, this was Cherry he was betting for. He raised his eyes a fraction, saw the edge of her in his vision. He knew what the answer would be.
The dark-browed boy looked up. He drew himself more erect, the black leather tightening across his chest. The knife came up slowly. Then he smiled tightly, slowly, and his words were sure and soft:
“I’ll bet you a death.”
The streets had slicked down completely. The gutters were swollen with midsummer rain, and the pavements shone with rainbow streaks where grease and gasoline had spattered.
Checker walked alone past the park. The Strikers were a block behind, holding to the shadows, walking quietly in a group. They were experienced in huddling; this was their city. They knew New York better than the housewives or the nine-to-fivers, or the cabbies, even. They knew the city and they knew how to get around in it.
Now they held to the shadows, letting Checker make his own play—letting him find his cop.
The night had closed down tightly, and the Strikers watched Checker, seeing only a dark blur, moving steadily. Then the blur stopped moving. The Strikers moved in.
“What’s the matter, Check?” Vode inquired, a touch of bite in his voice. “Change your mind?” They both knew that backing-off now would be punking-out. That would lose Checker any standing he might have in the Strikers. Besides, he couldn’t turn back and punk-out in front of Cherry.
“Watch your mouth, Vode,” Checker said. “I want to talk to Cherry—alone. For a minute.” He squinted his dark eyes at the gang, as though challenging them to disagree with him.
“Hey! I don’t know—” Vode began, but Cherry gave him a quick slap on the arm and edged past.
“Oh, come on, Vode! He wants to talk to me for a minute, why not? After all, I am the pay-off in this little bet.” She moved toward Checker.
He turned and walked away down the street, into a doorway. The Strikers watched as Cherry ambled to the doorway, swinging her body carelessly, and disappeared into its complete darkness.
“Listen,” said Checker, “you goin’ along with this thing? You’ll be my steady if I kill a cop? That right?”
Even in the semi-darkness, Checker could see the smile that crossed Cherry’s lips. “Sure, Check. I’ve wanted to be your drag before this but that goony-bird Vode’s been in the way. Now you can get him out of the way without havin’ to cool him sneaky in a rumble. All you have to do is find a cop.” Then a tinge of uncertainty came into her voice.
“You think you can find a cop—and—and—kill him?”
Checker reached out, dragged the girl close. “You just watch,” he said carefully. “You just watch me find one. Then that punk Vode’s gonna get his, anyhow. I thought he was my buddy, but he’s a lousy bastard; that’s what he is!”
Cherry moved closer, pressing her body against Checker. “Don’t let that turkey bother you.” She moved her head slowly, letting her auburn hair glide across his cheek. “When you’ve won the bet, I’ll be your drag; and he won’t be able to open his mouth. Then you can—”
“—Challenge him to a stand,” the voice of Vode finished, from the doorway. He reached in and grabbed Cherry by the upper arm. “Come on, you bum. Let’s let the hero here go out and find his copper. He’s been stallin’ long enough. Me and the guys wanna see him in action. We’re dyin’ to see you cool a badge, Checker, buddy-O.”
He yanked roughly, and Cherry slid out of Checker’s grasp. Checker cursed under his breath, swearing he would have a stand with Vode as soon as he’d won the bet.
He was going to win the bet! That much he knew for certain. It wasn’t only Cherry, though God knew she was enough to boil any stud’s blood, but now it was a personal thing. And when he shoved his steel into the cop, he would not only be killing a lousy badge, he’d be killing Vode a little.
The stud that cooled a copper would be the biggest man in the whole city. Biggest man in all the gangs. Biggest man; man to get all the broads, man to be top hard-boy!
And Checker wanted that almost as much as he wanted Cherry.
It had started drizzling again, harder this time. The rain misted down in a fine spray, and the black leather of Checker’s jacket had become beaded with moisture.
The cops seemed to be hiding. At every corner Checker had stopped, and waited. The Strikers had waited, too. But there had been nothing; not a sign, not a glimpse, not a patch of blue or a sparkle of metal. For the first time in his life Checker wanted to see the cops, and they were hiding!
What a crazy thing, he thought, stepping into another doorway to light a cigarette.
What a crazy night! When you don’t want them, they crawl all over you. When you want one bad enough so’s you can taste it, they stay in the cop house and play poker! He cupped his hand around the match, brought it to the cigarette.
The brief flare of the match highlighted his face, casting even deeper shadows into the pools under his eyes, in his cheeks. He had begun to perspire, and it bothered him.
“You’re chicken,” he murmured to himself, then grinned. He drew deeply on the cigarette, grimacing, wishing he had a high-stick to put him on the cloud. “A little pot and then I’d take on the whole damned force,” he said to the night.
A car turned into the street, its headlights flashing quickly in and out of the doorway, broken raggedly by the sluicing rain.
Checker drew on the cigarette once more and stepped out onto the sidewalk. He resumed his search. In a minute the cigarette hung wet and disheveled between his lips. In annoyance at not having cupped the rain off it, he flicked the butt into the gutter, and turned the corner.
Half a block up the street he stopped. On the corner.
His billy hanging from the inside of his elbow, a cop was phoning in on a call box.
Checker stopped and moved against the building wall. Now that the opportunity confronted him…he wasn’t sure he wanted to go through with this bet.
He took a shuffling step backward, then he heard the voices. Whispers of what had been said before:
You’re not chickie, are you?
The Deadly Streets Page 4
