by Sol Yurick
Arnold’s Dominators waited, held together, stayed by Hector, stunned by the great fight, held in place by the double bank of police lights. They stood still when the shots were fired. They stood still when the mob broke. They waited for the word to move. Hector, looking cool and dangerous in the lights, full of heart, just kept holding his hand high, even though Lunkface wanted to start fighting: and The Junior knew it would be so simple to just start running. A minute passed. The riot was general now. When Hector was sure the police were busy, he hand-signaled for them to move out. Hector vanned and Arnold rear-guarded. They walked north toward the stand of bushes where Ismael had been. As they moved, they stepped up the pace to a half-crouching fast walk, having been drilled in this pre-battle movement by Papa Arnold and Uncle Hector. Another loudspeaker started giving orders to the boys, yelling at groups that were trying to make their escape, telling them that flight was useless; they were surrounded.
“Then man, what’re we running for? They got us,” Hinton said.
“Son, you don’t know a thing. That’s talk. Down and keep moving,” Arnold said from the rear. “Follow your Uncle.”
Lunkface moved, clench-fisted and bop-stalking, hoping that someone, anyone, would get in his way, or that some lone cop would get close so that he could hit him a few times before they were caught. Hinton wondered if it wasn’t better to just stop and wait with the others to be rounded up. The cops would have to let them go: how could the jails hold so many people? A fourth loud-speaker started giving orders. Cops were shouting directions and yelling to one another to look out for this or that bunch trying to escape. The voices met and fused into a general, crushing roar and every statement became meaningless; mere noise.
Arnold’s Family moved north, screened, for the most part, by the herded boys standing around and waiting for the cops to come for them. They made it to the stand of bushes. They passed a bunch of Ismael’s men standing around the body of their leader. They wanted to stop and look, but Hector yelled for them to keep moving. Arnold in the rear should have known better, but he had to stop and look at Ismael’s face. One of Ismael’s men asked him what did he think he was looking at, and before Arnold could say anything, he was surrounded and being pounded and down. Bimbo, just ahead of Arnold, didn’t notice because of the noise; he was moving after the others faster now and they were into the black bush clumps and out of that terrible dazzle. It was cooler here. It was a relief to get free from the light and they moved faster. Branches tugged at their knees, but they were trotting now, getting further and further away from that zone of brilliance. And then they were clear of the bushes and following after Hector who was vaguely outlined by the beams of the jammed-up cars at the highway junction ahead.
They reached the embankment where the highways joined. Hector, outlined by carlight, shimmering in the mercury lamps, waved them down. There was no point to waiting around. Hector gave the word; they would charge across between the stopped cars and make their way toward the left, west, in the darkness. Hector told them not to be frightened, to keep together, and when they got to the other side of the highway, they would link hands and make their way through the blackness. Hector knew, vaguely, they had come from that direction. Anyway, the Park had to end and they would be out of it soon.
They ran across the highway and down the embankment on the other side and into the darkness. Behind them, seeing them run, the motorists began to sound their car horns insistently, trying to warn the police. The men, panicking, ran faster. The ground was wet and getting softer and they seemed to be moving into a swamp. They had all seen movie heroes sink into quicksand; was there quicksand here? But they all knew that if anyone started to sink, the thing to do was to get a big branch and lay it across the quicksand hole . . . but who would have the courage to stop? Their shoes were not made for running and were getting soaked, ruined fast here. Lunkface wanted to stop and light up a cigarette, but Hector knocked it out of his hand; was he crazy? That was the word that always infuriated Lunkface, and he was almost ready to fight, but Hector was ordering them to link hands and follow him. He kept Lunkface close to him.
They moved fast, half-running through the darkness, getting further and further away from that great bubble of light, not knowing where they were going, drifting north, west, then east, and finally, they were lost, moving up and down hills, through marshy land, panting. The loud hums of big insects whirring by startled them. They slapped at stinging bugs. Were there wild animals here? Wildcats? Wolves maybe? Certainly snakes. What kinds? They weren’t sure. Pythons? Rattlers? Frogs sounded, crickets chirped, louder than firecrackers. Dewey stepped into a small water-filled hole and shouted. They hushed him and ran around him, pulling him through even though Dewey was afraid of alligators. Whipped-back branches hit and stung their faces too. Lunkface got a mouthful of wet leaves. Hector almost shrieked when he walked into a spider web; he made frantic brushing moves in the dark air; he had heard about black widows, even huge, man-eating spiders; but he kept his mouth shut and kept Face, and grabbed Lunkface’s hand again. Bimbo felt the raincoat catch and wanted to stop to disentangle it, but he was pulled on and the coat ripped. He felt for the bottles; they were safe.
It seemed as if they kept moving for a long, long time; they wanted to rest badly. Hector wouldn’t let them. They were gasping; their sides hurt; they charged up a rocky hill, slipping, falling, getting up again and again; The Junior tore the knee of his pants; and they were at the top and running across a firm-grounded sports field and the park ended suddenly in a sidewalk and street. It was a long, peaceful street with thick-boled trees, not too busy; a few people walked along it. Across the street, behind an iron-spiked fence, was a cemetery. A bus was heading toward them, and farther off, Bimbo saw the revolving red eye of a cruising cop car and he pointed. Hector had an idea and waved. They bolted across the street, climbed up and over and down into the cemetery. Moving carefully, they weaved among the tombstones till the street was blocked by the tombs and gravestones. Hector gave the rest sign by dropping to his knees. They all fell down and panting, they rested in the shadow of the big tomb on the crest of the grass sloped hill.
July 4th, 11:10–11:45 P.M.
The Junior got jittery; it was taking too long. Lunkface was angry over his lost hat and The Junior was making him nervous with that ghost talk. Dewey wondered if it could be true. If—things—did come up from the graves.
Hector said, “Now we cool it here for a few hours and then, when the shit is off—”
But The Junior whined in a panicky voice, “But I told you. We can’t stay. Them graves might open up and . . .”
And they all huddled closer together, but got no comfort from the nearness. Arnold might have helped; Arnold was their Father. But the Father was gone now.
It takes about an hour, an hour and a half, depending on the subway service, to get from the top of the Bronx to Coney Island. But not if you are crouching in the dark shadow of a tomb. Not if the little fat stone cherubs on the tomb press their cheeks together, and their smile becomes more and more evil as the hour evolves to midnight. And not if every cop in the city might be alerted and blockading, not if every gang truce in the city is off and every gang’s hand is raised against every other gang’s. Coney Island is about fifteen miles away; it might as well be fifteen hundred, because everyone between here and home is ready to come down on you. And if there is no plan yet, if they are falling apart as a Family because the Father is gone, and they have to be there, home, now, then it means that an infinite distance must be covered. And that was why Hinton, because he didn’t believe in ghosts, couldn’t see the necessity of leaving this nice, cool place on this night, and walking that far across all that empty space, exposed in the moonlight, to get to the subway. There was time yet.
“Man, I’ll take myself off and make it by myself,” Lunkface said. “I’m not going to hang around this place.”
Things rustled again. There was a watchman. Were the fuzz sneaking up? No, cops came cl
umping in loud and didn’t care. Was it another gang? Whose Motherland was this anyway? No one knew.
“Well, if it’s the spooks that’s bothering you, children, why we’ll move out and cool it in another way,” Hector played it chilly, with scorn, hoping that they wouldn’t be foolish; that they would agree to stay. But even Bimbo said he didn’t want to hang around.
When Hector saw the way it was, being rational about things, he said all right, they would restructure, they would elect, they would move out as a Family—because if they made it like a mob—they knew what happened to mobs. They agreed.
The Junior said, “But man, we have to hurry it.”
They elected. There was no question that Uncle Hector should become the Father for the time being. Lunkface wanted it for himself and voted for himself and glowered at them when he didn’t make it. They didn’t even vote Lunkface for Uncle, because you could never trust what he was going to do. They gave the vote to Bimbo who was cool, unimaginative, steady; a good man to have by your side in any bop, jap, or rumble. Lunkface became the third in command, eldest son, and that, to some extent, satisfied him; to give him anything lower would have caused trouble. He was sixteen, a little liquored up most of the time, but six foot one and thick and broad and strong. The second brother was Dewey; he was seventeen and had been with the Family for a long time and was reliable. The third brother was Hinton. Hinton was the artist because he had a talent for caricature and could draw fancy letters; he carried the Magic Marker and left the sign of the Dominators wherever they went. They all thought he was a little psycho because when he got the fighting madness, even Lunkface was a little afraid of him. But that was Hinton’s secret: not having the strength or the heart, he knew that everyone feared the flip, and so he psychoed once in a while and they gave him room. The kid brother was The Junior, a sort of mascot, really still a tot, but with heart. They liked to match him against tot-mascots from other gangs to see the little ones fight. He was not only the youngest of the group, but his name was really Junior, and he always carried a rolled-up comic book or two in his pocket. After the election, Hector had Bimbo pass the bottle around for one drink; Lunkface took two because he was angry over his hat and the election. Hector told them to smoke, but light up under the cover of their jackets so that the flame wouldn’t be seen. He told them to smoke one cigarette, no more; to keep cupping their hands over the light, to lay it low till he could come up with the plan of action. Lunkface thought that they should discuss plans democratically, but Hector pointed out that he was the Father and it was Lunkface’s duty, as oldest son, to follow. Lunkface was angry, but he didn’t say anything else.
The thing to do was to get down the hill, over the fence, across the street, across that highway and river, up that long lawn, through the barrier of apartment houses, onto the subway, and go home. That was one way of doing it. The other way was to phone their Youth Board Worker, Wallie, tell him they were in trouble, have him come up and get them in his car. Then, Hector told them, since that square, Wallie, was trying to get in good with the Dominators, he would think, ah, at last the time had come to do the Family a favor. They knew different, of course, because Wallie was an Other, so they might as well use him. They agreed with that. They would go down, near the subway, and call the joker and have him come. If he didn’t come, they would take the train and make it home. They weren’t sure where they were; they weren’t sure where the train went; downtown and uptown; that was enough to know. The Junior was getting nervous about their hanging around here and tried to rush them to finish their cigarettes.
Lunkface asked who had Power? Who was packed? No one. Father Arnold had the .22 pistol-token to give to Ismael, but by now Arnold was probably in the paddy wagon. No one had come loaded because they had obeyed the truce instructions to the letter. It made the distance seem longer now; how could they go through all that territory without being equipped for any action? And what if the Youth Board square didn’t come; what then? Hinton asked why they couldn’t stay here just a little longer? They ignored him.
“Man, did you see that Ismael? He’s not so big now. Choom. Right through the eye,” Lunkface said.
Hector said, “Ismael was a big man and he had the big idea.” He bowed his head in tribute.
Lunkface didn’t think so; the idea wasn’t so much; it was even obvious.
“We shouldn’t desert. Arnold might come,” Hinton insisted.
“Man, even if he got away, how’s he going to know where we’re at?” Hector asked. “Use the head.” And then he said for them to get out their pins. They would wear signs; they were moving out as The Family.
Hinton asked if it was wise to walk around the city looking identified and for all the world to know who they were and what they were.
Hector got angry and said that they moved as a Family and that meant wearing their signs, or not at all. Hector thought it was just something Hinton might have said. Hinton was still new; in the neighborhood a short time; in the gang only about eight months. He looked at Hinton in the shadows: Hinton’s face was cool enough, his head resting against the stone, looking almost bored by the whole thing, his eyes closed, his fingers making doodling motions on the marble. Well, it was probably just that Hinton didn’t have enough sense of tradition and Family, Hector thought. He would get it in time. Lunkface said that if Hinton was chicken, he might stay here for the night and let some other gangs or the fuzz catch him, or, for that matter, the rats might mistake him for one of the corpses and finish him off. Hector told Lunkface that counsel should not be mistaken for cowardice and not to sound his younger brother that way, unless Lunkface wanted to deal with him. Lunkface said that this son was sorry, but there was an edge of mock in it. Hector accepted it as a complete apology to avoid trouble now.
Hinton said that it wasn’t a matter of funk, but that they, the Other, would all know them.
“You’re not that famous, son. You are not The Ismael, man.”
“But we got the marks of a gang . . .”
“How will they know what gang we are?”
“That’s not the point, man. They’re after all the gangs around this territory. After what they saw, they will pick you up if you’re between fourteen and twenty and look wrong. And tonight, everyone looks wrong.”
Hector said that they would wear the signs, and anyone who wouldn’t, could make it back alone. Hinton understood that the discussion was over.
They took out the pins and gave them to Hector. They kneeled in front of Hector and he pinned the signs on their hats. Lunkface was furious because he had lost his hat and he wouldn’t ruin his jacket with pin marks, but Dewey said that Lunkface could wear a handkerchief around his head and they would pin to that. Hector wore his sign in front of his hat; the others wore the pins on the sides of their hats.
Hector told them that if the Youth Board joker didn’t make it, they might go as a war party, because it would mean that all truces were off, the shit was on, but good, and the police would be all over, coming down on them, and you wouldn’t be able to trust your own mother and father. They all laughed; it was an old Family joke.
Hector told Hinton to leave their mark. Hinton took out the Magic Marker and put the family sign on the tomb, Dominators, LAMF, DTK and told The Junior, “I leave this for them ghosts.”
The cloud bank had moved a little nearer. Hector tapped Hinton on the shoulder. Hinton, knowing that Dewey was watching the area ahead for enemies, came out of the comforting shadow, bending low. He sped down the hill in short rushes till he disappeared in a shadow. Then Lunkface was tapped and moved out.
July 4th–July 5th, 11:40 P.M.–12:45 A.M.
At the bottom of the hill, near the fence, the gravestones were set close together. Dewey said, “Man, they got them shoulder to shoulder here.”
Hector made The Junior rear guard to bug him: he crowded close and said, “Don’t talk like that, man.” They moved on down. The Junior gave a little gasp when he had to step on a grave to keep from falling; h
is foot sank a little into the fresh soil. Crouching, they could move without having to rush from shadow to shadow, screened now by the tombstones.
Bimbo said, “Look at that.” In the faint light from the moon, they could see someone had spelled out Spahis across a long line of headstones, right above the R.I.P.’s.
The cemetery ended above a street. There was a drop of about twelve feet. Hector sent Hinton along the fence line to see if there was a place where the Family could squeeze through without having to climb over. Hinton was being tested because he hadn’t wanted to wear the insignia. Didn’t they see how wrong it was, Hinton thought? He moved along the last line of gravestones, looking over them at the fence and the street below. The moonlight shone on railroad lines, a narrow river, and on the parkway and the long stretch of green lawn sloping up to the apartment houses. The elevated tracks were just beyond. Hinton had once lived around here; his family was always moving around, never staying in one place more than two years. Off to the left, about a half mile away, there was a bridge over the river.
Hinton couldn’t find an opening in the fence; they would have to climb it. No one was walking along the street; only a few cars went by. If they jumped from higher up, people in the cars wouldn’t notice them poised on the rampart. He found a likely place to climb over the fence. The drop here was about three times the height of a man, but seemed higher. He went back and reported to Hector.
Hinton led Hector and the men to the place.
“Why so high, man? We’ll get hurt jumping.”
“If we jump from any lower, they could see us, Hector.”
“But we might get hurt. We can’t carry any busted ankle home. Find the lowest place. Lower, man.”
“The way this son sees it . . .”