"Oh Christ, what an asshole."
Sloopy fell down, scrambled to his feet, and continued dancing.
"Who let him in?" Eugene asked, his arm around his new girl friend. Joey and Perry stared at this new addition to Eugene's long list of conquests. "Oh yeah. Fred, this is the guys. This is Fred."
"My real name's Frederika but everybody calls me Fred," she giggled.
Joey and Perry nodded dumbly.
Eugene stared at the ceiling. She'd said that five times in the last two hours. Perry noticed she wore one of those Jewish thermometers they taped in doorways. He wondered if Eugene had told her he was a rabbi. Eugene looked more guinea than the Pope.
"Hey, Eugene," Perry started, "you gonna mass tomorrow?"
"What?"
"You gonna mass? You know, church? Mass?"
"What're you talkin' about?" Eugene hadn't been to church in four years.
"I think all good Catholics..." Perry didn't finish because a girl screamed right behind him. Wheeling around he saw Hang on Sloopy grabbing the orange-haired girl and trying to kiss her. She was screaming, trying to give him the straight arm like in the movies. They were surrounded by guys who were afraid of Sloopy, so instead of breaking it up, they just hovered like butterflies around the couple. Without thinking about the pros and cons, Perry busted through the crowd. Grabbing Sloopy by the waist, he yanked him clear off the ground. Sloopy landed on his feet, staring at Perry in amazement. Perry was a big boy. Sloopy was scrawny, mainly window dressing.
He clenched his teeth, shaking his finger at Perry. "I'm gonna kill you, motherfucker!" Perry knew he could take Sloopy, but he was afraid of the Baldies. Whatever happened, he couldn't go to Fordham Road anymore.
Sloopy backed through the door, shaking his finger and cursing Perry. Perry felt nauseous with fear. The orange-haired girl ran crying with her friends into the bathroom. Joey came over to comfort Perry. "Now you did it." He shook his head. "Now you really did it."
Sloopy staggered through the snow, tears of rage freezing on his cheeks. He was so cold his back hurt. He tripped over a curbstone and split his Up. "SHHTTTT!"—one long cry of agony bouncing off rows of sleeping buildings. "FUUUUUUUUCK!"—roaring in harmony with the elevated train directly overhead.
"CUUUUUUUNNT!" The blood stained the front of his jacket.
Somewhere a window opened. "Shut the hell up, ya bastad!"
Sloopy rose to his knees. "Kiss my ass, ya cocksucka!" He laughed like a cretin.
Another window opened, and the yellow light made the five-story tenement look like a winking giant. "Shaddap, ya moron."
"Suck man cock!" Sloopy got up, took his prick out, and pissed straight up in the air. When he was finished he spread his legs, jiggling it like a rubber cigar. A pot came crashing down through the shroud of plummeting snow.
"Who threw that?"
"Get outta here or I'll call a cop."
Sloopy yelled something back, but bis voice was drowned out by another train.
An egg hit him on the head, splattering over his face and jacket. Sloopy bellowed at the buildings. He roared tears and in his fury started picking up rocks and smashing windows. He ran down Allerton Avenue smashing store windows. He ran down to the park and smashed car windows. Howling like a berserk Indian he ran through snowdrifts and over benches until he came to Webster Avenue. Once out of the park he sat exhausted on a bench near a huge church. Gasping, he listened to his heart pound like a car needing a tune-up. His tongue hung out like a dog's, and he started scraping egg off his head with his fingernails. His jacket was ruined. Totally ruined.
***
Bobby Cuddahy was a Ducky Boy. And like most Ducky Boys he was Irish, under five-foot-six, and crazy. Webster Avenue was Ducky Boy country. They roamed their turf like midget dinosaurs, brainless and fearless. They respected only nuns and priests. They would fight anyone and everyone and they'd never lose. They'd never lose because there were hundreds of them. Hundreds of stunted Irish madmen with crucifixes tattooed on their arms and chests, lunatics with that terrifying slightly cross-eyed stare of the one-dimensional, semihuman urban punk killing machine. And they were nasty—used tire chains car aerials, and the "Webster Avenue walking stick," baseball bat studded with razors.
Their ladies' auxiliary was even meaner. They would attack single guys and sometimes groups of guys. They used car aerials and in a single singing flash could pare a cheek so skin would be hanging down to the neck.
Periodically, the entire Ducky Boy nation would descend and destroy a neighborhood. Neither the Ducky Boys nor their victims knew why or when. It was more a natural calamity, an unthinking massive impulse, a quirk in gland secretions than anything thought out or even mentioned. One moment they would be sitting on stoops quietly drinking beer; an how-later, a housing project, a high school, or a playground would look like London after the blitz—complete with sirens and moaning wounded. And they'd be back on the stoops sipping beer, like they'd never left. They didn't wink, laugh, or bitch.
They ignored injuries. They'd sit there and bleed. Or they'd amble to confession covered with blood. They'd confess things like using the Lord's name in vain or farting in public. And Father O'Brian would also ignore the blood, listen to their droning, and give them a few Hail Marys to do. If he was in a particularly good or bad mood, he would march the confessor to the tiny concrete courtyard in back and administer ten lashes with a car aerial. No one complained. They could barely communicate verbally. Conversation was unknown. The only thing they did along with the rest of the human race was go to church. They'd go six, seven, sometimes ten times a week They loved "Faddah O'Brian," an ex-Fordham University football star, who unlike most poverty area priests didn't give a shit what the youth did as long as they came to church He didn't believe in baseball leagues or social work. He believed in confession and physical punishment. Father O'Brian was one of the original Ducky Boys of the early fifties who made good.
Father O'Brian watched Bobby Cuddahy get up and leave. The priest was sitting on a hard stool below the altar facing the eight Ducky Boys sitting in the front pew. Like every Saturday night only the Ducky Boys showed up for midnight mass. O'Brian faced them like a class and they stared blankly back at him. They'd sit like that for an hour. O'Brian would sigh, swallow phlegm, and crack his knuckles. The Ducky Boys would pick their noses, study their fingernails, and yawn. Sometimes the Ducky Boys would leave, sometimes O'Brian would leave. That Saturday Bobby left first, and fifteen minutes later the rest of them followed. O'Brian watched them get up wordlessly without a signal and silently file out of the church. O'Brian checked his watch. Twelve-thirty. He wondered where they were going He wished he was still a Ducky Boy. He wondered if they were going home or going to kill somebody. He wished he was still a football star. He wished he was drunk.
Hang on Sloopy came out of the shadows as Bobby Cuddahy rounded the corner by the church.
"Hey, yo! C'mere!" Sloopy said. Bobby stared up at the mixture of blood, egg, pimples, and Technicolor teeth that made up Sloopy's blitzkrieged skull.
"Yo! C'mere!" Sloopy was about six inches taller than Bobby. He was still drunk and he didn't realize he was on Webster Avenue. "C'mere. I ain't gonna hurtcha." A curious halfsmile crossed Bobby's thick lips as he approached Sloopy. "Where you comin' from?" Sloopy snake-eyed him. Bobby didn't answer, just stared with that slight smile. "You go to high school, hah?" Sloopy's breath came out in clouds. His teeth chattered. The snow had stopped but the midnight chill was deadly. "You go to high school?" Bobby said nothing, stepping back out of the narrow circle of light cast by the old iron streetlight. Sloopy grabbed his arm. "Kid, you wanna blowjob? C'mon I ain't drunk, I'm serious. You wanna blowjob? We can go inta the park."
Sloopy squeezed Bobby's arm. Bobby's nostrils flared. Something shiny flashed in front of Sloopy's face, and he felt a cool mustache of blood creep into his mouth. He screamed, letting go of Bobby's arm. In a flash he realized where he was, who Bobby probably was.
Bob
by's eyes shone. He raised his old-fashioned pearl-handled razor. "Blowjob?"
Sloopy ran down Webster Avenue. Behind him sprinted six Ducky Boys lazily swinging walking sticks. Sloopy ran faster; they continued at the same pace. They made a noise approaching laughter and shouted, "Blowjob?" Sloopy ran on cartoon legs. When he turned around again there were ten. They materialized from doorways, from the park, from the sidewalk. Sloopy came up to a high mesh fence and jumped on it, the force of the leap making the mesh wobble back and forth. He scrambled higher, each step up yielding a noise like clinking chain armor. When he got to the top, about fifteen feet up, and straddled the narrow metal bar, there were twenty Ducky Boys right under him, swishing the air with walking sticks, wandering around, snapping off car aerials, not seeming to pay him any attention. Every once in a while one of them would look up and say, "Blowjob?"
Sloopy was beyond panic. This was the end. The knotted ends of wire sticking up over the bar he straddled cut into his groin. Across the park he saw sporadic lights from apartments in high-rise buildings. He wished, by magic, he could vanish into the blackness and reappear by one of those lights—on a couch, a chair, a bed—safe. He looked down. To his left the Ducky Boys still milled around, ignoring him. To his right, a flat sheet of snow disappeared into darkness. He could barely make out the gallows-like silhouette of a basketball pole and backboard. A playground. He was on the fence of a playground. Staring hard across the playground he made out another fence. Beyond that, rumbles and speeding lights—the parkway. A chance that brought back the panic. If he could climb down into the playground, cut across the darkness, climb the other fence, run to the parkway. He looked to his left again. No one was even looking up at him. Do it. He lifted his leg. It was numb from staying in one position and from the cold. As he started to scramble down the inside of the fence, a Ducky Boy leaped onto the mesh, hands and feet clutching the wire, and thrust a walking stick at his face. Terrified, Sloopy let go and fell headfirst fifteen feet. His forehead struck the ice and concrete. His eyes rolled up under his eyelids.
***
Cars driving through the slush made a hushing sound as they came down the hill, and the reflections of their lights traveled across the walls and ceiling of Perry's bedroom. He lay in bed, hands clasped behind his head, watching the shifting beam-shadows illuminate his closet door, his record player, move across and up and disappear as the cars passed his building. He couldn't sleep—he thought about Sloopy. He thought about Terror. He thought about Debbie, the orange-haired girl whose bony cunt was thrust up against his cock only hours ago. He got a hard-on, started to jerk off, but his mind wandered. He thought of the Baldies, and his cock drooped over his fist like a dead flower. He chewed his nails thoughtfully. He thought about Terror. He could take on most of the Baldies, but not Terror, and Terror would come after him. If Joey DiMassi was around Perry would be safe. Joey was the only guy who could control Terror. And Joey was a good guy—he would understand what happened and call Terror off. Maybe Joey would decide that Perry would have to fight Sloopy. That would be O.K. Perry wouldn't beat him too bad then he would offer to help him up, extend his hand—bygones be bygones and all that bullshit. Maybe the Baldies would like his style and offer him membership. He would turn it down of course but would be grateful, swear undying friendship to Joey Terror would growl but admire Perry's class. Maybe offer him a belt of Tango. Yeah He thought of Debbie's tits and started jerking off again. But what Sloopy went right to Terror without telling Joey? Terror knew Joey would ston him so he'd keep it between him and Sloopy come around to Big Playground and open Perry's skull on a pole like Perry's mother would split a peach. His cock fainted.
The Ducky Boy who poked Sloopy off his perch was the only one to see him fall. The others had their backs to the fence. When Sloopy's head hit the ground with a sickening THOCK they turned around and stared at his still form. Like a battalion of paratroopers, they slowly climbed the fence and dropped to the other side. They stood over his body, gently poking and prodding him with walking sticks, rolling him onto his back.
Bobby lightly drew a walking stick across Sloopy's cheek leaving a pencil line of blood. The Ducky Boys looked at each other for a long minute, then Bobby leaned down and raised Sloopy to a sitting position. Bobby removed Sloopy's stained jacket and shirt and gently laid him back on the ground, naked to the waist. Then they reclimbed the fence, the Fordham Baldies' jacket hanging from Bobby Cuddahy's belt like a scalp.
***
The news of Hang On Sloopy's death sent shock waves through the playgrounds, candy stores, and deserted lots of the North Bronx. Everyone became a philosopher. Some guys talked in whispers for the first time in their lives. The Daily News gave it three inches:
FOUND FROZEN IN BRONX
The seminude, razor-slashed, and battered body of a 19-year-old man identified as James Sloop of 2332 Valentine Avenue was found this morning in a playground at 203rd Street and Webster Avenue in the Bronx. He had apparently frozen to death during the night. Police are investigating the possibility of foul play.
"It was fate," said Eugene.
"What's it all mean?" asked Richie, shaking his head. "You know, we're like specks of dust in a vacuum cleaner. It's like ... like everything you do, everything you feel is like..."
"Like for shit, man. You could go just like that." Joey snapped his fingers.
"Just like Sloop," said Perry morosely.
"I mean like why go to fuckin' school? You spend eight hours on math homework and walkin' to class some boogie knifes you in the heart, and it's all over," said Richie.
"Yeah, homework's for shit," said Buddy.
"Sloopy was an O.K. guy," said Eugene.
"Hang On Sloopy," said Perry vacantly.
"I didn't even know his name was James until I read it in the paper."
"Your name's Mario ain't it, Buddy?"
"What's Turkey's real name?"
"Ira."
"Ira?"
"Yeah."
"What an asshole."
"Ah, he's O.K."
Eugene lit a cigarette.
"Gimme a light," said Joey, steering Eugene's hand.
"Me too," said Buddy.
"Hey, that's three on a match."
"So?"
"So it's bad luck."
"Wit' all this bullshit goin' on I gotta worry about bad luck?" Buddy asked.
"Din't you ever hear about the three soldiers?"
"You gonna tell us a story?"
Richie ignored Eugene. "It was night, right? An' these guys were in the trenches. I dunno, I guess in Germany. Anyways, one guy lights his cigarette an' a sniper sees the tight, right? Then the guy gives a light to his buddy so the sniper got time to aim. Then he gives a light to the third guy and—pschoo!" Richie sighted down an imaginary gun barrel and shot at Eugene.
"Was they Americans or Krauts?"
"How the fuck should I know?"
"Let's change the subject," said Perry.
"Let's get a Coke," said Richie.
"Let's do something," said Eugene.
The Wanderers dawdled along White Plains Road looking for something to do. They stopped in Pizza World Pizzeria and bought Cokes. Then they walked to the empty Safeway parking lot across the street. The towering fluorescent lights were on, and if there'd been no ice and snow they would have played touch football. No one drank his Coke—it was too cold to enjoy soda.
"Anybody wanna buy my Coke?" Richie offered.
"How much?"
"A quarter."
"Fuck you, they're fifteen."
"O.K. Fifteen."
"Nah."
Eugene put his thumb on the top of his bottle, shook up the contents, and sprayed Richie. Laughing, they ran and slid on the ice. Richie got pissed and didn't bother to shake his soda up, he just threw the bottle at Eugene, hitting him square in the head, knocking him out cold. They stopped running. Eugene lay on his face in the snow.
"You're a fuckin' asshole!" Perry yelled at Richie.
"I didn't mean it, I swear!" They kneeled around Eugene. In a moment he came to. Moaning, he rolled over on his back and stared at the faces and the towering lights. "I'm sorry, Eugene, you O.K.?" Eugene stared at Richie like he wasn't sure who he was. "Help 'im up." They lifted Eugene by the armpits, and he stood like a drunk on wobbly legs.
"You O.K.?"
Eugene looked puzzled.
"Here." Richie gave Eugene the Coke bottle, which didn't break when he threw it. "Here, gimme five to run and you can throw it at me, O.K.?"
Eugene stared at the bottle placed in his hand and dropped it on the ground. He looked from face to face and rubbed the back of his head. "I wanna go home." A worried look passed around the Wanderers. Eugene started to walk out of the parking lot. The guys crowded around him.
"You O.K.?"
"You awright?"
"Yeah ... yeah." His voice, little more than a whisper and very sleepy, sounded as if he'd just been roused from bed.
"Let's walk him home," said Richie, feeling guilty and anxious about Eugene's lack of anger and desire for revenge.
"Nah, nan, it's O.K. Just ... just." Eugene waved his hand weakly as if to dismiss everything and walked away.
They watched him go down Burke Avenue. He didn't seem to wobble anymore.
"That was really stupid, Richie."
"Well, shit, he started."
"Yeah, well, you didn't have to throw the fuckin' bottle at 'im."
"I said I was sorry."
"What if he got a brain tumor now?"
"What?" Richie got a cold flash in his gut. "You can't get no brain tumor."
Perry continued in righteous anger. "Oh, yeah? Well if he got a brain tumor what are you gonna say to his parents? 'Well, he started'?"
Richie envisioned the funeral—Eugene's father maddened by grief charging blindly across the grave to kill him. Richie started to cry.
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