The Jungle Kids

by Ed McBain

  “Yes, son.”

  “We just want to ask a few questions,” Ed said.

  “Come in.”

  We walked into the room. There were two beds in it, one on either side of the large window. There was one dresser, and I imagined the two boys shared this. Toys were packed neatly in a carton on one side of the room. A high school pennant, and several college pennants decorated the walls, and a model airplane hung from the ceiling.

  Mrs. Owens started into the room and Ed gently said, “If we may talk to him alone …”

  Her hand went to her mouth, and she murmured, “Oh. Oh, all right.”

  Jeffry walked to his bed and sat on it, one leg tucked under him. He stared out of the window, not looking at us.

  “Want to tell us how it happened, son?”

  “It was an accident,” he said. “I didn’t mean to do it, honest.”

  “We know,” Ed said. “We just want to know how it happened.”

  “Well, we were upstairs playing with the trains, and then we got sort of tired. We started kidding around, and then I found Perry’s—that’s my other brother, who was killed in the war—I found Perry’s Luger and we started foolin’ around with that.”

  “Is that the first time you saw the gun, son?”

  “No, no.” He turned to look me full in the face. “Perry sent it home a long time ago. Before he was killed, even.”

  “Um-huh. Go on, son.”

  “Well then we found the bullets in the box. I …”

  “You didn’t know the bullets were there before this?”

  “No.” Again, Jeffry stared at me. “No, we just found them today.”

  “Did you know where the gun was?”

  “Well—yes.”

  “You said you found it, though. You didn’t mean that, did you, son?”

  “Well, I knew it was in the attic some place because that’s where Mom put it. I didn’t know just where until I found it today.”

  “Oh, I see. Go on, please.” Ed looked at me curiously, and then turned his interest back to the boy.

  “We found the bullets, and I took one from one of the magazines, just to fool around. I stuck it into the gun and then all at once the gun went off and—and—Ronnie—Ronnie …”

  The kid turned his face away, then threw himself onto the pillow.

  “I didn’t mean to do it. Honest, honest. The gun just went off. I didn’t know it would go off. It just did. I loved my brother. I loved my brother. Now there’s just me and Mom, just the two of us. I didn’t want it to happen, I didn’t, I didn’t.”

  “Sure, son,” I said. I walked to the bed and sat down beside him. “You liked your brother a lot. I know. I have a brother, too.”

  Ed gave me another curious look, but I continued to pat the kid’s shoulder.

  “Yes,” Jeffry said, “I did like him. I liked Perry, too, and he was killed. And now—now this. Now there’s just me and Mom. They’re all gone. Dad, and Perry, and—and—Ronnie. Now we’re all alone.” He started bawling again. “It’s my fault. If I hadn’t wanted to play with that old gun …”

  “It’s not your fault,” I said. “Accidents happen. They happen all the time. No one could possibly blame you for it.”

  His tears ebbed slowly, and he finally sat up again. “You know it’s not my fault, don’t you?” he asked solemnly.

  “Yes,” I said. “We know.”

  He tried to smile, but failed. “It was just an accident,” he repeated.

  “Sure,” I said. I picked myself off the bed and said, “Let’s go, Ed. Nothing more for us here.”

  At the door, I turned to look at Jeffry once more. He seemed immensely relieved, and he smiled when I winked at him. The smile was still on his mouth and in his eyes when we left him.

  It was cold in the Merc, even with the heater going.

  We drove in silence for a long time, and finally Ed asked, “All right, what was all that business about?”

  “What business?”

  “First of all, that brother routine. You know damn well you’re a lousy, spoiled, only child.”

  “Sure,” I said. “I wanted to hear the kid tell me how much he loved all his brothers.”

  “That’s another thing. Why the hell did you cross-examine the kid? Jesus, he had enough trouble without your …”

  “I was just wondering about a few things,” I said. “That’s all.”

  “What kind of things?”

  “The scrapbook on his older brother, for one. All those pictures on him, and the stories on how he died. Almost like a collection of reviews on a play or a book.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Nothing, probably. But then there was the clipping about the little boy who accidentally killed that girl. Now why do you suppose any kid would save a clipping like that?”

  “Hell,” Ed said, “you know how kids are. It probably caught his fancy, that’s all.”

  “Probably. Maybe the Luger magazines caught his fancy, too.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The kid said he found those magazines for the first time today. He said he took a cartridge from one of the clips and stuck it into the gun. Tell me how he managed to handle a dust-covered magazine without smearing any of the dust.”

  “Why, he …”

  “He didn’t, that’s the answer. He took that bullet from the clip a long time ago, Ed. Long enough ago for the box and the magazine to acquire a new coat of dust. This was no spur of the minute job. No, sir, not at all.”

  “Hey,” Ed said suddenly. “What the hell are you trying to say? You mean the kid did this on purpose? You mean he actually killed his brother? Murdered him?”

  “Just him and Mom now, Ed. Just the two of them. No more Dad, no more big brother, and now no more little brother.” I shook my head, and stared at my own breath as it clouded the windshield.

  “But just take it to a judge,” I added. “Just take the whole fantastic thing to a judge and see how fast he kicks you out of court.”

  I didn’t say anything else after that, but it was a goddamned cold ride back to the station.

  Goddamned cold.

  THE LAST SPIN

  The boy sitting opposite him was his enemy.

  The boy sitting opposite him was called Tigo, and he wore a green silk jacket with an orange stripe on each sleeve. The jacket told Dave that Tigo was his enemy. The jacket shrieked “Enemy, enemy!”

  “This is a good piece,” Tigo said, indicating the gun on the table. “This runs you close to forty-five bucks, you try to buy it in a store.”

  The gun on the table was a Smith & Wesson .38 Police Special.

  It rested exactly in the center of the table, its sawed-off, two-inch barrel abruptly terminating the otherwise lethal grace of the weapon. There was a checked walnut stock on the gun, and the gun was finished in a flat blue. Alongside the gun were three .38 Special cartridges.

  Dave looked at the gun disinterestedly. He was nervous and apprehensive, but he kept tight control of his face. He could not show Tigo what he was feeling. Tigo was the enemy, and so he presented a mask to the enemy, cocking one eyebrow and saying, “I seen pieces before. There’s nothing special about this one.”

  “Except what we got to do with it,” Tigo said. Tigo was studying him with large brown eyes. The eyes were moist-looking. He was not a bad-looking kid, Tigo, with thick black hair and maybe a nose that was too long, but his mouth and chin were good. You could usually tell a cat by his mouth and his chin. Tigo would not turkey out of this particular rumble. Of that, Dave was sure.

  “Why don’t we start?” Dave asked. He wet his lips and looked across at Tigo.

  “You understand,” Tigo said. “I got no bad blood for you.”

  “I understand.”

  “This is what the club said. This is how the club said we should settle it. Without a big street diddlebop, you dig? But I want you to know I don’t know you from a hole in the wall—except you wear a blue and gold ja
cket.”

  “And you wear a green and orange one,” Dave said, “and that’s enough for me.”

  “Sure, but what I was trying to say …”

  “We going to sit and talk all night, or we going to get this thing rolling?” Dave asked.

  “What I’m trying to say,” Tigo went on, “is that I just happened to be picked for this, you know? Like to settle this thing that’s between the two clubs. I mean, you got to admit your boys shouldn’t have come in our territory last night.”

  “I got to admit nothing,” Dave said flatly.

  “Well, anyway, they shot at the candy store. That wasn’t right. There’s supposed to be a truce on.”

  “Okay, okay,” Dave said.

  “So like—like this is the way we agreed to settle it. I mean, one of us and—and one of you. Fair and square. Without any street boppin’, and without any Law trouble.”

  “Let’s get on with it,” Dave said.

  “I’m trying to say, I never even see you on the street before this. So this ain’t nothin’ personal with me. Whichever way it turns out, like …”

  “I never seen you neither,” Dave said.

  Tigo stared at him for a long time. “That’s ’cause you’re new around here. Where you from originally?”

  “My people come down from the Bronx.”

  “You got a big family?”

  “A sister and two brothers, that’s all.”

  “Yeah, I only got a sister,” Tigo shrugged. “Well.” He sighed. “So.” He sighed again. “Let’s make it, huh?”

  “I’m waitin’,” Dave said.

  Tigo picked up the gun, and then he took one of the cartridges from the table top. He broke open the gun, slid the cartridge into the cylinder, and then snapped the gun shut and twirled the cylinder. “Round and round she goes,” he said, “and where she stops, nobody knows.”

  “There’s six chambers in the cylinder,” Tigo said, “and only one cartridge. That makes the odds five-to-one that the cartridge’ll be in firing position when the cylinder stops whirling. You dig?”

  “I dig.”

  “I’ll go first,” Tigo said.

  Dave looked at him suspiciously. “Why?”

  “You want to go first?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I’m giving you a break.” Tigo grinned. “I may blow my head off first time out.”

  “Why you giving me a break?” Dave asked.

  Tigo shrugged. “What the hell’s the difference?” He gave the cylinder a fast twirl.

  “The Russians invented this, huh?” Dave asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “I always said they was crazy bastards.”

  “Yeah, I always …” Tigo stopped talking. The cylinder was still now. He took a deep breath, put the barrel of the .38 to his temple, and then squeezed the trigger.

  The firing pin clicked on an empty chamber.

  “Well, that was easy, wasn’t it?” he asked. He shoved the gun across the table. “Your turn, Dave.”

  Dave reached for the gun. It was cold in the basement room, but he was sweating now. He pulled the gun toward him, then left it on the table while he dried his palms on his trousers. He picked up the gun then and stared at it.

  “It’s a nifty piece,” Tigo said. “I like a good piece.”

  “Yeah, I do too,” Dave said. “You can tell a good piece just by the way it feels in your hand.”

  Tigo looked surprised. “I mentioned that to one of the guys yesterday, and he thought I was nuts.”

  “Lots of guys don’t know about pieces,” Dave said, shrugging.

  “I was thinking,” Tigo said, “when I get old enough, I’ll join the Army, you know? I’d like to work around pieces.”

  “I thought of that, too. I’d join now, only my old lady won’t give me permission. She’s got to sign if I join now.”

  “Yeah, they’re all the same,” Tigo said, smiling. “Your old lady born here or the island?”

  “The island,” Dave said.

  “Yeah, well, you know they got these old-fashioned ideas.”

  “I better spin,” Dave said.

  “Yeah,” Tigo agreed.

  Dave slapped the cylinder with his left hand. The cylinder whirled, whirled and then stopped. Slowly, Dave put the gun to his head. He wanted to close his eyes, but he didn’t dare. Tigo, the enemy, was watching him. He returned Tigo’s stare, and then he squeezed the trigger.

  His heart skipped a beat, and then over the roar of his blood he heard the empty click. Hastily, he put the gun down on the table.

  “Makes you sweat, don’t it?” Tigo said.

  Dave nodded, saying nothing. He watched Tigo. Tigo was looking at the gun.

  “Me now, huh?” he said. He took a deep breath, then picked up the .38.

  He shrugged. “Well.” He twirled the cylinder, waited for it to stop, and then put the gun to his head.

  “Bang!” he said, and then he squeezed the trigger. Again, the firing pin clicked on an empty chamber. Tigo let out his breath and put the gun down.

  “I thought I was dead that time,” he said.

  “I could hear the harps,” Dave said.

  “This is a good way to lose weight, you know that?” He laughed nervously, and then his laugh became honest when he saw that Dave was laughing with him. “Ain’t it the truth? You could lose ten pounds this way.”

  “My old lady’s like a house,” Dave said, laughing. “She ought to try this kind of a diet.” He laughed at his own humor, pleased when Tigo joined him.

  “That’s the trouble,” Tigo said. “You see a nice deb in the street, you think it’s crazy, you know? Then they get to be our people’s age, and they turn to fat.” He shook his head.

  “You got a chick?” Dave asked.

  “Yeah, I got one.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Aw, you don’t know her.”

  “Maybe I do,” Dave said.

  “Her name is Juana.” Tigo watched him. “She’s about five-two, got these brown eyes.…”

  “I think I know her,” Dave said. He nodded. “Yeah, I think I know her.”

  “She’s nice, ain’t she?” Tigo asked. He leaned forward, as if Dave’s answer was of great importance to him.

  “Yeah, she’s nice,” Dave said.

  “The guys rib me about her. You know, all they’re after—well, you know—they don’t understand something like Juana.”

  “I got a chick, too,” Dave said.

  “Yeah? Hey, maybe sometime we could …” Tigo cut himself short. He looked down at the gun, and his sudden enthusiasm seemed to ebb completely. “It’s your turn,” he said.

  “Here goes nothing,” Dave said. He twirled the cylinder, sucked in his breath, and then fired.

  The empty click was loud in the stillness of the room.

  “Man!” Dave said.

  “We’re pretty lucky, you know?” Tigo said.

  “So far.”

  “We better lower the odds. The boys won’t like it if we …” He stopped himself again, and then reached for one of the cartridges on the table. He broke open the gun again, and slipped the second cartridge into the cylinder. “Now we got two cartridges in here,” he said. “Two cartridges, six chambers. That’s four-to-two. Divide it, and you get two-to-one.” He paused. “You game?”

  “That’s—that’s what we’re here for, ain’t it?”

  “Sure.”

  “Okay then.”

  “Gone,” Tigo said, nodding his head. “You got courage, Dave.”

  “You’re the one needs the courage,” Dave said gently. “It’s your spin.”

  Tigo lifted the gun. Idly, he began spinning the cylinder.

  “You live on the next block, don’t you?” Dave asked.

  “Yeah.” Tigo kept slapping the cylinder. It spun with a gently whirring sound.

  “That’s how come we never crossed paths, I guess. Also I’m new on the scene.”

  “Yeah, well you know,
you get hooked up with one club, that’s the way it is.”

  “You like the guys on your club?” Dave asked, wondering why he was asking such a stupid question, listening to the whirring of the cylinder at the same time.

  “They’re okay.” Tigo shrugged. “None of them really send me, but that’s the club on my block, so what’re you gonna do, huh?” His hand left the cylinder. It stopped spinning. He put the gun to his head.

  “Wait!” Dave said.

  Tigo looked puzzled. “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing, I just wanted to say—I mean …” Dave frowned. “I don’t dig too many of the guys on my club, either.”

  Tigo nodded. For a moment, their eyes locked. Then Tigo shrugged, and fired.

  And then the empty click filled the basement room.

  “Phew,” Tigo said.

  “Man, you can say that again.”

  Tigo slid the gun across the table.

  Dave hesitated an instant. He did not want to pick up the gun. He felt sure that this time the firing pin would strike the percussion cap of one of the cartridges. He was sure that this time he would shoot himself.

  “Sometimes I think I’m turkey,” he said to Tigo, surprised that his thoughts had found voice.

  “I feel that way sometimes, too,” Tigo said.

  “I never told that to nobody,” Dave said. “The guys on my club would laugh at me, I ever told them that.”

  “Some things you got to keep to yourself. There ain’t nobody you can trust in this world.”

  “There should be somebody you can trust,” Dave said. “Hell, you can’t tell nothing to your people. They don’t understand.”

  Tigo laughed. “That’s an old story. But that’s the way things are. What’re you gonna do?”

  “Yeah. Still, sometimes I think I’m turkey.”

  “Sure, sure,” Tigo said. “It ain’t only that, though. Like sometimes—well, don’t you wonder what you’re doing stomping some guy in the street? Like—you know what I mean? Like—who’s the guy to you? What you got to beat him up for? ’Cause he messed with somebody else’s girl?” Tigo shook his head. “It gets complicated sometimes.”

  “Yeah, but …” Dave frowned again. “You got to stick with the club. Don’t you?”

  “Sure, sure—no question.” Again, their eyes locked.

  “Well, here goes,” Dave said. He lifted the gun. “It’s just …” He shook his head, and then twirled the cylinder. The cylinder spun, and then stopped. He studied the gun, wondering if one of the cartridges would roar from the barrel when he squeezed the trigger.