Terry shot him a quick glance, the smoke from his cigarette blowing back in a fine, vaporous trail. ‘You must be losing your mind. That’s the second time tonight you’ve suggested something as ridiculous as that. Why don’t we just walk into the nearest precinct station and turn ourselves—’
‘Okay, okay!’ Vince cut him off with a smile. ‘Sorry, my stomach blocks off my brain sometimes.
‘But listen, it’s too late for anyone at that flea circus to go out for us. They all go off at ten. We’ll have to wait till tomorrow morning, and frankly, friend, you know what a splitting headache I get when I’m hungry. In fact,’ he said, licking his lips in seriousness, ‘I’m starting to throb a little right now.’
They turned into a crosstown street—88th, it was—toward Amsterdam. As if the talk about being stopped had driven them off the main artery.
The streets were almost pitch-black, with the feeble yellow of a distant lamppost casting a watery pool of light on the front of a tenement halfway up the block.
The wind had risen off the Hudson, was whispering up the hill into the crosstown streets. Vince and Terry hunched lower in their topcoats. A young boy was sitting on the tenement’s steps, hunched forward, toying with an identification bracelet on his right wrist, his hands down between his legs.
The boy looked in their direction, and his head came up abruptly. He stared at the two men as they approached. Terry nudged Vince with an elbow. ‘There’s our bus boy,’ he said.
‘Should have thought of that myself,’ Vince grinned back. They walked toward the boy.
He seemed to be about seventeen, short for his age, with a face full of blemishes. His cheekbones were hardly noticeable, and his mouth was a tight, thin line. His hair was black and combed into a high pompadour. He slouched easily in the tight-fitting blue jeans and Ike jacket, and continued to finger the chain bracelet on his wrist.
He watched them carefully as they moved in on him.
‘Want to earn yourself five bucks?’ Terry asked, leaning against the stone railing of the stairway. The kid looked up at him with caution in his eyes.
‘On the up-and-up,’ Vince added, moving closer. ‘All we want is for you to pick us up some food.’
‘Maybe,’ the kid said shortly.
‘Okay,’ Terry said, sitting down next to the boy. He took a long thin leather wallet from an inside jacket pocket, and drew a pen from the holder within. He scribbled something on a piece of paper. ‘Here’s the address.’
He handed the paper to the boy; the kid took it without hardly noticing it. The boy stuck out his hand. ‘Dough,’ he said. Terry looked at Vince; this kid was a quiet one.
Terry fished out a five-dollar note, tore it neatly in half. He stuck one half back in the wallet, gave the other to the boy. ‘You got any money of your own?’ he asked the kid.
‘A couple bucks,’ the kid said warily.
Terry gave him three dollars more. ‘Use your two bucks, and these, and you get the other half of that fiver when you show. We only gave you three, so it’s worth your while to bring the stuff—that way you make two more on the deal.’
‘What if it runs more than three bucks?’ the kid asked.
‘Pay for the balance out of your money. Bring along a check, and we’ll give you the difference—plus the other half of the five. Okay?’
The kid nodded his head silently for a moment, then, ‘Okay. What do you want?’
They gave the boy the order—a couple of steaks, beer, the works—and moved on. They looked back as they turned the corner on to Amsterdam. The kid was gone already. The steps were empty.
Time seemed to have contracted. They were back in the dismal room, in the same positions they had been in hours ago.
Terry was in his stocking feet, stretched out on the bed with eyes closed and a curling pillar of smoke rising from his perpetual cigarette. The thin white tube stuck straight up out of a corner of his mouth.
Vince slouched in the ratty, overstuffed armchair, one leg thrown over its worn and padded arm; he was still reading the News. ‘We should have bought the Times,’ he said to the room in general.
Sounds of cars passing in the street below floated to their ears. The shades were pulled down, and, because of the stiff spring breeze from the river, the windows were tightly closed. Signs of previous meals were scattered about the room in the form of paper cups and plates.
‘Kid’s late,’ Terry remarked, around the cigarette. His voice was a toneless statement. He didn’t bother opening his eyes.
‘Yeah, I know,’ Vince replied, letting the paper fold itself onto the floor. He sat up in the chair. ‘Well, looks like you’re out a fiver—’
The sentence was left hanging. The knock came twice, softly, at the door. Terry snapped upright, his .32 in his hand, the cigarette dumping ashes on his pants.
Vince was out of the chair, back flattened against the wall next to the door, pistol ready. The knock came again, more urgently this time. They waited. If it was anyone that they wanted in the room, they’d make the first move.
‘Hey!’ It was the kid’s voice. ‘Hey! Better open up. This crap is gettin’ cold.’ Vince tossed a smile over his shoulder, shoved the .32 into his belt, moved to unbolt the door.
‘Guess we misjudged the kid,’ he said.
He turned the key, threw the bolt, and let the door open on its own. The kid appeared in the doorway, holding a paper bag at an awkward angle. ‘Hot,’ he explained, starting to come in.
He shoved the door open completely with his foot, took three quick steps that brought him next to Terry, and suddenly there were six boys in the room.
They stepped in quickly, all of them, as though they were on strings. Another instant and the door was closed, locked, bolted. They stood in a row, backs to the door.
Terry had started to bring the gun up as they stepped into the room. As the revolver rose, the kid with the bag dropped it on Terry’s hand. The coffee was scalding—he screamed with the pain.
The kid chopped down with his free hand, and the gun dropped to the rug. The boy scooped it up, took a step back, and made a queer shaking movement with his arm. He shook the arm toward the floor.
A knife dropped into his hand. An instant later the blade was switched open, the tip slightly denting the smooth skin of Terry’s neck. ‘Don’t like guns,’ he explained. ‘They wake people.’ The knife hand was steady and rigid.
Vince stood petrified, so suddenly had it all happened. Now abruptly he was galvanized into action. His hand yanked the .32 from his waistband, and the gun swung in an arc. ‘Get away from him!’ he snapped, pointing the revolver at the kid’s head.
‘So shoot, sharp guy,’ the kid said, leaning a bit toward Terry. The knife dented the skin even more; an angry spot of red appeared beneath the point. ‘So shoot, and your paisan gets my steel in his windpipe.’ His blemished face broke into a thin sneer.
The other five boys laughed. Vince started to swivel the gun in their direction, but a boy in a leather jacket stepped out of the line and brought a bottle down across his wrist.
The gun dropped to the floor, and another boy scooped it up, shoving it into his pocket. ‘Don’t need it,’ he grinned, pulling a knife from the other pocket. The click of its opening was clear in the room.
‘Whatta ya think, Poot? They heeled?’ The boy addressed the question to the blemish-faced kid holding his knife at Terry’s throat.
‘What do you want?’ Terry gasped, his face dead white, his body leaning away from the first boy’s knife.
‘Man,’ said Poot, ‘when I saw that wad you was toting, I knew you was the ripest ever. I don’t know what you two cookies got hiding in here, but I know you got enough chips to keep us in snatch and sticks for a long bit. Cough!’
Terry looked across at Vince. He knew the message the other man’s eyes were screaming: What the hell is going on here? We’re grown men—we’re paid to handle people—and these are a bunch of kids. We’re supposed to be rough boys, so why the
hell are we letting them do this to us?’
‘Okay, kids,’ said Terry, starting to rise. ‘This is it. Pile out of here before we sic the cops on you, or tan your tails ourselves.’
The first boy placed his hand against Terry’s chest, shoved hard. Terry fell over on to the bed. ‘Sit down, hard rock. We’ll tell you when to talk.’
‘Hey, Poot,’ said one of the boys, from the clothes closet. ‘I think I found this one’s roll.’ He came out of the closet, carrying Vince’s wallet. He opened it before the rest of the gang, took out a sheaf of bills.
The boy called Poot whistled. ‘Nice, nice! Good show, Jerry. How much there?’
The other boy continued counting. In a moment he looked up. ‘Seems to be eight hundred bucks.’
The other four boys whistled, almost in unison.
One of them advanced on Vince, backing him against the wall. He was carrying a zip gun, one hand at the firing mechanism, ready to let the rubberband-driven pin hit the bullet. ‘Who are you, buddy? What’re you doin’ holed-up in here?’
Vince shot a sharp look at Terry. It didn’t seem real, this entire scene. Here they were, the two top men in the syndicate kill-squad, held at bay by a half-dozen leather-jacketed juvenile delinquents.
‘What makes you think we’re holed-up, you little snot-nosed—’
The kid’s hand came away from the firing pin, arced across and caught Vince a vicious crack under the eye. He slid along the wall, came into contact with the radiator, and straightened up quickly, his face flame-red.
‘You lousy little bastard!’ he yelled, reaching for the boy.
Before he could reach the kid, two of the others were on him. In a minute—a minute of leather gloves filled with coins and the sharp edge of flattened hands—Vince was stretched on the dirty carpet, his head bleeding.
Poot stepped away from the bed, gave Vince a kick in the side of the head. He rolled, and the bleeding got worse.
‘Real rough character,’ Poot jibed. ‘Real rough.’
‘Look, kid, what the hell do you want with us? You’ve got our money, now why don’t you beat it?’ Terry’s face had hardened, the scar at his mouth standing out in sharp relief.
‘We only got part of your money, Mac. You got a wallet too. I saw it, remember?’ He stepped back to the bed, hand outstretched.
Terry reached into the inner pocket of his jacket, hung on the bedpost, and handed the boy his wallet. ‘Now scram, will you?’
‘Poot,’ said one of the other boys, ‘I don’t dig the way this stud talks to us. Man, you’d think he didn’t know he was talkin’ to the Crazy Cats, wouldn’t’cha?’
He stepped over and flat-handed Terry across the mouth, twice. The syndicate man’s head snapped back, and cracked against the bedpost.
Vince made a mewling sound from the floor. He started to sit up. One of the boys moved toward him, stepping carefully, bringing his booted foot back for a vicious kick.
‘Nix!’ said Poot. ‘Let him be.’
Vince got up, clutching his bleeding face, staggered to the big chair and fell into it. ‘Now,’ said Poot, ‘how about telling us who you are.’
Terry looked at Vince. The other assassin was doubled over in the chair, trying to stop the flow of blood with an initialed handkerchief. ‘W-we’re two buyers from a company in Detroit—’ he began, but Poot cut him off.
‘With guns? Nah, that don’t figure—not even a little bit.’
Bubbling sounds came from Vince. ‘We’re rough boys from the syndicate,’ he mumbled, with sarcasm still coming through.
The boy named Jerry stumbled back against the closet door, clutching himself as he shook with laughter. ‘Oh, no! Dig them, will ya!’ The others all laughed.
Abruptly, Terry felt the fear and humiliation that had come with these kids mount to a frenzy point. He had never been held down like this—not since he was a kid himself. And it wasn’t going to happen now.
With one fluid movement he was off the bed, slamming into Poot as hard as he could. The knife went into the air and he caught it on the fly, stepping back and dragging the boy in front of him.
It was a calculated move, and one that would have worked had Poot not brought his booted foot down as hard as he could on Terry’s instep.
The assassin howled, and Poot spun around quickly, his hand darting out. Two straightened, stiff fingers, close together, went into Terry’s widepipe, and the syndicate man’s eyes went glazed.
He started to fall back, clawing at the air.
Poot chopped again, and the knife dropped to the floor.
‘You little punks!’ Vince screamed, and was out of the chair, fists doubled, about to strike.
Jerry moved in swiftly, tripped Vince as he started toward Poot. Poot picked up the knife.
Jerry whipped Vince’s gun out of his pocket, leveled it. ‘You’re more trouble than you’re worth,’ he said evenly. ‘Who gives a creepin’ damn who you are!’
He fired once, carefully. The bullet caught Vince just below the collarbone, spun him hard. He dropped to his knees, and the boy fired again. The second bullet shattered Vince’s right cheek. ‘Man, dig that crazy blood,’ the boy chuckled. Poot watched silently.
Vince spat twice, blood spilling down the front of his white button-down shirt. He moaned off-key, and pitched on to his face, twitching.
The boy fired again.
‘You’re making a helluva racket,’ Poot said slowly.
‘Yeah, loud ain’t it?’ the other boy answered.
‘Now we’ll have to check out,’ Poot said resignedly.
Terry stepped toward them, his eyes wide. ‘Vince—’ he began. Poot turned carefully, and thrust the knife into Terry’s stomach.
The syndicate man settled on to the blade, then pitched sideways with a muffled shriek. He slid off the blade, clutching his stomach, fell into a heap next to Vince.
‘Like that, you should diddle them,’ Poot explained to Jerry. ‘Not noisy like you done.’ Jerry nodded his head solemnly.
The boys heard doors opening in the building, down the hall.
‘Fire escape here,’ one of the boys announced, opening a window. ‘Let’s go!’
They began piling out the window, clanking down the fire escape. Poot was the last one to leave. He thrust one leg over the sill, stopped.
He turned his head and looked back into the room, at the two men crumpled on the floor. A banging was coming from the hall and someone was trying to open the bolted door.
Poot grinned down at the two bodies. He snapped the lock on his knife, shoved it back up his sleeve.
‘Real rough boys,’ he said, stepping on to the fire escape and carefully closing the window.
A Tiger At Nightfall is an extrapolation of a scene I caught at a Salvation Army soup kitchen in the Bowery. A blind man being led by a sixteen-year-old derelict. How can one so young be called a derelict? How is it possible to sink so low, in so short a time? Friend, unless you have smelled the rank twilight of the slums, known the unceasing helplessness of a society that refuses responsibility and worships mediocrity, you can never know. There are boys younger than the narrator of this story, living in doorways, sleeping in alleys, cadging meals from bums and hopheads and wet-brains because they haven’t the courage to mug a drunk or steal a set of hubcaps to fence. Truly, these are the lost ones, and what happens in this story might easily happen to a child you know…if you look in the right places.
A TIGER AT NIGHTFALL
There’s something about Salvation Army soup. It’s got all the consistency of water, and all the flavor of bear urine. But it’s free, and it’s regular, and when you’ve been on the soles of your feet for six months, somehow your sense of survival makes the gourmet lie down and wait its turn.
Maybe it was because I was so down on it that I took the job. It sure as hell couldn’t have been the pay, because this guy didn’t look like a millionaire, even incognito. He was right behind me in the soup line that night, and he was so big, so heavily
-muscled, it was inconceivable to me that he could be blind. But he was blind. He used a picket from a fence—a long shank with a head like a spear—for a cane, and he tap-tapped up behind me until he bumped me.
‘’Scuse me,’ he mumbled, and backed off a step.
I’d turned around to curse the guy who had rocked me, but when I saw him, his size and his blindness stopped me. ‘That’s okay,’ I said. I turned back, and pulled a tray from the stack of battered metal ones at the edge of the counter.
I moved on, and he followed, but he didn’t take a tray. When it was apparent he was going to pass them up entirely, I said, ‘Listen, don’t get sore or nothin’, but can I give you a hand takin’ the stuff?’
He said something real low, and when I asked him what he’d said, he replied, ‘Yeah, sure, that’d be fine.’ So I took another tray, and waited for him to catch up with me.
The geek who was ladling out the slop from a big dirty copper pot (his name was Boots and he was no better’n any of us—just more regular about showing up for a free scoff, so they let him serve) gave me some heat! ‘What the hell ya t’ink this is? We gotta serve evr’body, not just you, wiseguy. Put one’a them trays back.’
I got this wicked bite in my craw and told the slob, ‘Shut your goddam mouth. The extra one’s for this guy.’ And I jerked my head in the direction of the big blind guy.
The slob shut up then and ladled me out some slimy split-pea soup. I could tell it was split-pea because chicken noodle looks like wet worms in pus.
He short-ladled me out of spite. I wanted to hit the sonofabitch right in his mouth, but it wouldn’t have done any good. The story of my life: there’s them on top and them on bottom. My position’s never been hard to define.
I’m a bottom.
I got two cups of hot mud and a half-dozen doughnuts as juicy as millstones, and said to the big blind guy, ‘C’mon, take my arm.’
I moved my elbow away from my side a little so he could hook on, and after a little fumbling he found it. I moved slowly to one of the big picnic-tables-with-benches and he let go. He felt around and found the seat, and slung his leg over. When he was down and waiting, I slid the tray in front of him. ‘Eat hearty,’ I said, and started to move away. He depressed me.
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