Rusty started to deny it, but Dolores yelled a vicious word, and then she was gone, flouncing out of the kitchen. A moment later he heard the front door slam and her progress bang-banging down the stairs.
What could he say to his mother?
“Answer me,” she whispered.
“Nothing, Ma. Just nothing. Don’t worry. I ain’t gonna fight.” Then he, too, was free of her. He left the dingy apartment.
But he knew he would fight. It was being called chicken. That bit deep. He had lived in the streets too long to let something like that slide away. If Candle would not see reason—the stand would come off just as planned.
He tried not to think about it.
Because the air stank with death.
FOUR:
SATURDAY AFTERNOON
rusty santoro
candle
The day went like a souped-up heap. The kids stayed away from Rusty like he was down with the blue botts. He tried to find things to do, but the scene was cold and dead.
Rusty saw Candle only once, and that was in the cafeteria. The hard-faced Prez of the Cougars was sitting at a table with Joy, feeling her up, and laughing loudly with his side-boys. They ate together. Rusty cut wide around them, for a while, and got a tray for himself. The food was the usual steam-table garbage and he only took a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, a piece of apple pie and a pint of milk. He wasn’t hungry, not at all.
Finally, when he had polished off the food, he got up, leaving the tray, and turned around.
Everyone was watching him. He realized suddenly that they had been watching him all through lunch. But he had been thinking as he ate and had not noticed. Now they stared at him, and from the middle of the room he heard the derisive voice of a punk.
“Here chick-chick-chick-chick-chick! Cluck, cluck, cluck, cluck, cluck, cluck… chick-chick-chick…” It went on and on, leaving the first boy, swinging to another, then pretty soon the entire room was carrying it, like a banner. The sound was a wave that washed against the shores of Rusty’s mind. It was the worst. It was a chop low like no other he’d ever heard.
He had been top man of the Cougars for so long, to have this kind of indignity pushed on him, was something frightful. He clenched his fists, and stood where he was. Customers got up quickly, most of them abandoning their trays of uneaten food, and left.
Rusty knew he had to talk to Candle now. Now was the time, because if he spent the day with that chick-chick festering in his brain, he’d fight sure as hell!
Somebody yelled, “Oooooh, Russsell! Oh, Russell, baby, do your hen imitation fer us! Go, man, go, Russell!”
He hated that name. It was the first time they’d called him that since it had been abbreviated to Rusty.
The boy stepped slowly away from the table, and walked over to Candle’s place. The Cougars’ Prez had been talking to his broad, not even looking at Rusty while the call had been going up. Now, as Rusty approached, he paid even more attention to Joy, but the three side-boys stood up slowly, their hands going into the tight pockets of their jeans. There were shanks in there, waiting to cut if Rusty made a snipe move.
Rusty stopped. “Candle.”
The boy with the almost-Mongoloid features did not look up. He had his hand clutched to the girl’s knee, and he seemed totally oblivious to what was happening behind him. But Joy’s blue eyes were up and frightened. She stared straight at Rusty and the wild excitement in her face made him sick; they all wanted kicks. They didn’t care who got nailed, so long as sparks flew and they could bathe in them. Then Candle turned carefully around. He looked up.
“Well, read this,” he said arrogantly, more to his side-boys than Rusty. “Check who just dropped in for a chat. Welcome, spick.”
Rusty felt the blood surging in him and he wanted to drive a fist straight into the bastard’s mouth. But that was what Candle wanted. That would be the clincher. They’d slice him up like fresh bacon, right there, and everyone would dummy up. No one wanted the Cougars pissed off at them.
“Candle. I wanna talk to you,” Rusty said softly.
The other grinned hugely, and he swung one foot up onto the chair, just touching the edge of Rusty’s pants, putting a bit of dirt there.
“What you got to say to me you can say out at the dumps, spick.”
“Look, don’t make it rougher than now,” Rusty cautioned him. “I wanna knock this off. I don’t feature the idea of a stand. I got enough trouble with the cops already. No sense my getting picked up and tossed in the farm.”
Candle reared back and laughed. Loud. His voice cut off all the chickie-chickie around the room, and everyone waited to find out what would happen. They knew Rusty was no chicken, they knew he had been rough as Prez of the Cougars and did not understand what had changed him. But they also knew Candle was a rough stud, and it would be top kicks to see these two go at each other.
“You don’t wanna stand, man? You don’t wanna come out and show all these kids you ain’t yellow?” His grin grew wider as he grabbed a cardboard pint carton of milk, ripped open across the top. “That sits fine with me, but I still got a beef with you.
“So,” he said, lifting the carton, “if you wanna bow out, that’s ace with me, and I’ll settle my beef like this!” He threw the milk at Rusty.
They laughed. The crowd burst into sound and Rusty stood there with the milk running down over his face, soaking quickly through his shirt and running through to his pants.
Before he could restrain himself he had lunged and had his hands around Candle’s throat. The Prez of the Cougars gave a violent gasp and brought his own hands up in an inward swinging movement, breaking Rusty’s grip. Then he choked out, “Grab—grab him!” and the side-boys had Rusty’s arms pinned.
Candle swung out of the chair and stood up. His face was a violent blued mask of hate. “Now you read this, man. I’m not gonna work you over like I should now. Mostly ’cause I want to have more time at you, without nobody holding you back, yellow-belly. So you be out at the dump and we’ll settle this down once and for all.”
Then he shoved Rusty in the stomach, not hard enough to knock him out, but hard enough to suck the energy from him. Then they walked away quickly, several of them sweeping full trays off the tables. Garbage lay everywhere in their path.
Rusty stood there for a few minutes, listening to the cackles and catcalls ringing around him.
He could not move.
There was no way free. He would fight and he would win. He would carve that sluggy sonofabitch from gut to kisser and leave him for the dump rats to chew on.
It was gonna be tough as banana peels.
Pancoast got to him just before four o’clock. He caught him on the street.
“Rusty, I heard what happened yesterday. You going out there?”
Rusty shifted from foot to foot. What could he say? He knew Pancoast was pulling for him, and he knew if he went out there and fought he was throwing it all away. He couldn’t yank loose now if he wanted to and yet he knew it was the worst thing he could do.
“I—I gotta, Mr. Pancoast. I got inta this and if I don’t finish it once and for all, they won’t never let me alone. One way or the other, I got to put a tail to this thing.”
Pancoast shook his head, grabbed the boy by the biceps. “Listen to me, Rusty. Listen to me now. You’ve been doing real well. You’ve been growing with every day. You go out there and come down to their level and you’ll be right back where you started two months ago when I fished you out of jail. Do you understand?”
“I understand,” Rusty said, not looking at him, “but it’s gotta be this way. Final.”
Pancoast dropped his grip. His voice got steely hard. “I’ll call the police, Rusty. I’ll come out there with them and stop it.”
“You come out there or you call the fuzz and I’ll cut you off even, myself.”
Pancoast had been around the kids long enough. He knew that “cutting off even” was tantamount to a threat of revenge. He said nothing, bu
t his eyes were filled with hurt. His hands moved aimlessly at his sides. Then he turned and walked away.
Rusty was alone.
So damned, finally, horribly, all alone.
He walked down the street. After a while, he knew two Cougars followed him. He moved down the street and when Fish pulled alongside in his heap Rusty was not surprised.
“Hey, man. They give me the word to bring you out. You know, like they told me.” He was always alibiing, Rusty thought ruefully.
“Yeah. Yeah, I know. Just a job like.”
“So, like get in, huh, man?”
Rusty got into the car and Fish waited while Tiger and the Greek got in the back seat. No one said a word. The car pulled away from the curb, swung out into traffic heading uptown toward the dumps.
Rusty was scared and his mouth was dry.
But at least the knife in his shoe felt reassuring.
But not much.
As they passed the burning piles of garbage and refuse, the sky darkened appreciably. It was still early, not quite four-thirty yet, but the day seemed blacker than any Rusty could remember.
Fish tooled the beat-up Plymouth along the bumpy road, avoiding chuck holes and pits in the packed dirt. “One of these days, damn it, I’m gonna crack a parts shop and get me enough cams and crap to juice up this buggy.”
Rusty didn’t answer. He had more important things to worry about.
If he chickened here, he would not only have to ward off the antagonism of the neighborhood for the rest of his days; that was minor compared to what else would happen. Dolo would have to live him down, and that could mean any number of things in the streets. She might have to get more deeply involved with the Cougie Cats and their illegal activities. And then his ma. She would be bugged in the street. His old man…
That crumbum wouldn’t have to worry, but if he was here maybe he could have done something, maybe he could have helped. Rusty set those bitter thoughts aside. Pa Santoro was a wine-gut and there wasn’t no help coming from that angle.
The heap pulled around a bend and Rusty saw a dozen or so cars all drawn into a circle, their noses pointed into the center. The place was crawling with kids and a great cheer went up as they saw him through the window.
Rusty’s belly constricted. He didn’t want to fight Candle. He didn’t want to fight anybody. He wanted to go home and lie down and put on some records and lie very, very still. His belly ached.
Fish took off at top speed around the ring of cars, spraying dirt in a wide wedge as he rounded the circle on two wheels. It was all Rusty needed to finish the nerve-job on him. He leaned against the right side of the car and puked so hard he thought the tendons in his neck would split. Fish was spinning the wheel as Rusty came up with it, and his eyes bugged. “Hey! Man! What the hell ya doin’?”
He slammed his foot onto the brake pedal and the Plymouth ground to a skittering halt, the tires biting deep into the dirt of the dump grounds and spinning wildly.
The car stalled and Fish was out, around the other side, and opening the door in an instant. He grabbed Rusty by the jacket collar and hauled him bodily from the car.
The kids were running over from the circle, violence light on their faces. What was happening there? This was a real kick!
Fish pulled Rusty down and he fell to his knees in the dirt, Fish still clinging to his jacket. He began dry-vomiting, hacking in choking spasms.
Finally, he slapped Fish’s hand away and laid his palms flat on the ground, tried to push himself up. It took three cockeyed pushes till he was standing unsteadily. Everything was fuzzy around the edges and he could only vaguely hear—
“Man, what a punk he turned into!”
“Chicken all the way. No guts!”
“Candle’s gonna slice him up good, you see!”
Every face was one face; every body was a gigantic many-legged body. He was swaying and he felt a hand shoved into his back and, “Stand up, fer Chrissakes!”
His throat chugged and he thought for an instant he was going to bring up what little of his lunch was left lying uneasily in his stomach. But it passed as he gulped deeply and he began to get a clear picture of what was around him.
He saw all the faces. Poop and Boy-O, Margie, Connie, Cherry, Fish beside him looking angry and worried at the same time, Shamey, the Beast, Greek, Candle, with his eyes bright and daring, and—he stopped thinking for a moment when he saw her.
Weezee. She was here, too. Who had brought her?
He started forward in her direction, but Candle moved in and stopped him. “She came with me. I brought her. Any complaints?”
Before he could answer, Weezee started to say something. “I couldn’t help it, Rusty, he saw me—”
“Shaddup!” Candle snapped over his shoulder. He turned back to Rusty. “You got any beefs, you can settle ’em the knife way.”
The sickness and the fear had passed abruptly. Rusty was quite cold and detached now. If it was a stand Candle wanted, all the rest of these sluggy bastards wanted, then that was what they’d get. Right now.
“Who’s got the hankie?” he yelled.
Magically, a handkerchief fluttered down onto the ground between the two boys. Neither touched it. Candle’s arm moved idly in his sleeve and the switchblade dropped into his hand. Even as he pressed the stud and the bright blade flicked up, Rusty was bending sharply and he came erect with his own weapon in his fist, already open.
They faced each other across the white handkerchief, and then Candle watched stonily as Rusty bent down and picked it up. From the crowd cries of, “Get him! Sling him!” and once in a while, “Go, go, go, Chickie-man!” rang out.
Rusty shook out the hankie and put one corner in his mouth, wadding it slightly behind his clenched teeth. He extended the opposite corner to Candle delicately and when Candle took it, his eyes were sharp on Rusty’s own.
Caution: when you knife-fight… don’t bother watching the knife as much as the other guy’s eyes. They tell when he’s gonna strike.
Candle knew it and took the hankie in his mouth with care. He maneuvered his tongue and teeth a bit till the cloth was settled properly. They were separated across a two foot restraining line of taut cloth, their backs arched, their bodies curved to put them as far away at swinging level as possible. The arm-swinging range was just two feet—with the other man’s knife in the way. The first man who dropped the hankie lost and was at the mercy of the other.
Poop was going to be the starter and Rusty motioned him with an offhand gesture to hold up for a second. Rusty saw the heavy black leather jacket Candle wore and realized his own jacket was thinner, more easily ripped. The dangerous area—the lower arms—was mostly unprotected. He held his knife tightly and reached back, took his own handkerchief from his hip pocket and wrapped it tightly about his free hand. That helped a little.
Poop stared at them anxiously. He lit a cigarette and puffed it violently as Rusty banded himself with the hankie. Then the boy threw down the cigarette, stamped it into the dirt of the dumps, and said, “Ya ready to go now?”
Rusty felt a wry laugh bubble up from his belly. Poop was getting anxious. Maybe they wouldn’t kill each other; then he wouldn’t get his kicks.
Both boys nodded.
Poop raised both hands above his head, as a drag-race starter would. Then he brought them slashingly down, screaming, “Go! Go! Go! Go!”
Candle jerked back heavily and the hankie started to slip from Rusty’s teeth. The cloth gave an ominous tearing sound and Rusty swung the knife in flat arcs, moving forward and teeth-winding the hankie so he had more of it firmly tight in his grip. He stopped as he saw Candle’s knife-arm edging closer. Then they were equal, with the hankie tight, and their knives ready to draw blood.
They circled, stepping, stepping, stepping carefully, measuring each movement. Footwork had to be close, because the slightest fouling of feet, and down a man could go. And that meant not only down. It meant out.
The ground was worn into a rough c
ircle as they went tail-around-head past each other. The gang fanned out and watched, making certain an idle sweep of the blades could not touch them. The two boys bent forward from the shoulders, putting their bellies as far back as possible, for that was the direction in which trouble lay.
Feet widely spread, they stopped every few seconds, swinging, making certain they did not throw themselves off-balance.
Grunts and explosions of sweat marked their circular passage and soon Rusty felt his arms getting weak. He stooped slightly and it was a soft sight to Candle that the effect of the retching, the movement, the swinging, the tension, had taken hold. He moved in for the kill. But he was premature. Rusty caught the other’s arm as it came up, caught it on his other wrist, the hankie wound tightly, and Rusty let a squeal of pain loose as the blow ricocheted off. Candle’s hand had struck his wrist with impact and the shake threw Rusty off-balance. Candle was on him, then, with the knife coming back for a full overhead swing, and Rusty tossed himself sidewise. Candle went past, and the hankie snapped tight, dragging Candle almost off his feet.
Rusty moved back away, dragging Candle with him, and in a second, before the advantage could be gained, they were circling each other, both steady, both wary. The air was filled with the flash and flick of steel as each tried to slip one past. Rusty countered and parried each thrust from the deadly Candle and the stout boy did the same.
Rusty’s hair loosened from its rigid wave and flopped over his eyes. He could not waste a hand to swipe it away however. He could not blow it up with his lips, so he tossed his head quickly, right at the height of a full-arm swing.
It fell back and he resigned himself to the handicap. Candle’s hair was sandy, crew-cut, and gave him no trouble. But what he had considered an advantage—the heavy black leather jacket—was not. The jacket bunched against the inside of his elbows, made swinging difficult and cut short Candle’s reach at times.
Candle kicked out with a faking movement and Rusty leaped back, jerking his neck at the end of the hankie. The stout boy had been steadied for that. Then Candle was in close and the knife was around back of Rusty somewhere, his own arm pinned at his side. He fought in close to Candle, and they shoved at one another with their shoulders, edging one another a few inches, then back again.
Web of the City Page 5