Dolores was clean so far and Rusty intended to keep her that way.
As he sat there he glanced toward the bureau and saw the picture one of the kids had taken of him and Dolo at Coney, last summer. She stood shorter than he, slim and happy in the sun with the crowded beach behind her and the cloudless sky above. And he started undressing, so he could put on some better clothes and follow Dolores to the dance.
He was going to make certain nothing happened to his sister. She had too much to live for, to let any gang of juvies louse her up.
He dressed hurriedly.
Whoever had intimidated Greaseball Bolley into letting the Cougars turn his back rooms into a club, had done a fine job. For the fat man was terrified of the hard-eyed kids who walked through his bowling alley, into the rear. He studied each one carefully, getting to know them by sight and name, against the day they decided to wreck the joint and put him down. He was more than fat; he was gigantic in that seldom-seen fantastic way that brings to mind thick dough puddings and overstuffed Morris chairs. One of the men who bowled regularly in League, Wednesday nights, who was also an avid reader of science fiction, compared Greaseball to a spaceman who had been infected with a spore that had bloated him into moon-proportions. It was a striking analogy, for Bolley’s body was not only hasty-pudding squishy, and waggled flappingly as he stumped forward, but the skin was an unhealthy yellow, pimpled and puckered and strewn with moles, pustules, explosions of flesh, that made him look like some weird diseased fruit, overripe and rotting within.
He was well-liked by everyone in the neighborhood.
But someone in the Cougars, years before Rusty had become the Prez, had decided the gang needed a clubhouse, and had decided with equal ease that the back rooms of the Paradise Bowling Alley were the site. So Greaseball Bolley had become unhappy host to the Cougars and their girls’ auxiliary. The place resounded to the stomping feet and high-flung wails of rock’n’roll, and the occasional moan of an apple who had been put down for a while.
Greaseball Bolley was unhappy about the situation, but he maintained a philosophical neutrality, for his size cut away any ideas the gang might have had about causing him trouble. He watched them and they watched him and they hung suspended in a state of alert tolerance. Enough that Bolley allowed them to use the place, as they allowed him to stay in business. It was not at all the same sort of arrangement the gang had with TomTom, who was merely terrorized. This was a grudging acceptance of strength, and a decision to permanently put off hostilities, for the good of the majority.
Greaseball was glad the spanging of pins cut off most of the Cougars’ noise.
But tonight, they were doing it up sky-blue. More than usual had tramped past the showcase with its FOR SALE sign, model pins, balls, carrying cases, shoes and other paraphernalia inside. They had all given him the eye of recognition, the two-fingered greeting and gone quietly back to the club rooms.
Greaseball never went back there. They had their own locks on the doors and they kept their house. He knew about the several bedrooms, about the girls and boys who stayed overnight, about the slashings and the narcotics, but his fear of gang reprisal was greater than that of the police, so he kept his mouth shut and the Cougars made sure they did nothing overt to attract the attention of The Men. It had been that way for a long time now and the days seemed endlessly plodding in danger to Greaseball. But he did nothing to stop them. Far back, before the Cougars, there had been some trouble with a waitress, and a broken bottle, and a long term inside gray walls. So Greaseball Bolley did nothing, but watch and let them sink into his mind’s eye. And if someday the balance shifted he would take as many with him as he could. But till then…
He was well-liked by everyone in the neighborhood.
Rusty passed Greaseball Bolley with all the cool aplomb of the days when he had been Prez. He kept his eyes front and his step assured as he walked past the gigantic heap of doughy flesh. But for the first time since he had met the fat man, on taking over the Cougars, Greaseball spoke to Rusty.
“ ’Ey. You, Santori. C’mere.”
Rusty stopped and pivoted slowly. His eyes met those of the fat man and for a minute he had trouble deciding what color they were; so deeply buried in caverns of oozing flesh they seemed to be two raisins thumbed into a paste. “The name’s Santoro, not Santori,” Rusty stated flatly, starting to go.
“ ’Ey. When I call you, kid, you come, y’hear?”
Rusty walked back to where the hump of Bolley leaned over the showcase. Down on the alleys only two or three people bowled—none of whom Rusty recalled having ever seen in the place before—and it was apparent the rumors of Cherokee trouble had hit the neighborhood hard enough to keep regulars away from the place.
Rusty realized Greaseball was scared. For the first time since he had known him the fat man was afraid of something. Rusty walked over, close enough to smell the odor of garlic and no bathing, and his nostrils quivered. Then he stopped, drew on his cigarette and waited for the fat man to speak.
“You—uh—you hear ’bout trouble, t’night?”
Rusty let his eyes slide tightly closed. The smoke from the cigarette spiraled up past his face and he liked the momentary warmth of it. Cool, that was the angle, play it cool. It goes further, it slides easier.
“Trouble? Like what trouble, man?”
Greaseball felt fire flame in his huge belly. He would not tolerate these kids stooging it out on him. He reached across with one side-of-beef hand and grabbed Rusty about his collar. The sports jacket Rusty wore wrinkled up as the fat man dragged the boy tight to the counter. Rusty reached up to try and jab free, but the hand was a bracelet of soft, spongy, but terribly invulnerable flesh. He was held fast and his breath was jagged as he worked his neck in the grip.
“Lemme go! Goddamn ya, lemme go, ya sleazy crumbum!”
The fat man’s other hand came about lazily, almost floatingly (he knew his own strength to the smallest fraction) and landed with a heavy plop on Rusty’s face. The boy’s eyes glazed over and he staggered in Greaseball’s grip.
“Now you maybe gonna talk ta me? Huh? You gonna answer straight like?”
Rusty gurgled and his eyes unfogged. The dim scene of the alley pasted itself back in his vision and he tried to speak. Words would not form. The fat man eased off a bit.
Rusty gagged and coughed. Then, “I heard the Cherokees was comin’ over for a rumble tonight. That’s all the message I got. I don’t get the wire no more. I’m outta the gang.”
The fat man’s line of conversation altered instantly. His interest was heightened by this new subject, as though he had forgotten the brewing of trouble in his alleys. “Yeah,” he wheezed, “I heard that. That cat Candle’s got your spot now, don’t he?”
Rusty nodded silently. What Greaseball did or did not know about the stand that afternoon was of no concern now.
“How come you ain’t the President no more?”
“I got too old for office.”
Another slap, not quite so hard. Fear still oozed between the fat man’s teeth.
“I wanted out, that’s all.”
“Then what you doin’ here tonight?”
“Lookin’ for my sister. I wanna get her home.”
The fat man let loose entirely. Rusty shrugged down the wrinkled sports jacket, adjusted the tie and shirt. The fat man gave him the nod. “Watch yaself.”
The entire incident was a mystery to Rusty. Why was the fat man so interested? Or was it just that he liked to know everything that went on, whether he could control it or not?
That was the answer and Rusty walked away as the fear submerged itself temporarily in Greaseball Bolley’s piggy eyes. He moved his body slightly, and felt the bulk of the ironwood chair leg pressed between his leg and the showcase. If there was going to be trouble tonight he was going to end it before the cops came in to do the job.
Rusty walked past the alleys and the empty racks and made fast for the back door leading to the rooms.
&nb
sp; From inside he could hear the beat of music and the sound of girls’ laughter. It was as loud as usual and suddenly very necessary. Alone was bad tonight. Stay with the herd and beat the glooms, that was the angle. Cool it!
Margie was just inside the door, in the middle of a group of Cougie Cats—debs—regaling them with the saga of her conception, from start to schoolyard, blow by blow, detailed, painted with adolescent fantasies. Her eyebrows went up as she saw Rusty and the other girls turned too, surprise registering on their faces. This was the first drag Rusty had attended since he quit the gang. If the fuzz found him here, they knew, he would be breaking his custody and back to the can he’d go.
But it was too neat an evening for bombs so they all waved and gave him the eye and Cherry licked her lips hungrily, saying, “Come on back an’ see me later, big man.”
Rusty smiled vacantly and went deeper into the thick, blue cloud of smoke, catching the telltale muskiness of pot, trying to single out the slim shape of Dolo.
Greek emerged from the smog and stuck out his hand in a heavy salute. “Buddy!” he exclaimed. Greek was the big mouth of the club, and Rusty had great affection for him. The Greek didn’t know when to shut up and consequently his outgoing friendliness was a constant warmth in his vicinity. It was good to know a guy like that, every once in a while. An open stud was a relief from all the cool boys.
Greek was fleshy, but not soft. More like a black, curly-haired Buddha than anything else, but with a switchblade, he was nobody’s fool.
His face was cheek-marked from a rumble. Another stud had taken a raw potato studded with double-edged razor blades and twisted it on Greek’s kisser. It had left raw bloody strips of flesh and the healing had been slow and imperfect. His right cheek looked like a particularly violent case of strip-acne had hit and ravaged it.
“Man, fall down and have a puff with me!” Greek said.
Rusty clapped the big Greek on the shoulder, said, “Not stayin’ too long, Greek. Just fell down to find my kid sis—”
“Hey, man, y’know, like your sister’s gettin’ to be a real knockout. I was gonna try that myself, then I remembered what you told me when she joined up with the debs. That scared me off good.”
Rusty started to get mad, then realized he was being spooked and slugged the Greek playfully in the arm. He took the fleshy boy to one side and talked in close.
“Listen, man, I wanna ask you somethin’. See, uh, I’m uh, you know, not in so tight anymore and I don’t like to shove my nose in where it don’t go, but look, is there anyone who’s, uh, well, you know, like—uh—payin’ a lotta ’tention to Dolo? You know what I mean?”
Rusty was serious and he could only be serious with this boy, and both knew it. But Greek had a distaste for pigeons and he hesitated.
Rusty added hurriedly, “Look, don’t goof yaself with nobody, but if there’s anybody out to plank her I’d like ta know so I could warn him friendly to stay off. Ya know what I mean? Hell, Greek, she’s onny a kid, and she’s my onny sister…”
Greek nodded. “I dig.”
Rusty waited, then, “Well?”
Greek looked troubled, then shook his head in the negative. “No, not that I know about. She sticks pretty close to the broads. She asks around once in a while who some guy is, when she don’t know, but she acts kinda skitty ’round the men. You know what I mean.” Then he changed the subject quickly, “Where’s Weezee?”
Rusty waved it away fast. “Oh, she wanted to come, mentioned it this afternoon, but I didn’t feel like draggin’ no women tonight.” Greek understood, and a lecherous quirk of his lips indicated he felt the same way.
“I was out to the dumps this afternoon.”
Rusty smiled. “I saw ya, ya bastard. You was yellin’ as loud as the rest of them apples.”
Greek spread his hands in helplessness. He grinned back. “I don’t like a blade in my gut any better’n you do, man. Candle’s top dog around here and I like the group. No sense my playin’ hard man and gettin’ stomped. Read me?”
Rusty smiled back, and a mutual respect flitted between them.
Greek changed the subject again. “Wanna find a nice piece? Some fresh stuff from off Cherokee turf here tonight.”
Rusty’s brow furrowed, and his gray eyes slitted down. “You let that stuff in, when you know the Cherokees are on the prowl?”
Greek thumbed his nose at the ceiling. “Frayk ’em!”
Rusty wagged his head and pursed his lips with a puff. “That’s bad biz, man.”
“Ah, hell,” Greek said, “they ain’t comin’ down here. The turf’s too hot for ’em since the rumble. They won’t show their butts in sight for months. And if they do,” he patted his jacket pocket, “we give ’em the way out, put ’em down good.”
Rusty chuckled. That’s all they ever thought about. Laying and fighting and drinking and sipping the tea. It was all pretty hopeless, but wild in a sort of clockwise way.
“Yeah, point out the fresh stuff. Long as I’m down, I might as well socialize a little.” They walked into the crowd together.
The first girl—called herself Goofball, but Rusty heard someone yell to her as Mary, and the broad turned to answer—boxed him into one of the bedrooms and Rusty didn’t object too strenuously. It wasn’t so good. She was strictly nowhere from style, but it was an interlude and by the time they unlocked and came out the joint was rocking high and heavy and the sticks were passed around free.
Rusty stayed off the pot, the Sneaky Pete, the Sweet Lucy, and the other broads and kept looking for Dolo. From time to time he heard the word that she had been there and leeched out so he stayed, hoping she would come back and he could talk her into going home. But she had come and gone. She didn’t come back and an hour after he had arrived, Rusty couldn’t leave.
The Cherokees showed on the scene.
He was leaning against a wall with a can of Rheingold in his hand, his tie jerked down to the side, collar open and the heat, body odor, smoke and beer fumes of the rooms closing in. The sweet odor of tea filtered around him. He was talking to little Clipper Adderlee about the Prospect Park war, when the sounds of bowling against the wall stopped. A dead silence from outside, and then they heard Greaseball’s high almost-feminine voice shouting something incomprehensible.
Fish emerged from the smoke and Connie’s embrace and yelled at Poop, “Shut off that squawker!”
Poop slammed the tone arm of the record player aside and in the sudden loss of music there was a total absence of voices in the rooms. They stayed quite still and listened. Then they made out what Greaseball was saying, over and over, loud and high, till he was suddenly cut off with a squeak.
“Cherokees!”
Candle showed from a back room where Lockup had gone to fetch him, and stood with his legs wide apart, his eyes blazing for the fight to come. “Okay you guys, get the goddamn lead out!”
Tiger, whose haircut always left him looking like a Fussiwatti, sprinted through the packed mob of kids and reached a big box set against one wall. He pulled a keychain from his pocket and opened the double padlocks. Then the lid went up, and miraculously everyone had a weapon.
The sounds of argument outside grew more violent, and once the crash of a bowling ball going through the showcase split the background down the middle. Rusty felt someone shoving a zip into his hand and a few .22 slugs.
He tried to hand it back, tried to get to the rear door, but his path was blocked by dozens of Cougars and their debs preparing for the rumble.
Braced against his thigh, Fish had a long pole with a jagged piece of glass on its end. He was positioned right in front of the door with the deadly thing angled up to head level.
The others brandished zip guns, switchblades, wrenches, lengths of pipe, homemade knucks, bricks. One girl had a four-foot spike of some sort, stolen from a railroad yard, and she hefted it like an experienced warrior.
“Let ’em come!” Candle screamed, his face swollen with fury and the desire for blood.
Dwarfy Lockup threw open the bolts on the door and before Rusty could help himself, he was being borne forward through the opened door, into the alley proper. The Cherokees were out in strength. The faces of their girls, the Rockettes, were as violent as their own. When the rival gang saw the Cougars streaming out of the back rooms, a wild cry went up and they left the battered shape of Greaseball Bolley—slipping wetly to the linoleum—and charged straight across the polished alleys.
They met head-on in the middle of the twelfth lane.
SIX:
SATURDAY NIGHT
rusty santoro
It was like nothing but hell with screams.
The first bunch of Cherokees came sliding and stomping across the hardwood alleys, their heavy army boots leaving big black marks on the polished wood. The glitter of knife blades and the dull black of revolvers was mixed with the red of faces and the white of staring eyes. They came in fast and the Cougars met them without hesitation. Fish was the first one forward and the glass-end stick came down and jabbed a Cherokee with such impact, the point of the glass entered the boy’s right eye, sending him spilling backward.
The boy screamed so shrilly, everyone paused a quarter-instant in mid-step, and then went back to clashing. The boy lay there, feeling the runny wetness that had been his right eye and Fish remained stock-still where the force of the strike had stopped him. Sick, he stared at the mess and started to turn, to run away.
A girl materialized from nowhere with a lead pipe and with a round-cross slam caught Fish alongside the ear. He gurgled something low and pitched over, the side of his head bleeding, the stick and glass dropping to the alley unnoticed.