Web of the City (24 page)

Here there was only the web and the knife and his fists.

He had sworn he would never raise his hands to anyone again. But what good was that promise if he remained here? No good, for the streets had their own rules, and you could not beat them. You could only pass, and hope to escape that final jackpot. The jackpot that bound you once more into the web. So he had to go away.

He took the subway to Times Square and he got off and walked past the glaring, neoned, never-asleep squares that beckoned him—and he ignored them. He walked till he came to the movie where he had picked up the girl. How long ago was it? Weeks? Years? Eternities? He had no way of gauging the time. Not only had things happened, but he had become a different person since then. He had changed so very much, and lost so much, and found nothing to replace it.

He stood in front of the theater and waited.

He did not know if it would be a good thing or a bad thing or just another emptiness, but he knew he wanted to do it this way. She was lonely, too. She was alone and empty and tired and together they might find that insubstantial he sought. They were both alone, but at least it was better to be alone together. What had been her name? Teresa? Yes.

She would come back to that movie one night. He knew that. She would, because she had his coin and she would have to. He did not know why he knew, but he was sure.

So he left his neighborhood and he left his streets and soon he would leave his city—which held the life that had been Rusty Santoro.

All that, behind him.

But oddly, the city did not care at all.

Originally published (as “Gutter Gang”) in the September, 1957 issue of
Guilty Detective Story Magazine

Rusty choked as the chisel bit into the leg of wood, sprayed sawdust across his face and T-shirt. He puffed air between his thin lips, continued working, and continued to ignore the stout boy who stood behind him.

The wood shop had quieted down. No one else moved, and their tools were silent. Only the constant machine-hum of lathes that had been ignored, left running, filled the shop with sound. Yet somehow the room was silent.

The boy behind Rusty took a short half-step closer, shoved his shoulder hard. Rusty was thrown off-balance, and the chisel bit too deep into the chair leg between the lathe points. The design was ruined. The chisel snapped away, and Rusty spun, anger flaming his face. He stared hard at the other boy, changed his grip on the wood chisel.

Now he held it underhand—knife-style.

The other boy didn’t move.

“What’s a’matter, spick? Y’don’t wanna talk to your old buddy Candle no more?” His thick, square face drew up in a wild grimace.

Rusty Santoro’s face tightened. His thin line of mouth jerked with the effort to keep words from spewing out. He had known the Cougars would try to get to him today, but he hadn’t figured on it during school hours.

Over him, somehow—tense as he was, knowing a stand was here and he couldn’t run without being chick-chick—Rusty felt the brick-and-steel bulk of Pulaski High School.

You just can’t run away from them,
he thought.

The boy Candle had come into the basement wood shop a minute before. He had told the shop teacher, Mr. Pancoast, that he was wanted in the Principal’s office. Mr. Pancoast had left the shop untended—oh, Kammy Josephs was monitor, but hell, that didn’t cut any ice with
anyone
—and Candle had moved in fast. First the little nudge. Then the dirty names. Then the shove that could not be ignored. Now they were face-to-face, Rusty with the sharp wood chisel, and Candle with a blade. Some place. Somewhere. It wasn’t in sight, but Candle had a switch on him. That boy wouldn’t leave home without being heeled.

Rusty looked across into Candle’s eyes. His own gray ones were level and wide. “You call me spick, craphead?”

Candle’s square jaw moved idly, as though he were chewing gum. “Ain’t that what you are, man? Ain’t you a Puerto? You look like a
spick…”

Rusty didn’t wait for the sentence to linger in the air. He lunged quickly, slashing upward with the chisel. The shank zipped close to Candle, and the boy sucked in his belly, leaped backward. Then the switchblade was in his square, short-fingered hand.

The blade was there, and it filled the room for Rusty. It was all live and flashing, everything that was, and the end to everything else. Rusty Santoro watched—as though what was about to happen was moving through heavy syrup, slow, terribly slow—and saw Candle’s hairy arm come up, the knife clutched tightly between white fingers. He heard the
snick
of the opening blade, even as the other’s thumb shoved the button.

Then there was a green plastic shank, and a strip of light that was honed steel.

The shop was washed by bands of lazy sunlight slanting through the barred windows; and in those bands of light, with sawdust motes rising and turning slowly, Rusty saw the blade of the switch gleam. Saw it turn in Candle’s hand, saw the way his flesh cleaved to it with more than need; this was part of Candle. Part of his thoughts and part of his life. His hand had been formed to end in a knife. Anything else would have been wrong, all wrong.

He heard himself speaking. “Don’t you ever call me that again, man. Just don’t you call me no spick again!”

Candle dropped his shoulders slightly. He automatically assumed the stance of the street-fighter. No spick bastard was going to buck him. There was more to this than just a wood chisel. Nobody, but nobody, leaves the gang.

“Well, ain’t you gettin’ big these days! One minute you’re too good for the Cougars, and the next you’re particular who calls ya what.” His green eyes narrowed, and the knife moved in aimless, circling movements, as though it were a snake, all too anxious to strike.

“I don’t dig you, spick man…”

And he whaled in.

The knife came out and up and around in one movement that was all lightning and swiftness. Rusty slipped sidewise, lost his footing and went down, his shoulder striking hard against the base of the lathe. He saw Candle strut back and get ready to pounce. Then there was all that knife in his vision, and he knew he was going to get it at last. Not later, not sometime never, but here, gutted and cut, right here on the floor, and there was nothing he could do about it.

Candle rose high, and his arm drew back, and then his arm was dragged back of his head by someone else. Rusty looked up and everything was out of focus, and his head hurt; but a man with dull red hair had Candle around the throat, had the knife-hand bent back double. Candle screamed high and loud, over the whine of the machines, and the man twisted the arm an inch more.

The blade clattered to the floor.

The man kicked it out of sight under a drill press, into sawdust debris. Then the man had Candle by the front of his dirty T-shirt, was leaning in close, and saying, “You get the hell out of here, or I’ll turn you over to the Principal. I’ll tell him you lied to get me out of my shop while you attacked a pupil with a switch. With your record around here, Shaster, you couldn’t stand it. Now beat it!” He shoved Candle Shaster away from him, sent him spinning into the door.

Candle threw it open, and was gone in a moment.

Rusty still found himself unable to focus properly, but Mr. Pancoast was lifting him to his feet and yelling to the other boys, “Okay, let’s get back to work.”

The rising clatter of shop work filled his universe, and then he was out in the basement hall, in the cool depths of the school. “Sit down,” Pancoast directed him, pushing him gently toward the stairs.

Rusty sat down heavily, felt the incessant throbbing in his shoulder, and for the first time realized he had struck his head also. It throbbed mercilessly.

Pancoast slid down next to the boy. He was a short man, with hair just a few shades darker than orange. His face was tired, but there was something alive in his eyes that gave the lie to his features. He had been dealing with high-school boys so long that he had difficulty with adults, so geared to the adolescent mind were his thoughts.

He pursed his lips, then asked, “What was that all about, Rusty? I thought after that last scrape you were going to stay away from the Cougars, from Candle and his bunch.”

Rusty Santoro tapped gently at the bruise that ached on his head. He swung his body back and forth, as though he were caught in some tremor that would not release him. His entire body shook. The after-effects were setting in; they always did, just this way. He shook and quivered and wished he’d never heard of the Cougars.

“I told ’em I was quitting. Yesterday. They don’t like that. They tell me nobody leaves the gang. I said
I
did.”

Pancoast rubbed the short stubble on his small chin. He stared levelly at Rusty. “That’s all, Rusty?”

“Isn’t that enough?”

Pancoast replied, “Look, Rusty. When they caught you, along with those other Cougars, trying to break into that liquor store, I went out for you. Remember?” He waited for an answer. Finally, Rusty nodded his remembrance.

The teacher went on. “I had them release you into my custody, Rusty, and you’ve been good as your word ever since. At first I thought you were like all the rest of them—hard, no real guts, just a little killer inside—but you’ve shown me you’re a man. You’ve got real woodworking talent, Rusty. You could be a sculptor, or a designer, even an architect, if you wanted to be.”

Rusty was impatient. Being praised like this, in the crowd he ran with, usually meant a slap was coming. “So?”

“So, we’re
both
going to have to go over there, Rusty, and let them know for sure that you’re out of the gang, that you don’t want any part of it.”

Rusty shook his head. “It ain’t that easy. You don’t understand, Mr. Pancoast. It ain’t like being a member of Kiwanis or the P.T.A. It ain’t like nothin’ else in the world. When you’re in, you’re in. And the only thing that gets you out is if you land in the can, or you get a shank in your gut. That’s what I tried to tell ya when ya made me quit.”

He stared at the teacher with mute appeal. He was boxed in, and he knew it. There was going to have to be a face-up soon, and he wasn’t sure he was man enough.

Carl Pancoast leaned closer to the boy, put an arm on his knee, tried to speak to him so the words went deeper than the ears. So they went right down to the core. He
had
to make it with this kid. There had been too many others who had come by him, like lights in the night, and he had never reached out to take that light in his hands, to stop it from rushing down that road to destruction. He had tried with Rusty Santoro—a good boy, a damned good boy—and he wasn’t going to fail now.

“Look, Rusty. Let me tell you something. You can go on doing what the Cougars do, all your life, and wind up the way Tony Green did. You knew Tony. You remember what happened to him?”

Pancoast could see the memory in Rusty’s eyes. He could see the vision of Tony Green, who had been top trackman at Pulaski, laid out on a slab, with a D.O.A. tag around his big toe. A zip gun .22 slug in his head. Dead in a rumble.

“Remember why he got killed, Rusty?”

Pancoast was pushing thoughts tightly, forcing them to the fore, making Rusty analyze his past. It wasn’t a pleasant past.

Drenched in violence. Product of filth and slum and bigotry. Mothered by fear. Fathered by the terror of nonconformity and the fate that waited for those who did not conform. Rusty remembered. His stomach tightened, and his seventeen-year-old brain spun, but he remembered.

Tony Green, tall and slim and dead. Stretched out on a slab, because someone had danced with his steady girl at a club drag. Nothing more important. Just that.

“I’m through, Mr. Pancoast. You don’t have to worry about that. I’m through, but man, it’s gonna be rough all the way.”

Carl Pancoast clapped the boy on the back. It would be tough all right, tough as banana skins, but that was the way it had to be. Not only for himself—and god knows he had a stake in this boy; his own redemption for the sins of failure he had committed with other boys—but for Rusty. Because Rusty had to live out there in that stinking city. He had to live and learn and sweat beside those kids.

But, Carl Pancoast swore inside himself, Rusty Santoro was going to come out of it whole. Come out of it with his guts and his mind intact. For Rusty, and for himself.

“What are you going to do?”

Rusty bit his lip, shrugged. “Don’t know, man. But I got to do something. They ain’t gonna give me much longer. Maybe I’ll go over there tonight, club night. Maybe I’ll go over and have a talk with some of the kids.”

Pancoast’s forehead assumed V-lines of worry. “Want me to go along? Most of the Cougars know me.”

Rusty sloughed away his offer.

“No go. They know you, but you’re still out of it, man. Way out. You’re boss-type, and they don’t dig that even a little. I come walking in with you, and I’m dead from the start… No, I can handle it.”

He stood up unsteadily, clung to the banister for a minute. It rocked under his weight.

“Damned school,” he mumbled, slamming the banister, “gonna fall apart under ya.”