Gussie stared at him contemplatively for a few moments. “Why’d you come to me?” she asked.
“Just to get off the streets. You don’t have to worry, I’m leaving.”
Gussie’s face was worried now.
“What are you going to do?” she asked.
“I don’t know. How do I know? Just stay away from them for now, that’s all.”
“And then what?”
“Somebody killed Angelo,” he said. “That’s for sure.”
“They’ll catch you,” she said. “And it’ll be worse because you ran away.”
“I also slugged a cop and stole a squad car. I got nothin’ to lose now.”
“Stay until dark,” Gussie said suddenly. “Stay here in the back.”
“Thanks,” he said.
“I’m only saving my own skin. If the cops think...”
“Don’t spoil it,” Johnny said. “I was beginning to think you were human.”
“Go to hell, you snot nose,” Gussie said, but she was smiling.
He saw the lights come on in the church across the street, saw the streetlamps throw their dim rays into the gathering October darkness. The clock on the wall in Gussie’s front room read five ten. The lights all along the street came on, warm yellow lights that built a solid, cozy front against the crisp near-winter blackness.
“You’d better get started,” she said. “We’re lucky they haven’t been here yet.”
“I ditched the car on York,” he told her. “They probably figure I headed downtown.”
“Go through the back way,” Gussie said. “You can cut through the yard and climb the fence. That way you’ll come out on a Hun’ fifteenth. Less lights.”
“All right,” he said. He hesitated, biting his lip. “You got money?”
“A little.”
Gussie walked to a chair and unhooked a black leather purse from where it hung. “This’ll help a little. Things haven’t been too good lately.”
She handed him the sawbuck, and he hesitated before taking it. “You don’t have to...”
“Angelo broke my window once,” she said simply.
“Well, thanks a lot.”
She nodded and he left by the back door, cutting into the concrete alleyway behind the apartment building. He knew there would be steps now leading to the sidewalk. He remembered the times when he and the other kids used to duck down behind the steps like this on his own block, whenever they were too busy or too rushed to look for a toilet.
He passed the garbage cans and the familiar sharp stench. It was dark there where the steps dropped down into the bowels of the tenement. He saw the iron railing up ahead of him on the sidewalk, and the dangling chain that was supposed to stop kids from parading up and down the steps, but which only served as an impromptu swing. He started up the steps, and when he collided with the other man he almost shrieked in terror.
He heard a dull clatter as something dropped to the steps and then rolled away into the blackness near the garbage cans. His fists balled immediately and he waited, hearing the other man’s hoarse breathing. He figured the guy for a wino or a stumblebum, or maybe a degenerate.
“You damn fool,” the man said. He still could not see his face. He heard only the hoarse breathing, saw only the dim outline of the man in the feeble glow of the streetlight which filtered down onto the steps below the building.
“Where’d it go?” the man asked.
“Where’d what go?” he heard himself answer.
“You damn fool,” the man cursed again. He pushed back past Johnny, dropped to his hands and knees, and began scrambling around near the garbage cans. Johnny looked at him for a moment, and then wondered, What the hell am I standing around for? He started up the steps, heard the movement behind him, and then felt the wiry fingers clamp onto his shoulder.
“Just a second, punk,” the man said. “If you broke that syringe, then you’re going to pay for it.” He pulled Johnny back down the steps and Johnny stumbled.
“You think syringes grow on trees? I had to swipe this one from a doctor’s bag.”
Johnny got up and moved toward the steps again, and the man slammed him back against the wall. He was a big man, with arms like oaks and a head like a bullet. His eyes gleamed dully in the darkness. “I said stay where you are,” he said.
He shoved Johnny back into the alley, blocking him from the steps, and then he reached down for something that glittered near one of the garbage cans.
“You did it, punk,” he said. “You broke the damn thing.”
Johnny saw the jagged shards of the syringe in the man’s open hand. And then the fingers of the hand closed around the syringe, hefting it like a knife, with the glass ends crooked and sharp.
“You shouldn’t have been shooting up down here,” Johnny said lamely. “I didn’t even see you. I...”
“How much money you got, punk?” the man said.
“Nothing,” Johnny lied.
“Suppose we see,” the man said, advancing with the broken shards of the syringe ahead of him.
“Suppose we don’t?” Johnny answered, planting his feet, and tightening his fists.
“A smart guy, huh? Break the damn syringe, and then pull a wise-o. I don’t like smart guys. If you done something you pay for it, that’s my motto.”
He stepped closer, reaching for Johnny, and Johnny lashed out with his right fist catching the man solidly on his chest. The man staggered back, raising the hand with the syringe high. The streetlight caught the syringe, gave it up to the darkness again as it slashed downward and up. Johnny felt the ragged glass ends when they struck his wrist. He tried to pull his hand back, but the biting glass followed his arm, ripping the thin sleeve of his Eisenhower jacket, the jacket his brother had brought home in the last war. The glass ripped skin clear to his elbow and he felt the blood begin pouring down his arm and he cursed the addict, and brought back his left hand balled at the same time, throwing it at the addict’s head.
He felt his knuckles collide with the bridge of the man’s nose, felt bone crush inward and then the face fell away and back, slamming down against the concrete with the syringe shattering into a thousand brittle pieces now. Now that it was too late. He stepped around the man, and the man moved, and Johnny kicked him in the temple, wanting to knock his head off.
There was pain in his arm, and the blood had soaked through the thin sleeve of his jacket. He touched the arm and felt the blood, and when his hand came away sticky he felt a twinge of panic.
He stood at the base of the steps, wanting to kill the addict, wanting to really kill him.
He kicked him again, happy when he heard the sound of his shoe thudding against bone.
What do I do now? he wondered.
He needed a doctor, but a doctor was out. What about a druggist? What about Frankie Shea who worked for Old Man Sinisi? What about him? Did Frankie owe him a favor?
No, Frankie did not owe him a favor, Frankie did not owe him the sweat from his armpits. But they’d grown up together, had lighted bonfires together on election eve, had thrown snowballs together, had roasted spuds together when there used to be the empty lot behind Grandoso’s Grocery. You figure maybe a guy will do you a favor when your arm is running off into the gutter.
He waited until the drugstore was empty. He knew Old Man Sinisi left the store to Frankie every night after supper, leaving him just enough cash in the register to handle the few sales that piddled in before closing time. So there was no danger there. When the store was empty he walked in, and the bell over the door sounded loudly in the warm, antiseptic stillness. He walked straight behind the counter, running into Frankie as he started to come around front.
“Let’s stay back here,” he whispered.
“Johnny! The cops are...”