Sleepers

The first two, I went to church with my mother.

The third, I went to see King Benny.

I poured myself an espresso from a two-cup pot, King Benny staring across the table. It was late Sunday afternoon of the Labor Day Weekend, and a transistor radio resting against the window behind me was tuned in low to a Yankee game. Two men, wearing dark slacks and sleeveless T-shirts, sat outside the club on wooden chairs. I drank my coffee and listened to Phil Rizzuto call the game, taking it into the bottom half of the eighth inning,

Yanks down by three runs. King Benny's hands were spread flat on the table, his face a clean-shaven mask.

'They suck this year,' he said, lifting a finger in the direction of the radio.

'They sucked last year,' I said.

'Gets to be habit,' he said. 'A bad habit. Like going to jail.'

I nodded and lowered my head, averting his gaze.

'We didn't mean to hurt anybody,' I said.

'You didn't mean it don't make it not happen.'

'We didn't go out looking to hurt is what I meant,' I said.

'Few do,' King Benny said.

'How long do you think we'll get?'

'A year,' King Benny told me and it made my knees go weak. 'Maybe more. Depends on the mood the judge is in.'

'I hear the one we got is tough,' I said. 'Likes to set examples.'

'They're all tough,' King Benny said.

I drank some more coffee and scanned the room, framing it in my mind, not wanting to forget its look, its stench, its feeling of safety. King Benny's foul-smelling club was a second home to me and, like the library, had become a place to escape the harshness of the life I knew.

It was an escape to the quiet company of the single most dangerous man in Hell's Kitchen.

'Your father tell you what to expect?' King Benny asked. 'Tell you how to handle yourself?'

'He hasn't talked much,' I said. 'He's pretty upset. Most of the time, he and my mom just sit and cry. Or they fight. One or the other.'

'I can't help you up there,' King Benny said, leaning closer to me, his eyes tight on my face. 'Or your friends. You're gonna be on your own in that place. It won't be easy, Shakes. It's gonna be hard. The hardest thing you and your friends are ever gonna have to do.'

'My father thinks that too,' I said. 'That's why he's crying.'

'Your father knows that,' King Benny said. 'Only he don't think you're ready for it. Don't think you can take it.'

'Do you believe that?'

'No,' King Benny said. 'I don't. There's a part of you that's a lot like me. A small part. That should be enough to bring you back alive.'

'I better go,' I said, pushing the cup to one side. 'I'm not allowed to stay out alone too long.'

'When do you leave?'

'I see the judge on Thursday,' I said, looking at the man I had grown to love as much as my own father. 'That's when we find out where we go and for how long.'

'Your parents be with you?'

'My father,' I said. 'I don't think my mother can handle it. You know how she gets.'

'It's better that way,' King Benny said. 'She shouldn't see you in a courtroom.'

'Will you still be here when I get back?' I asked, my voice choked, my eyes focusing on the two men outside, trying not to let King Benny see me cry.

'I'll always be here,' he said. 'Doing what I always do.'

'What do you do here?' I asked, a smile at the center of my tears.

King Benny pointed to the empty espresso pot.

'I make coffee,' he said.

THIRTEEN

My friends and I stood behind a scarred oak table in the middle of a high-ceilinged, airless room, hands at our sides, staring straight ahead. We were dressed in the only good clothes we owned, our communion suits, the dark jackets, dark slacks, white shirts and sky grey ties standing out against the cream-colored courtroom walls of New York State's Division of Family Justice.

John and I were on the right side of the table, next to our lawyer, a short, doe-eyed man who had trouble breathing through his nose. His hair was slicked down with gel and the tail of his white shirt was popping out the back of his brown pants.

Michael and Tommy stood to his left.

None of us looked at him and none bothered to listen to a word he uttered.

Our families were behind us, held apart by a wooden barrier and two court officers. My father sat in the first row of benches, directly behind me, his sad, angry presence like hot air on my neck. We had talked very little on the subway ride downtown. He assured me all would go well, that no one beyond the neighborhood would know where I was and that, maybe, just maybe, all this was for the good, that it was a lesson waiting to be learned.

'Be like goin' to camp,' my father said as the train careened toward Chambers Street. 'Plenty of fresh air, lots of runnin' around, decent food. And they'll keep you in line. Maybe teach you and your friends some discipline. Do what I couldn't do.'

'I'm gonna miss you, Dad,' I said.

'Save that shit,' my father said. 'You can't think like that. You gotta be like a stone. Can't think about anybody. Can't worry about anybody. Except yourself. It's the only way, kid. Believe me, I know what I'm talkin' about here.'

We rode the rest of the way in silence, wrapped in the noisy company of the rattling car.

I was two months shy of my thirteenth birthday and about to leave home for the first time in my life.

'Have the defendants been made aware of the charges against them?' the Judge asked.

'Yes they have, your Honor,' our lawyer responded, sounding as low-rent as he looked.

'Do they understand those charges?'

'Yes they do, your Honor.'

In truth we didn't understand. We were told the night before our appearance that the charges against us would be lumped together under the umbrella tag of assault one, which constituted reckless endangerment. The petty theft charge would be dropped in everyone's case but mine, since my action was what precipitated all that followed.

'It's the best I could do,' our lawyer told us, sitting behind a cluttered desk in his one-room office. 'You have to admit, it's better than getting hit with attempted murder. Which is what the other side wanted.'

'You're a regular Perry Mason,' John told him, seconds before his mother cuffed the side of his face.

'What does it mean for the boys?' Father Bobby asked, ignoring the slap and the comment.

'They'll do a year,' the lawyer said. 'Minimum. Lorenzo may get a few months more tacked on since he initiated the action. But then, he may get less time since he was last on the scene. That's the only open question.'

'It wasn't his idea,' Michael said. 'It was mine.'

'The idea doesn't matter as much as the act,' the lawyer said. 'Anyway, I should be able to convince the Judge not to tack on any extra time given how young Lorenzo is.'

'They're all young,' Father Bobby said.

'And they're all guilty,' the lawyer said, closing a yellow folder on his desk and reaching for a pack of cigarettes.

'Where?' Father Bobby asked.

'Where what?' the lawyer said, a menthol cigarette in his mouth, his hands coiled around a lit match.

'Where will they be sent?' Father Bobby asked, his face red, his hands gripping his knees. 'Which home? Which prison? Which hole are you going to drop them in? That clear enough for you?'

'Wilkinson's,' the lawyer said. 'It's a home for boys in upstate New York.'

'I know where it is,' Father Bobby said.

'Then you know what it's like,' the lawyer said.

'Yes,' Father Bobby said, the color drained from his face. 'I know what it's like.'

I looked over my shoulder, to the left, for a quick glance at the members of the Caldwell family, sitting in a group in the first two rows behind the prosecutor's table. Old man Caldwell was home, recuperating from his numerous wounds. According to a medical statement filed with the court, he would never again gain full use of his left leg and would suffer from dizziness and numbness in his other limbs for the rest of his life. His hearing and vision had also been affected.