“Should have thought of that myself,” Vince grinned back. They walked toward the boy.
He seemed to be about seventeen, short for his age, with a face full of blemishes. His cheekbones were hardly noticeable, and his mouth was a tight, thin line. His hair was black and long. He slouched easily in the tight-fitting blue jeans and Ike jacket, and continued to finger the chain bracelet on his wrist.
He watched them carefully as they moved in on him.
“Want to earn yourself five bucks?” Terry asked, leaning against the stone railing of the stairway. The kid looked up at him with caution in his eyes.
“On the up-and-up,” Vince added, moving closer. “All we want is for you to pick us up some food.”
“Maybe,” the kid said shortly.
“Okay,” Terry said, sitting down next to the boy. He took a long, thin leather wallet from an inside jacket pocket, and drew a pen from the holder within. He scribbled something on a piece of paper. “Here's the address.”
He handed the paper to the boy; the kid took it without hardly noticing it. The boy stuck out his hand. “Dough,” he said. Terry looked at Vince; this kid was a quiet one.
Terry fished out a five-dollar note, tore it neatly in half. He stuck one half back in the wallet, gave the other to the boy. “You got any money of your own?” he asked the kid.
“A couple bucks,” the kid said warily.
Terry gave him three dollars more. “Use your two bucks, and these, and you get the other half of that fiver when you show. We only gave you three, so it's worth your while to bring the stuff—that way you make two more on the deal.”
“What if it runs more than three bucks?” the kid asked.
“Pay for the balance out of your money. Bring along a check, and we'll give you the difference—plus the other half of the five. Okay?”
The kid nodded his head silently for a moment, then, “Okay. What do you want?”
They gave the boy the order—a couple of grilled cheeses, beer, slaw—and moved on. They looked back as they turned the corner onto Amsterdam. The kid was already gone. The steps were empty.
* * * *
Time seemed to have contracted. They were back in the dismal room, brown stains on the wallpaper near the ceiling, from someone's radiator on the floor above. They were back in the same positions they had been in hours ago.
Terry was in his stocking feet, stretched out on the bed with eyes closed and a curling pillar of smoke rising from his cigarette.
Vince slouched in the ratty, overstuffed armchair, one leg thrown over its worn and padded arm: he was still reading the "News". “We should have bought the "Times",” he said to the room in general.
Sounds of cars passing in the street below floated to their ears. The shades were pulled down, and because of the stiff spring breeze from the river, the windows were tightly closed.
Signs of previous meals were scattered about the room in the form of paper cups and plates.
“Kid's late,” Terry remarked, around the cigarette. His voice was a toneless statement. He didn't bother opening his eyes.
“Yeah, I know,” Vince replied, letting the paper fold itself onto the floor. He sat up in the chair. “Well, looks like you're out of a fiver—”
The sentence was left hanging. The knock came twice, softly. Terry snapped upright, his .32 in his hand, the cigarette dumping ashes on his pants.
Vince was out of the chair, back flattened against the wall next to the door, pistol ready. The knock came again, more urgently this time. They waited. If it was anyone that they wanted in the room, okay, let them make the first move.
“Hey!” It was the kid's voice. “Hey! Better open up. This crap is gettin’ cold!” Vince tossed a smile over his shoulder, shoved the .32 into his belt, moved to unbolt the door.
“Guess we misjudged the kid,” he said.
He turned the key, threw the bolt, and let the door open on its own. The kid appeared in the doorway, holding a paper bag at an awkward angle. “Hot,” he explained, starting to come in.
He shoved the door open completely with his foot, took three quick steps that brought him next to Terry, and suddenly there were six boys in the room.
They stepped in quickly, all of them, as though they were on strings. Another instant and the door was closed, locked, bolted. They stood in a row, backs to the door.
Terry had started to bring the gun up as they stepped into the room. As the revolver rose, the kid with the bag dropped it on Terry's hand. The coffee was scalding—he screamed with the pain.
The kid chopped down with his free hand, and the gun dropped to the rug. The boy scooped it up, took a step back, and made a queer shaking movement with his arm. He shook the arm toward the floor.
A knife dropped into his hand. An instant later the blade was switched open, the tip slightly denting the smooth skin of Terry's neck. “Don't like guns,” he explained. “They wake people.” The knife hand was steady and rigid.
Vince stood petrified, so suddenly had it all happened. Now abruptly he was galvanized into action. His hand yanked the .32 from his waistband, and the gun swung in an arc. “Get away from him!” he snapped, pointing the revolver at the kid's.
“So shoot, sharp guy,” the kid said, leaning a bit toward Terry. The knife dented the skin even more; an angry spot of red appeared beneath the point. “So shoot, and your compañero gets my steel in his windpipe.” His blemished face broke into a thin sneer.
The other five boys laughed. Vince started to swivel the gun in their direction, but a boy wearing an ornate poncho stepped out of the line and brought a bottle down across his wrist.
The gun hit the floor, and another boy scooped it up, shoving it into his pocket. The click of its opening was clear in the room.
“Whatta ya think, Rafe? They holding?” The boy addressed the question to the blemish-faced kid holding his knife at Terry's throat.
“What do you want?” Terry gasped, his face dead white, his body leaning away from the first boy's knife.
“Man,” said Rafe, “when I saw that wad you was toting, I knew you was the ripest ever. I don't know what you two dudes got hiding in here, but I know you got enough chips to keep us happy for a long while. Cough!”
Terry looked across at Vince. He knew the message the other man's eyes were screaming: What the hell is going on here? We're grown men — we're paid to handle people — and these are a bunch of kids. We're supposed to be rough boys, so why the hell are we letting them do this to us?
“Okay, kids,” said Terry, starting to rise. “This is it. Pile out of here before we sic the cops on you, or tan your tails ourselves.”
The first boy placed his hand against Terry's chest, shoved hard. Terry fell over onto the bed. “Sit down, hard rock. We'll tell you when to talk.”
“Hey, Rafe,” said one of the boys, from the clothes closet. “I think I found this one's roll.” He came out of the closet, carrying Vince's wallet. He opened it before the rest of the gang, took out a sheaf of bills.
Rafe whistled. “Nice, nice! How much there?”
The other boy continued counting. In a moment he looked up. “Seems to be eight hundred bucks.”
The other four boys whistled, almost in unison.
One of them advanced on Vince, backing him against the wall. “Who are you, buddy? What're you doin’ holed-up in here?”
Vince shot a sharp look at Terry. It didn't seem real, this entire scene. Here they were, the two top men in the syndicate kill-squad, held at bay by a half-dozen street punks.
“What makes you think we're holed-up, you little snotnosed...”
The kid's hand came up, arced across and caught Vince a vicious crack under the eye. Vince slid along the wall, came into contact with the radiator, and straightened up quickly, his face flame-red.
“You lousy little bastard!” he yelled, reaching for the boy.