A Stone for Danny Fisher (1952) (20 page)

“G
OOD
night, Champ.” Zep was smiling as he left us in the dimly lit hallway and trudged up the stairs. We watched him disappear around the turn of the first landing.

We turned and looked at each other. She smiled up at me and put her arms around my neck. “First time tonight we’ve been alone,” she whispered reproachfully, “and you haven’t even kissed me yet.”

I bent my head to kiss her, but as our lips met, there was a creaking sound from the staircase overhead. I drew back and stood there listening tensely.

“Danny, is something wrong?” Her voice was filled with concern.

I looked down at her. Her eyes were watching me closely. I forced a smile to my lips. “No, Nellie.”

“Then what are you so jumpy about?” she asked, her arms pulling my face down to her. “Aren’t you ever going to kiss me?”

“I’m still excited,” I answered lamely. I couldn’t tell her what was on my mind, I couldn’t tell anybody.

“Too excited to kiss me?” she teased, smiling.

I tried to match her smile, but I couldn’t, so I kissed her instead. I pressed my mouth to her, hard. I could feel her lips crush beneath mine.

She smiled up at me happily. “Feel better now?”

I nodded. It was true. For a little while I had forgotten about everything else.

Her face was flushed and warm, her dark eyes dancing, her lips curved in a gentle smile. “Now maybe you’ll be able to go home and get some sleep?” she asked. “You’ve been so nervous all night.”

I nodded again. She was right, I had been jumpy and on edge all evening. In the restaurant where Sam had taken us all for dinner I had started at every footstep. I could hardly eat. I didn’t think anyone had noticed. I seized her hand and kissed its palm. “No matter what happens, Nellie,” I said quickly, “don’t forget I love you.”

“And I love you no matter what happens,” she replied earnestly. She held her face up to me to be kissed. “Good night, Danny.”

I kissed her. “Good night, honey.” I watched her vanish up the stairway, then I went out into the street.

I had walked only a few steps up the block when the sensation that I was being watched came over me. I stopped and looked back. The street was deserted. I started on again, but the curious feeling persisted. I paused at the street lamp on the corner to look at my watch. It was after two in the morning. Suddenly I thought I saw a movement in the shadows behind me. I spun around and my heart began to pound. I was poised for flight.

Out of the shadows came a small grey cat, and I almost laughed in relief. Next thing I knew, I’d be seeing ghosts. I went on again.

The lights of Delancey Street loomed in front of me. I stepped into the crowd, basking in their nearness. Nothing could happen to me here. Slowly I moved along with them and gradually began to feel better.

On the next corner a newsboy was yelling: “Mawnin’ papers! Gloves winners!” I dropped two pennies in his hand, picked up a paper, and turned to the back page, where the sports news was. I looked closely at the fight pictures there. Mine was in the upper
right-hand
corner. The camera had caught me as I was standing over Gardella, sprawled at my feet. A thrill of pride ran through me. Champion! Nothing could ever take that away from me. I wondered if any of all the people passing by recognized me, if they knew that
I, Danny Fisher, was standing there, smack in the middle of them.

My smile vanished suddenly. I was looking directly into the eyes of one who had recognized me: Spit. He was leaning against the window of the Paramount Cafeteria, smiling at me. The paper slipped from my nerveless fingers into the gutter. I had been right all along: they had been watching me, waiting to get me alone.

Spit was nodding to a man standing near the kerb. I recognized him too. He was known to the neighbourhood as the Collector. Fields used him to go after people who refused to pay up. After he got through with them they were generally glad to square accounts. If they were able.

I turned quickly into the crowd, fighting an impulse to run. I was safe as long as I could stay with them. When I looked back over my shoulder, Spit and the Collector were sauntering casually behind me, just like two ordinary men coming from a late movie. Though they seemed to be paying no attention to me, I knew their eyes were on me every second.

I turned up Clinton Street, where the crowd was thinner, but I was still safe. The next block would be the bad one. It was usually almost empty at this hour of the morning. If I could make it, I’d be just around the corner from my house.

I peered over the crowd in front of me, and my heart sank. The next block was completely empty. My steps slowed as I toyed with the idea of turning back toward Delancey Street.

A backward glance chased the thought from my mind. They were too close behind me. They would block me off. The only way I could go was straight ahead. My mind churned desperately. I was almost at the corner. A picture of that block ran through my mind. About three-quarters of the way up it there was a small alley running between two houses. It was just wide enough to allow only one person through at a time. If I could reach it before them, I had a chance.

At the corner the traffic light was changing as a big trailer truck started to make its turn directly in front of me. I darted out into the street in front of it. The brakes squealed behind me as I reached the other kerb, but I didn’t look back. Spit was shouting at the truck, which had cut them off. I was almost halfway to the alley before I dared cast a nervous look over my shoulder.

Spit and the Collector had just reached the sidewalk and were running after me. Fear gave an added spurt to my legs. I almost ran past the alleyway in the darkness. Sharply I cut into it, my shoulder slamming against one side of the building. I bounced off the brick and fled deeper into the shadows.

It was dark in here, so dark I couldn’t see where I was going. I moved more slowly now, one hand feeling along the wall beside me to guide my way. The alley ran the full length of the two buildings, almost forty feet from the street, and ended in a blank wall. My hand suddenly touched the wall in front of me. I stopped, my fingers exploring it. There should be a small ledge a few feet up here. There was. Quietly I climbed up on it and turned, facing the street. I reached out in front of me, seeking a steel bar that I knew ran between the two buildings.

My eyes were getting used to the dark and I found the bar in the dim reflected glow coming from the street. My fingers grasped it firmly and I crouched there, waiting. My eyes strained through the darkness. Only one of them at a time could come after me here. My heart was bursting inside my chest. I tried to breathe quietly.

There was a murmur of voices at the end of the narrow alleyway. I tried to make out the words, but I couldn’t tell one voice from another. Then they were silent and I heard footsteps scuffling slowly along the alleyway toward me.

The light from the street framed the shadow of a man. He was moving cautiously into the dark, his hand groping along the wall as mine had done. I could see another shadow up near the entrance. Good. One was waiting in the street. I wondered which of them was coming after me.

I didn’t have to wonder for long. A voice hissed huskily in the dark at me. “We know yer in there, Fisher. Come with us tuh see the boss an’ yuh got a chance!”

I drew in my breath sharply. It was the Collector. I didn’t answer. I knew the kind of chance they would give me. He was about halfway down the alley toward me now.

The Collector spoke again, about ten feet from me now. “Yuh hear me, Fisher? Come out an’ yuh got a chance!” The light behind him illumined his bulky frame. I drew myself up tensely, my hand gripping the steel bar. He was about six feet away from me. Five feet. Four. He couldn’t see me hidden in the dark, but I could see him.

Three feet. Two. Now!

My feet flew off the ledge, my hands holding the bar in a tight grip. I vaulted through the air, my feet aimed at his head. Too late he sensed the sudden danger. He tried to move sideways, but there wasn’t room. My heavy shoes caught him flush on the chin and face. There was a dull thud and something gave way beneath my heels. The Collector dropped to the ground.

Hanging from the bar in the air over him. I looked down trying to
see him in the darkness. He was a crumpled shadow on the ground. He moaned a sighing little sound. I let go of the bar and dropped beside him. There was a stirring movement against my leg and I lashed out viciously with my foot. His head made a queer crunching sound as it snapped into the wall beside him, and then there was silence.

My fingers flew rapidly over his face. He lay there quietly, not moving. He was out.

I looked toward the entrance. Spit was still standing there in an attitude of listening. His body was framed against the light as he tried to see back into the darkness. His voice floated back to me. “Did yuh get ’im?”

I grunted as if in assent. I had to get him back in here if I wanted to get out whole. It was my only chance. I crouched low against the ground.

Spit’s voice came at me again. He was moving slowly into the alley. “Hol’ ’im. I wanna put my mark on the bitchin double-crosser!”

A glint of light flashed along the wall near his hand. It was his switch knife. I crouched still lower and inched forward, holding my breath. A few more steps.

I came out of the dark ground, my fist aiming at Spit’s chin. His head jerked back quickly, warned by an instinct of danger, and my fist grazed the side of his face.

Against the street light his knife flashed down at me. Desperately I lunged and caught it. He was struggling in my grasp, his free hand scratching at my eyes. A searing pain ran up my arm as Spit twisted the blade of the knife gripped in my palm. My hand jerked in reflex and I lost my grip. There was a burning pain in my side as Spit’s hand flashed downward.

I gasped in sudden shock and grabbed at the knife hand. I caught it and held it tightly. Spit began twisting the knife again and the nerves in my arm screamed in agony, but I didn’t dare let go. His free hand was clawing at my throat. In the dark I snapped a punch at his face. There was a sharp pain in my knuckles as they smashed against his teeth, but it was a welcome pain. I brought my knee up sharply. He gasped and began to double up.

I bent his knife arm around behind him, straightening him up. I had his back against the wall, my shoulder pressing hard into his throat. With my free hand I threw punch after punch into his face. At last he slumped against me.

I let go of Spit’s arm and stepped back, my breath rattling through my throat as he slid crazily to the ground. He sprawled out at my
feet, lying on his stomach. I leaned over him, searching for the knife.

I found it, its point two inches into his side. It must have happened when I held him against the wall. There was no emotion left in me. I was neither glad nor sorry. It was him or me.

I straightened up and slowly walked out of the alley. I wondered if Spit was dead. Somehow I didn’t care. It didn’t matter. Nothing really mattered if only I could get home and into bed. Then everything would be all right. In the morning I would wake up and find it had been nothing but a dream.

I stood in the hallway outside my door, searching my pockets for my key. It wasn’t there. Nothing was there except the five
hundred-dollar
bills and a stub of a pencil. Wearily I tried to remember what I had done with it.

It came back to me suddenly. I had thrown it on the table in front of Papa that morning. We’d had an argument. Now I couldn’t even remember what the argument was about. There was light coming from beneath the door. Somebody was still up. They would let me in. I knocked softly.

I heard a chair scuffle inside the room, then footsteps approached the other side of the door. “Who’s there?” a voice cautiously asked. It was my father’s voice.

A lump had formed in my throat when I first missed the key. Now I almost cried in relief. “It’s me, Papa,” I said. “Let me in.” Everything would be all right now.