The Amboy Dukes (6 page)

“Sure,” Benny said, “if you watch out that he doesn’t bleed on the upholstery. Load him in. Coming, Frank?”

Frank shook his head. “No. I’ll see you later.”

“Will you call the babes?”

“That’s an idea. What time’ll we pick them up?”

“Say nine o’clock. Then we can take them for a drive and over to my place.”

“Hey,” one of the Tigers interrupted, “let’s get started.”

Benny started the car with a roar, and Frank stood there until the Dodge turned the corner. Then he walked to the candy store on the corner and called the girls. His date had a nice voice over the telephone and said that nine o’clock was all right with her, and because he wanted to kill time he talked to her two nickels’ worth. Then he hung up and strolled out into the late afternoon sunshine and headed toward Brownsville.

He had hardly spoken a word to Alice in the morning because his head was splitting, and he had yelled at her. Now he was sorry and he wanted to make it up to the kid.

She was really a good kid, not like Fanny Kane. He was sure to find her at the Center, and when he was directed to the basket-weaving room and saw Alice working on a red-and-blue basket he couldn’t help but step behind her and kiss her on the cheek.

“Hello, baby.” He smiled at her. “You’re not sore at me?”

“No.” She stood up. “Girls,” she said shyly to the group who was looking at them, “this is my brother Frank.”

“Not your boy friend?” One of the little girls giggled.

Alice blushed. “He’s my brother!”

“I’m going to the gym,” Frank said hastily. “Call for me when you want to eat.”

Frank took off his hat and jacket and carefully placed the gun inside one of the jacket sleeves. Then he rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, took a basketball from one of the racks, and went out on the court. He wished he were wearing sneakers so that he could do some dribbling. It had been a long time since he had played any ball.

Poised at the foul line, he aimed carefully for the basket and was pleased when his first shot went through without touching the rim. He missed the second and third shots and then took careful aim and watched the ball drop through the hoop again. It had been at least a year since he had shot any baskets, and the knack was not easy to regain. Rhythmically he dipped and swung his arms upward and watched the ball sail in a true arc to the backboard and into the basket. More often now he was ringing them, and he was pleased with himself.

“That’s pretty good shooting, Frank,” a voice behind him said.

Frank flipped the ball upward and then turned around. Without looking he knew the ball was going through the basket. “Thanks, Mr. Alberg,” he said.

“My name’s Stan.”

“O.K.,” Frank said without smiling.

Stan Alberg bounced the basketball. “I haven’t seen you in the gym for almost a year.”

“I’ve been busy,” Frank said.

“Too busy to come here for a workout? Or maybe you’re going to another gym?”

Frank smoothed his hair with his hands. “No. I’m just busy.”

“Oh.”

“Maybe I’ll start coming around again,” Frank said. “I think I could use a workout.” He walked to the bench and buttoned his sleeves.

“Sure thing,” Stan said with professional heartiness. “We’re trying to get some teams up. Softball and handball, and later on basketball. We could use you, and it would do you a lot of good. Why don’t you get some more of the Dukes to come down?”

Frank looked at him suspiciously. “How’d you know I’m a Duke?”

Stan sat down on the bench and sighed. “You can’t keep that a secret, can you?”

“They’re a swell bunch of guys.”

“I know.”

“You don’t think much of us?”

Stan shrugged his shoulders. “Don’t get me wrong, Frank,” he said quietly. “I don’t think much of gangs.”

“Maybe it’s because you never belonged to one.”

“I did”—Stan stretched his legs and placed the basketball between them—“but I got out. You ought to ditch the Dukes while you can. Do you want me to walk away while you put on your jacket?” he asked suddenly. “I guess you’ve got one of those homemade pistols in the jacket and I’m in your way.”

Frank stared at him. He didn’t know what to say or do or how far he could trust Stan Alberg. Stan was tall and slender with narrow shoulders, but his body was lithe and supple as a well-strung bow. He wore thick-lensed glasses that were firmly supported by his prominent nose, under which grew a thin brown mustache. His cheekbones were high and added to the sardonic twist of his lips. Stanley Alberg looked like, walked like, spoke like a scholar and, what was most surprising, was a scholar. But for years he had been unable to secure a teaching job. The civil-service lists of New York City had been jammed full of young men of similar accomplishments who had eked out a meager existence by working in temporary positions as ticket agents at the ferry terminals, as proctors of civil-service examinations, and as delinquent-tax investigators.

Now he was at the Jewish Community Center on Bristol Street and feeling that he was doing a worth-while job. Every juvenile he was able to interest in the gymnasium was someone who made his day a success. It was a tough job to go out and drag the boys off the street corners and make them want to meet in the Center gymnasium instead of the poolroom, make them want to meet in the Center clubrooms instead of the corner candy store, and make them want to go out and recruit their friends to join the athletic teams instead of the gangs.

The neighborhoods of Brownsville, East New York, and Ocean Hill were infested with gangs. The Pitkin Giants, the Amboy Dukes, the Sutler Kings, the Killers, the D-Rape Artists, the Zeros, the Enigmas, the Wildcats, the Patty Cakes were just a few of the gangs that fought, slugged, and terrorized the neighborhood. They fought for the sheer joy of bloodying and mauling one another, and no insult was so slight that it could not be used as an excuse for a mass riot and free-for-all. Every day and night Stanley was faced by new problems of organization, but there was the belief that he was doing something worth while, and each member he gained for one of his teams and clubs was a personal victory.

One of Stanley’s great problems was money. He needed money to purchase the athletic equipment which had become increasingly scarce since 1942, and he had to operate on the niggardly prewar Center budget which governed athletic activities. He pleaded with the superintendent in charge of athletic and club work but was always palmed off with the same excuse: the Board of Directors was doing the best it could; people were not contributing to the Center because they could see nothing but the opportunity to purchase luxury items for which they had starved for years. That was why the Center had to get along on its inadequate budget and why the juvenile predatory gangs of Brownsville and Williamsburg and Harlem grew larger and more dangerous. It made Stanley sick with anger, and once or twice he thought of quitting the job at the Center, but Reba, his wife, had asked him to stay, and he knew she was right.

Now he watched Frank squirm as the kid looked at his jacket and wondered what to do about the gun.

“Go ahead,” he repeated, “put on your jacket. I don’t care either way.”

Frank slipped his arm into the sleeve and dropped the pistol into his jacket pocket, where it sagged and bulged. “So you know about these.” Frank laughed nervously. “I bet you think you’re a smart guy.”

“No”—Stan shook his head—“not so smart. But smart enough not to carry one of those.”

“Aw, they’re nothing.”

“I know.”

“I wouldn’t use one.”

“I hope not.”

“Don’t you believe me?”

“Sure.”

“You don’t. And what the hell am I talking to you for anyway? You guys make me sick. That’s why we never come around here. You’re always trying to make us reform. What the hell have I got to reform for? I haven’t done anything!”

Stan took a buttonhook out of his pocket and tightened the laces of his basketball. “If you haven’t done anything, Frank,” he said, “then why are you giving me an argument?”

Frank sat on the bench and stared across the gym. “You’re a pretty nice guy, Mr. Alberg, but you still give me a pain.”

“Everyone’s entitled to his opinion, Frank. Listen”—he turned to him—“you’re not a dope. Why don’t you get smartened up? Give me the gun.”

Frank stood up and backed away from him. “No! And I’m warning you, don’t rat to the cops if you want to stay healthy.”

“You’ll take me for a ride?”

Frank picked up his hat and books. “Don’t think it’s funny. I’m just telling you.”

“I heard you. And any time you want to get rid of that gun you can come down here and I’ll take it. That’ll always be a good alibi for you.”

“Thanks for nothing.”

“You’re welcome. When’ll I see you around?”

“Never.”

“Come back whenever you like.” Stan ignored the reply. “And if you want to come over to the house some evening just let me know. We always have some good cake around.”

Without answering him Frank went back to the weaving room for Alice. Walking along Bristol Street with her toward Pitkin Avenue and over to Davidson’s Restaurant, he was silent. Mr. Alberg had disturbed him. Maybe he was right about the gun. Hell, he never used it, and the thought of using it made him shudder. He didn’t even like the idea of using a knife on a guy, and when he thought of Crazy cutting the spick the night before, he—well, he didn’t like the idea of being a Duke. And now he had another worry on his head, because Black Benny had told him in the morning that he’d better watch out for Crazy, for Crazy was the kind of a guy who didn’t come right back at you. Crazy just saved it up for a long time, and when you were least expecting it, zingo, he would sneak up and get in his innings. But still he didn’t need to carry the gun. If Crazy came at him, a milk bottle or a brick would be all he’d need to polish off the bastard. The sooner he ditched the gun, the better.

“I want to stop in the house for a minute, Alice,” he said to her. “You wait downstairs for me.”

“I’ll come upstairs and wash my hands.”

“All right.” There was no point in making her suspicious. “But hurry up. I’ve got a date tonight.”

“Can’t you break it?” She looked back at him as they climbed the narrow tenement stairs. “I’m lonesome.”

“Tomorrow night, baby. You wouldn’t want me to give the girl a stand-up, would you? When you get older you’ll know what I mean.”

“Is she pretty?”

“Not as pretty as you’ll be when you grow up. Come on, open the door.”

While she was in the bathroom he hastily placed the gun in the box and stuffed it back in his drawer. Now he was relieved. But he wouldn’t tell Benny or the other guys because they would think he was getting soft, and a guy who was soft didn’t rate with the Dukes.

The girls were waiting for them on the corner as they coasted the car to the curb, and Frank’s eyes were happy when he saw Betty again. For she was as pretty and exciting as she had been the day before, and when she sat next to him and he put his arm around her she moved close to him, and his hand rested at the open V of her yellow blouse. Her fingers were slim and cool, and he felt wise and strong as he grasped her hand and pressed it gently. The car raced along Kings Highway, and he tilted Betty’s head back and kissed her, a long lingering kiss to which she responded as his hand slid into her blouse.

“Gee,” he sighed, “you’re swell.”

“I like you too,” she whispered to him. She stroked his hair and lifted her lips to him again.

The night breeze struck them as the open car sped along the road, and the music coming from the radio was dreamy and pleasant. Again he kissed her, and now he could feel her body tense as she clung close to him, and he gasped as she bit him on the lip. Now he kissed her endlessly, one kiss blending into the next, and it seemed to Frank as if they were sitting on a cool wind that was blowing them farther and farther into the darkness, off the earth, out of the world, into space, where they raced with the speed of excitement and the wild, passionate tumult of youth and heart and blood. He cupped her cheek in his hand and looked down at her closed eyes. Then gently he kissed her on the forehead, and as her lips parted he kissed her again, and the wind blew soft and cool, and they were swept along in the night.

The tires screeched as Benny swerved the car around the traffic circle, and Frank was jolted back to reality.

“Take it easy,” he shouted to Benny. “You want to wreck us?”

Ann twisted around in her seat. “He’s a good driver, Benny is. I like the way he drives.”

“Slow up.” Frank ignored her. “And don’t turn around to give me an argument while you’re driving, Benny. Come on,” he ordered him, “slow up.”

“Anything you say, sport.” Benny eased his foot on the accelerator. “How about you driving and giving me a chance to work my points in the back seat?”

“You go on and drive.” Ann giggled.

“I’d rather be loving you,” Benny insisted, and stopped the car. “Come on”—he opened the car door and stepped out—“swap.”

Frank worked the gearshift and was glad he was able to start the car without jerking. The gears ground noisily as he shifted rapidly into high, and Betty snuggled down in the seat and leaned her head against his shoulder.

“I’d put my arms around you, honey,” he said to her, “but this isn’t my car.”

“You certainly can kiss,” she said.

He laughed. “You’re not half bad yourself.”

“Do you like me?” she asked him.

“And how! You’re really something, Betty. You’re”—he faltered for words—“honest, I don’t know how to say it.”

“Just kiss me,” she said to him. “That’s all the saying I want.”

“No more?” His lips brushed her face.

“Don’t ask me,” she said, “and watch where you’re driving.”

Benny was wrestling his date in the back seat, and Frank heard the rough exchange of lines that meant only one thing: Benny was going to lay Ann, but not before she had asked him what made him so fresh and who did he think he was and where did he get the idea that he could mess her up and did he think she was a pushover and if he didn’t cut it out she was going to walk home and why was he in such a rush and couldn’t he wait until they knew each other better and she didn’t like doing it in a car and honest, she wasn’t a teaser, and she’d prove it when they went back to his apartment that night. He was glad he was driving.