The Warriors (6 page)

For one moment everybody was still. The beacons on top of the police cars kept turning and threw patches of red into the mass of light. Ismael's body slowly slumped, sinking out of sight, disappearing as if he were being dragged to the bottom of the sea. Some kid sobbed; the sound bubbled, startlingly clear throughout the great patch of silent brightness. Then, someone who had seen too many movies tried to frighten the fuzz with a few shots, trying that old trick of shooting out a light. The head-busters replied with a warning on the bullhorn. But the wild man, some uninvited psycho, safe among the mass, had to show off his heart and fired again; the bullet caught one of the spot-lights and shattered it, but it seemed to have no effect on the blaze at all. The fuzz fusilladed warnings this time, trying to
scatter the bullets widely over all their heads. The bullhorn kept roaring and echoing, warning. But a panicky cop, trying to shoot low enough to really frighten, fired into the mass of boys and someone—shot—screamed.

The scream started them. The mass roared and they began to run. Some of them ran from side to side and back again, smashing into one another. Gangs began to fall apart. One warrior held the end of a honed-link bicycle chain and, grinning madly, swung and swung around, safe in the center of a ten-foot, silver radius. Most of them took off in the directions they thought they had come from. Some of them ran to the south and collided with police detachments working their way through a field to cut them off across their flank. A small mob, trying to make their way westward, to the Broadway subway line, blundered into a line of cops and cars. The cops waded into them and began clubbing wildly, driving the kids back into the field. A loudspeaker kept saying, “Stand perfectly still and you won't get hurt. Stand perfectly still and you won't get hurt.” Another speaker said, “Line up. Hands up. Line up.” A mass charged to the east, ran into the glare, got caught at the police line and were beaten off, but some got through and into the darkness; the police didn't bother to follow. A detachment of kids tried to pretend they were surrendering, and then, when they got close, charged the cops. But a few bullets fired in front of them broke their discipline and they stopped. More prowl cars and paddy wagons were arriving. The fireworks hadn't let up.

Motorists were pulling up and getting out of their cars. Cops were trying to move them on. Traffic was beginning to stop and jam. Onlookers crowded behind the police lines to watch the fun. A handcuffed, hair-banded Muslim being led to the paddy wagon, palm-pushed by a thick-faced shover, saw the O-eyed audience and went a little crazy, broke loose and plowed into the suckers, screaming because he was made out such a fool in front
of their eyes. He knocked down an old lady and was biting into someone when the cop banged him to the ground and kicked him along the asphalt, scraping his face bloody while someone said, “The little savage, give it to him.” Ismael's chauffeur tried to tank his car through to pick up the Leader, who he didn't know was shot. He knocked down and killed a surrendering Seraph, brushed a policeman, and bogged in a soft patch, furiously miring himself deeper till the busters pulled him out and bounced a few off his skull. A Delancey Throne, his ice-cream pants shredded and his privates showing, was telling a bull to unhand him; he was coming, but just take your mothering hands off, got slapped into the paddy wagon.

Arnold's Dominators waited, held together, stayed by Hector, stunned by the great fight, held in place by the double bank of police lights. They stood still when the shots were fired. They stood still when the mob broke. They waited for the word to move. Hector, looking cool and dangerous in the lights, full of heart, just kept holding his hand high, even though Lunkface wanted to start fighting: and The Junior knew it would be so simple to just start running. A minute passed. The riot was general now. When Hector was sure the police were busy, he hand-signaled for them to move out. Hector vanned and Arnold rear-guarded. They walked north toward the stand of bushes where Ismael had been. As they moved, they stepped up the pace to a half-crouching fast walk, having been drilled in this pre-battle movement by Papa Arnold and Uncle Hector. Another loudspeaker started giving orders to the boys, yelling at groups that were trying to make their escape, telling them that flight was useless; they were surrounded.

“Then man, what're we running for? They got us,” Hinton said.

“Son, you don't know a thing. That's talk. Down and keep moving,” Arnold said from the rear. “Follow your Uncle.”

Lunkface moved, clench-fisted and bop-stalking, hoping that someone, anyone, would get in his way, or that some lone cop would get close so that he could hit him a few times before they were caught. Hinton wondered if it wasn't better to just stop and wait with the others to be rounded up. The cops would
have
to let them go: how could the jails hold so many people? A fourth loud-speaker started giving orders. Cops were shouting directions and yelling to one another to look out for this or that bunch trying to escape. The voices met and fused into a general, crushing roar and every statement became meaningless; mere noise.

Arnold's Family moved north, screened, for the most part, by the herded boys standing around and waiting for the cops to come for them. They made it to the stand of bushes. They passed a bunch of Ismael's men standing around the body of their leader. They wanted to stop and look, but Hector yelled for them to keep moving. Arnold in the rear should have known better, but he
had
to stop and look at Ismael's face. One of Ismael's men asked him what did he think he was looking at, and before Arnold could say anything, he was surrounded and being pounded and down. Bimbo, just ahead of Arnold, didn't notice because of the noise; he was moving after the others faster now and they were into the black bush clumps and out of that terrible dazzle. It was cooler here. It was a relief to get free from the light and they moved faster. Branches tugged at their knees, but they were trotting now, getting further and further away from that zone of brilliance. And then they were clear of the bushes and following after Hector who was vaguely outlined by the beams of the jammed-up cars at the highway junction ahead.

They reached the embankment where the highways joined. Hector, outlined by carlight, shimmering in the mercury lamps, waved them down. There was no point to waiting around. Hector gave the word; they would charge across between the
stopped cars and make their way toward the left, west, in the darkness. Hector told them not to be frightened, to keep together, and when they got to the other side of the highway, they would link hands and make their way through the blackness. Hector knew, vaguely, they had come from that direction. Anyway, the Park had to end and they would be out of it soon.

They ran across the highway and down the embankment on the other side and into the darkness. Behind them, seeing them run, the motorists began to sound their car horns insistently, trying to warn the police. The men, panicking, ran faster. The ground was wet and getting softer and they seemed to be moving into a swamp. They had all seen movie heroes sink into quicksand; was there quicksand here? But they all knew that if anyone started to sink, the thing to do was to get a big branch and lay it across the quicksand hole . . . but who would have the courage to stop? Their shoes were not made for running and were getting soaked, ruined fast here. Lunkface wanted to stop and light up a cigarette, but Hector knocked it out of his hand; was he crazy? That was the word that always infuriated Lunkface, and he was almost ready to fight, but Hector was ordering them to link hands and follow him. He kept Lunkface close to him.

They moved fast, half-running through the darkness, getting further and further away from that great bubble of light, not knowing where they were going, drifting north, west, then east, and finally, they were lost, moving up and down hills, through marshy land, panting. The loud hums of big insects whirring by startled them. They slapped at stinging bugs. Were there wild animals here? Wildcats? Wolves maybe? Certainly snakes. What kinds? They weren't sure. Pythons? Rattlers? Frogs sounded, crickets chirped, louder than firecrackers. Dewey stepped into a small water-filled hole and shouted. They hushed him and ran around him, pulling him through even though Dewey was afraid
of alligators. Whipped-back branches hit and stung their faces too. Lunkface got a mouthful of wet leaves. Hector almost shrieked when he walked into a spider web; he made frantic brushing moves in the dark air; he had heard about black widows, even huge, man-eating spiders; but he kept his mouth shut and kept Face, and grabbed Lunkface's hand again. Bimbo felt the raincoat catch and wanted to stop to disentangle it, but he was pulled on and the coat ripped. He felt for the bottles; they were safe.

It seemed as if they kept moving for a long, long time; they wanted to rest badly. Hector wouldn't let them. They were gasping; their sides hurt; they charged up a rocky hill, slipping, falling, getting up again and again; The Junior tore the knee of his pants; and they were at the top and running across a firm-grounded sports field and the park ended suddenly in a sidewalk and street. It was a long, peaceful street with thick-boled trees, not too busy; a few people walked along it. Across the street, behind an iron-spiked fence, was a cemetery. A bus was heading toward them, and farther off, Bimbo saw the revolving red eye of a cruising cop car and he pointed. Hector had an idea and waved. They bolted across the street, climbed up and over and down into the cemetery. Moving carefully, they weaved among the tombstones till the street was blocked by the tombs and gravestones. Hector gave the rest sign by dropping to his knees. They all fell down and panting, they rested in the shadow of the big tomb on the crest of the grass sloped hill.

The Junior got jittery; it was taking too long. Lunkface was angry over his lost hat and The Junior was making him nervous with that ghost talk. Dewey wondered if it could be true. If—things—
did
come up from the graves.

Hector said, “Now we cool it here for a few hours and then, when the shit is off—”

But The Junior whined in a panicky voice, “But I
told
you. We
can't
stay. Them graves might open up and . . .”

And they all huddled closer together, but got no comfort from the nearness. Arnold might have helped; Arnold was their Father. But the Father was gone now.

It takes about an hour, an hour and a half, depending on the subway service, to get from the top of the Bronx to Coney Island.
But not if you are crouching in the dark shadow of a tomb. Not if the little fat stone cherubs on the tomb press their cheeks together, and their smile becomes more and more evil as the hour evolves to midnight. And not if every cop in the city might be alerted and blockading, not if every gang truce in the city is off and every gang's hand is raised against every other gang's. Coney Island is about fifteen miles away; it might as well be fifteen hundred, because everyone between here and home is ready to come down on you. And if there is no plan yet, if they are falling apart as a Family because the Father is gone, and they have to be there, home,
now,
then it means that an infinite distance must be covered. And that was why Hinton, because he didn't believe in ghosts, couldn't see the necessity of leaving this nice, cool place on this night, and walking that far across all that empty space, exposed in the moonlight, to get to the subway. There was time yet.

“Man, I'll take myself off and make it by myself,” Lunkface said. “I'm not going to hang around this place.”

Things rustled again. There was a watchman. Were the fuzz sneaking up? No, cops came clumping in loud and didn't care. Was it another gang? Whose Motherland was this anyway? No one knew.

“Well, if it's the spooks that's bothering you, children, why we'll move out and cool it in another way,” Hector played it chilly, with scorn, hoping that they wouldn't be foolish; that they would agree to stay. But even Bimbo said he didn't want to hang around.

When Hector saw the way it was, being rational about things, he said all right, they would restructure, they would elect, they would move out as a Family—because if they made it like a mob—they knew what happened to mobs. They agreed.

The Junior said, “But man, we have to hurry it.”

They elected. There was no question that Uncle Hector should
become the Father for the time being. Lunkface wanted it for himself and voted for himself and glowered at them when he didn't make it. They didn't even vote Lunkface for Uncle, because you could never trust what he was going to do. They gave the vote to Bimbo who was cool, unimaginative, steady; a good man to have by your side in any bop, jap, or rumble. Lunkface became the third in command, eldest son, and that, to some extent, satisfied him; to give him anything lower would have caused trouble. He was sixteen, a little liquored up most of the time, but six foot one and thick and broad and strong. The second brother was Dewey; he was seventeen and had been with the Family for a long time and was reliable. The third brother was Hinton. Hinton was the artist because he had a talent for caricature and could draw fancy letters; he carried the Magic Marker and left the sign of the Dominators wherever they went. They all thought he was a little psycho because when he got the fighting madness, even Lunkface was a little afraid of him. But that was Hinton's secret: not having the strength or the heart, he knew that everyone feared the flip, and so he psychoed once in a while and they gave him room. The kid brother was The Junior, a sort of mascot, really still a tot, but with heart. They liked to match him against tot-mascots from other gangs to see the little ones fight. He was not only the youngest of the group, but his name was
really
Junior, and he always carried a rolled-up comic book or two in his pocket. After the election, Hector had Bimbo pass the bottle around for one drink; Lunkface took two because he was angry over his hat and the election. Hector told them to smoke, but light up under the cover of their jackets so that the flame wouldn't be seen. He told them to smoke one cigarette, no more; to keep cupping their hands over the light, to lay it low till he could come up with the plan of action. Lunkface thought that they should discuss plans democratically, but Hector pointed out that he was the Father and it was Lunkface's duty, as oldest son,
to follow. Lunkface was angry, but he didn't say anything else.