The Warriors (2 page)

“Well, how, like, are we making it, man?” Mannie asked.

The Man didn't answer immediately; further proof that something was wrong. But again, protocol forbade; Mannie didn't ask.

He looked around and recognized the signs: the prerumble card game, the forced coolness, the acted-out boredom, the yawning, the clinging girls showing their anxious sexuality, the bongos muttering like war drums. He turned back to Ismael. Secretary waved his hand, inviting Mannie to sit. Mannie pulled up a chair near the pedestal and tilted back so he could look up at Ismael's idol-face. He began to make conversation to break the coolness, and let him know what was happening. Ismael continued to stare down to the street, but that meant nothing; Ismael never focussed on anything. Someone turned up the radio. The bongos were banging louder. War-Counselor raised his voice to answer Mannie.

Mannie took a special pride in Ismael, who was the jewel of his career, the best and greatest result of some six years of social work with delinquents. But then, how often did one come across an Ismael? If he could keep Ismael straight for another year or so, the boy would be finished with high school, possibly even interested in college. For Ismael had been the brightest star in the firmament of P.S. 42, the rebellious genious of Baruch Laporte Jr. H.S., and, in his two years of high school, he had been
the talk, the despair, and the hatred of every teacher. Slowly, Mannie had redeemed Ismael, introducing him to the better things of life—interest in a job, books, a future—and even had Ismael over to his own house. Mannie had channeled Ismael's ego-drives into socially acceptable patterns. Of course, Ismael held tight to the leadership of the Delancey Thrones; the power was too sweet to let go. But the Delancey Thrones were almost a social club now. Time, Mannie thought, give him time. He hoped Ismael wouldn't regress and spoil everything now.

The Worker probed delicately, as delicately as he could without asking directly. Everything pointed to a rumble. But there was no open conflict with any other army. Nothing had shattered this year's truce, even though some newspapers tried to start something by printing false, insulting gossip. No one fell for it. Mannie exhausted the conventional talk about weather, sports, dances, the Fourth. He could have been talking to a mute, or to an idol's stone face. He recognized this role too. It angered him and he fought to maintain his sense of empathy. Patience, he thought . . . Ismael's thin lips didn't move. Preserving his strength against the heat, Mannie thought.

At ten to four the girls began to drift out. By four o'clock only the men were left. The radio announced, in that frenzied, jivy way, “. . . and now, for all the boys and girls of the Paradise Social and Athletic Club, these grooves . . . it's
los
Beatles, boys and girls, banging out . . .”

No one called an end to the play; the game stopped. Some of the boys got up. They left in little groups, trying to look casual. By four-fifteen no one was left in the clubhouse but Ismael, War-Counselor, Ismael's man, Secretary, and a burly guard who lounged against a wall.

Ismael stood up. Secretary told Mannie, “Like we have to cut. Hot. Movies.”

“Well now, man, I understand that, man. Where, like, else
can you cool off?” Mannie told Secretary and waited to be invited along. No one said anything. “Man, I have an idea about a boat ride we, like, could take in a few weeks,” he said to Ismael.

“Later, man,” War-Counselor said.

Ismael walked down the length of the room followed by his escort and went out, leaving Mannie alone. He hadn't found out anything. Ismael hadn't even talked to him. He went to the local candy store, looking for some of the boys, anyone from whom he could find out what was happening. None between the ages of fourteen and twenty were around. He got a supply of dimes in the candy store to call up Youth Workers from neighboring armies, and Youth Board headquarters. Maybe they knew what was happening. A kid set off a firecracker right behind him as he went into the booth.

When Arnold formed his Family, the Coney Island Dominators, he had two mottoes in mind. He had taken them from subway posters. One was, “When family life stops, delinquency begins”; the other was, “Be a brother to him.” If they were a family, Arnold reasoned, then they couldn't be delinquents; so he became the Father to all of them. The second in command was the Uncle; the others became brothers. They were closer to one another than to their families;
this
family freed them. Where they happened to live with their parents was always The Prison. Arnold's woman became the Mother, and the other women in the inner circle were daughter-sisters. Members of the outer circle were cousins, nieces, and nephews. When they were taken into the Family, they all swore oaths of belonging.

Arnold told his Family not to hang around the meeting place at the candy store today. Only those who were going as plenipos—he, Hector the Uncle, Bimbo the bearer, Lunkface for strength, Hinton the artist, Dewey, and The Junior—should be there. But the Family insisted on seeing them off. He hadn't whipped them into shape yet; they didn't listen to him the way they should to a father.

When it was time, they cut out, leaving the candy-store owner relieved. His fear amused the men. They always threatened to mess things up because they could sense his fright; it made them feel big. Everyone should fear them; everyone would. The chosen seven had liquored up—two drinks a man—for spirit. The radio brought the word—the Beatles record. It was on.

They moved out, a company of about twenty: Papa, Momma, Uncles and Aunts, Sons, Daughters, Cousins, walking their street. The men wore blue, paisley-print, button-down-collar shirts and too-tight black chino pants, high-crowned narrow-brimmed straw hats with their signs: cracked-off Mercedes-Benz hub-cap ornaments—hard to come by—with safety pins soldered in the school shop to the three-ray halo-stars. The appointed mission carried jackets, except for Bimbo, who carried a raincoat in which were strapped two Seagram's pint bottles to keep the men edged. Pedestrians, the Other, quailed before the march of the Family and gave them the wide pass. Arnold's children were hard and held their territory against one and all Other, coolie, fuzz, or gang. They weren't often out in force this early in the day. They swaggered, weaving, prancing, inviting any Other to come on, man. The family band, two cousins, with transistor radios blasting, came along for march music.

They reached the end of their turf and stopped. No one had lined it, like on school maps, and there were no
visible
border guards. The only sign of permanent divisiveness was the usual scum of oily motor leakings, dirty paper, white crossing lines,
but the frontier was there, good as any little newsreel guardhouse with a striped swinging gate. The eyes of the Colonial Lord were hard and hostile, even though they were allowed free passage today. They couldn't help feeling that old pre-battle nervousness. Their backs prickled; their shoulders went into that old hard-man, can't-put-me-down-man hunch; their stomachs fluttered; they perspired, plucking the tight pants away from their crotches. Bricks might come raining down from the roofs, chains could lash out from doorways as they passed, baseball bats would crack their heads, and knives were whickering.

The delegates put on their jackets; they were the new short ones, buttoning up to the neck and monkey-jacket tight. They fussed, twitching their shoulders, pulling down on the jacket skirts to make them lie better, flicking spots of dust, pulling up on their shirt collars, checking to see if every button was buttoned and every buckle was tight and gleaming while their women fidgeted, helping. Bimbo made sure that the bottles were strapped in well. Their uncomfortable ankle-high, elastic-sided boots were glossed. Their hats sat cocky, high on their heads.

Papa gave the word: they took off the pins from their hats and put them into their inside pockets; there was no point in being antagonistic. Squatty Bimbo, the bearer, armorer, and treasurer, looked around and saw no blue fuzz and, half-surrounded by the Family, gave Papa A. the gift-wrapped package. It was their present to Ismael. Arnold put the small, irregular, brightly striped item into his pocket where it bulked. All the others—Mother, cousins, the sisters, the camp followers—scattered a short distance up and down the street so as not to look like a detachment, so as not to make any of the Colonial Lords, who might be a little funky, panic. The nearest insisted on touching Arnold and patting Uncle Hector, the war leader, on the back.

“Go, Father.”

“Uncle, keep it cool, man.”

“Don't let them jap you, Brother. Don't trust; don't take no shit from them; don't let them lip you down, you hear? Show them who we are, but good.”

They crossed the street. The turf felt different; it was Other country. The sun shone as brightly, it was as hot on this side as on theirs. But the dirt fallout in the air smelled different, choky. The people were the same as those in their own land, but somehow not the same. The shadows cast by the hard beams of the late afternoon sun made them feel as if they had plunged into mysterious forest darkness; eyes peered at them from every strange place. They looked back, across the street, where their men were fanned out, looking cool for action. Some of them were rocking to the pocket-radio music; they watched for the enemy Lords, or for the patrol cars to come screaming down the street on them to call it off. But most of all the Dominators watched their own for the first mark of chicken-funk.

An emissary from the Colonial Lords came out of a store, walking carefully, openly, to show them that it was all dignified, friendly, as between equals. Some tot cracked off a string of pop-fire and both leaders jumped. Arnold smiled. The First of the Lords grinned back. They gave one another cigarettes and lit them for each other. Arnold pulled out Ismael's printed invitation, schedule, and through-pass and showed it to the First, who politely said that, man, he took Arnold's word. It wasn't always so. A few other Lords came around with their women and stood, watching. Arnold reached into his pocket and took out the bright package and gave it to Uncle Hector, investing him with the leadership, for the state was truce, yet war. Hector, who was ice-faced, slim, and wiry, took the package and nodded at Arnold. He decided to carry the package in the open.

One of the Colonial Lords, Willie, a little psycho, always pushing for a little fun, started to say “Mother”—a word to fight
over. “Muh . . . Muh . . . Muh . . .” and grinned as Lunkface's fists balled automatically.

“Now man, ain't you got a little present for me?” he said, mock-whining. The girls shrieked and pointed. Lunkface's hair prickled and his fists kept clenching and loosening and tightening. A lieutenant poked Willie hard.

“He don't mean nothing by it. He only talking,” but trying to show that friendliness did not mean weakness.

Willie, still not content, said, “No, I don't mean nothing by it. I'm only talking. You know what that guidance counselor say. She say Willie disturbed and we got to understand.” He was banged again. Lunkface, short-tempered and stupid, kept stiffening, the action agitating from his fists to his arms and shoulders. Hector tapped him with the brightly bound iron and Lunkface relaxed a little. Some of the Lord women, who always tended to troublemake, pointed them, sounded them, cackling like witches, their faces transformed by old-hag hate.

“Man, are you going to let them walk by like that?”

“Are you going to let them put you down like that?”

“Look at that; he queering you with a
look.”

Obviously, they hadn't been told anything. One of the Lords backhanded a girl across the face. “Cool it, woman.” And that satisfied them.

The First, looking bored, said, “Them women; they always troubling.”

The Junior nodded agreement; they couldn't be much men not to be able to control the women, but he didn't say so. The Dominators put down the Lords because they were poor fair-fighters; they had psychos and junkies in their rout, and their women were no better than camp followers. They all hung there for one second. Arnold's family watched from across the street. The First nodded at them, but what did that mean? Go? Stay? Bop? Arnold decided that it must be
Go,
and that they would
walk in peace for the first time in two years, since Arnold had formed his Family and hammered out his turf.

Uncle Hector began to march. His brothers and the Father followed. They walked it cool, showing they were friendly, but as men do, cool always and fight-ready. It was six hard blocks to the station, in daylight exposed, not in force and not on a raid. They saw a lot of men who might have been Colonial Lords, but none opposed their march. Their discipline kept them cool and neat. A few blocks to their left was the boardwalk and, beyond that, the beach. People were still coming down to the beach, but most were leaving, loaded with beach equipment. Couples drifted toward amusements, looking around, laughing. An old fart with a wicker basket and a fishing pole shuffled by and Hector thought what a great weapon that would make. They heard the faint calliope, the rumble of the rides, the placid wave and crowd-murmur from the beach. It seemed strange to Hinton that on a day as hot and full of danger as today, people should be sunning themselves, drinking cool, canned drinks, eating hot dogs, buttered corn, French fries, and knishes, fretting about no more than how they were going to make it home on a subway jammed with bathers; they didn't know what the world was really like. He was tired already. He hadn't been home for two days. He wished it was After, and he was in the cool shadows beneath the boardwalk, sleeping maybe, or with a girl in his arms. He wanted to see the giant fireworks display later. No more. Cool and in the cool dark; no more than that.

They reached the station. Arnold and Hector talked about splitting up the group, for camouflage, sending them uptown on two different trains, but they didn't dare. The Family didn't know their way around. Who could control Lunkface? It needed two to manage him, and those two had to be Leaders. But it was important that a leader be with each group, and Lunkface was too strong to leave behind. They went up the subway steps in good order: no one fooled; no one jumped up to touch the roof
of the staircase, no one pulled pieces of advertising paper loose, no one penciled the signs and no one wrote their names. Anyway, that was Hinton's job. He was the Family artist. Bimbo, the bearer, bought fourteen tokens, seven for going out and seven for coming back. On the station, Bimbo bought them gum to keep cool and chewing while waiting for the train. He also passed out bread crumbs from the dough pile, seven dollars apiece in case they got separated and had to find their way back alone.