“Give me the lock,” he said.
Bobby stood up. He was at least a head taller than Hank, and easily twice as wide. “What’s the matter?” he asked innocently.
“Give me that lock!”
“I think I’ll throw it down the sewer with the rest of the crap,” Bobby said, and he took a step toward the gutter, not realizing that for all intents and purposes he was holding Hank’s heart clutched in his fist, was holding an identity, an existence, a life in his fingers. He had reasoned correctly that Hank was afraid of him. He could see fear in Hank’s narrow, trembling body, could read it in the tightly controlled face, the eyes moist and refusing to succumb to the onslaught of tears. But he did not know he was holding something precious in his hand, something that gave meaning and reality in a concrete and asphalt maze that threatened anonymity. He did not know until Hank hit him.
He hit Bobby quite hard, so hard that Bobby’s nose began to bleed instantly. Bobby felt the blood gushing from his nostrils, and his eyes went wide with surprise. Hank hit him again, and then again, and Bobby kept trying to feel his nose while he was being hit, and suddenly he was falling to the hot pavement, and Hank was straddling him, and he felt fingers around his throat, wildly clutching at his windpipe, and he recognized in a moment of terrifying awareness that Hank would choke him to death.
“Give him the lock, Bobby,” one of the other kids said, and Bobby — twisting his head, trying to escape the viselike fingers around his throat — sputtered, “Take it, here, take it!”
He opened his fist and the lock dropped to the sidewalk. Hank picked it up quickly. He held the lock clenched in one fist, the other hand closed over it, and the tears finally reached his eyes, spilled down his face. Stuttering, he said, “Why why why c-c-c-couldn’t you m-m-mind your own b-b-business?”
“Go home, Bobby,” one of the other kids said. “Your goddamn nose is all bloody.”
That was the end of the fight, and the last of the trouble he was to have with Bobby. He stopped wearing the lock immediately afterward. He wore something else from that day on: a recognition of his own fear and the lengths to which he would go to keep it from erupting.
“Dad?”
He looked up. For a moment, he did not recognize the young lady standing before him, the long blond hair, the face with the questioning look of a woman, the firm bosom, the narrow waist and long legs. My daughter? he thought. A woman already? When did you leave my knee, Jennie? When did you join the mysterious sorority?
“Are you all right, Dad?” she asked. There was concern in her voice.
“Yes,” he said. “Just having a last cigarette before I turned in.”
“It’s a nice night,” Jennie said. She sat on the stoop beside him, pulling her skirt over her knees.
“Yes.” He paused. “Did you walk home from Agatha’s?”
“Yeah. The kids are still there, but I left. It was a big drag.” She paused. “Lonnie wasn’t there.”
“Lonnie?”
“Lonnie Gavin.”
“Oh. Oh, yes.”
They sat in silence for several moments.
“It sure is a nice night,” Jennie said.
“Yes.”
The silence closed in on them.
“You... you didn’t see anyone in the street, did you? On your way home?” he asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Some boys?”
“No. Nobody.”
“You shouldn’t go walking around alone at night,” he said.
“Oh, there’s nothing to be afraid of around here,” she answered.
“Well, still.”
“Don’t worry,” she said.
Again they were silent. He had the oddest feeling that Jennie wanted to talk to him. He felt it would be good for the two of them to talk together, but instead they sat like strangers in the waiting room of a small-town railroad station, uncommunicative, ill at ease.
At last his daughter rose and smoothed her skirt.
“Mom up?” she said.
“Yes.”
“Think I’ll have a glass of milk with her,” Jennie said, and she went into the house.
He sat alone in the darkness.
At nine o’clock the next morning, he started his working day by requesting the assignment of a team of detectives to a twenty-four-hour surveillance of his house.
Five
The entrance to the candy store was on the right-hand side of the shop, its door opening on the three tightly cramped booths which sat alongside the wall there. A fountain with four stools was opposite the booths closest to the rear wall. A telephone booth stood against the rear wall next to a curtained doorway which led to the back of the store. A glass display case upon which was an assortment of chewing gum and a cash register was just inside the door, forward of the fountain and stools.
There was a combined feeling of shoddiness and hominess to the candy store. For whereas the place was badly in need of a paint job, whereas the leatherette of the booths was stained with hair oil and thumb smears, whereas the penny candy in the display case looked stale and unpalatable, the store exuded an atmosphere of relaxed comfort. Standing in the doorway, he could understand why the Thunderbirds had chosen the spot as their hangout. He walked into the shop just as the telephone rang. The proprietor went to answer it, and he remembered for a moment the days in Harlem when telephones were not to be found in every apartment. The owner of the candy store would answer the phone and then send a kid to get whomever the call was for. The rules stated that the messenger rated a tip — usually a nickel, sometimes a dime. The rules further stated that the tip had to be spent in the store. There was always a mad rush from the street whenever the telephone in the candy store rang. Today, on a similar side street in Italian Harlem, the kids barely looked up when the phone rang. Telephones were no longer a luxury. They were as essential to day-by-day living in Harlem as were television sets. The rooftops bristled with electronic antennas, irrefutable testimony to the effectiveness of installment buying.
The proprietor of the store held a brief conversation with whoever was on the other end of the line and then hung up. The four boys sitting in the booth closest to the phone did not look up as he walked back to the display case. He was a short man with a spotlessly clean white apron and a spotlessly clean bald pate. He walked with a slight limp, but the limp — rather than weakening him — seemed to give him a strength of character which was totally lacking before the limp was noticed.
“Help you, Mac?” he said to Hank.
“I’m looking for the members of a club called the Thunderbirds,” Hank said. “I’ve been told this is their hangout.”
“Somebody told you wrong, mister.”
“The somebody who told me was Detective Lieutenant Richard Gunnison of the Twenty-seventh Squad. He’s not a man who makes mistakes.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Where are they?”
“And who are you?”
“Assistant District Attorney Henry Bell.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
The boys in the rear booth looked up. One made a motion to rise, but a second boy laid a hand on his arm, and he sat instantly.
“Well, well,” the proprietor said, “we never had a D.A. in this store before. I’m honored.”
“Where do I find the Thunderbirds?” Hank gestured to the rear booth. “Are those boys members of the gang?”
“I sure as hell wouldn’t know, mister,” the proprietor said. “All I do is run a candy store.” He extended his hand across the case. “Name’s Joey Manetti. Pleased to know you.”
Hank took the hand. “Mr. Manetti,” he said, in a voice which carried to the rear booth, “the lieutenant gave me a list of names and addresses of known members of the Thunderbirds. Now, I can have these kids picked up and brought to my office for questioning. I thought I’d save time if I could talk to them here — in Harlem. Which will it be?”