“Coolies?”
“They don’t belong to no club.”
“Like Danny?”
Diablo did not answer. “I talked to some of these guys,” he said, ignoring Hank’s question, “and they seen the knife themselves. How about that?”
“That’s very interesting,” Hank said. “Did Danny belong to the Thunderbirds?”
“I’ll tell you something,” Diablo said, ignoring the question again. “It was self-defense for Tower and Danny. For Batman—” he shrugged — “well, Batman is a little pazzo, you know?”
“Crazy, do you mean?”
“Well, not crazy. But... slow? Stupid? You know, like he needs somebody to wipe his nose for him. He ain’t really responsible for nothing he does.”
And that was it. The nonlegal mind of Carmine (Diablo) Degenero had just, all unwittingly, provided Hank with the line of defense the opposition would use. For Batman Aposto, they would try to show mental incompetency. The boy simply did not know what he was doing and could not be held responsible for his actions. For Tower Reardon and Danny Di Pace, they would try to establish a case of justifiable homicide. The boys had killed in self-defense. They would try, in short, to get all of the boys off scot free.
Thank you, Diablo Degenero, Hank thought. I’m a little slow this morning.
“Do you want to help your friends?” he asked.
“Naturally. They’re innocent.”
“Then tell me a few things I’d like to know.”
“Go ahead.”
“Tower belongs to the club, doesn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“And Batman?”
“Yes.”
“And Danny?”
“What difference does it make?”
“It may make a lot of difference.”
“To your case, you mean? You mean you can send him to the chair quicker if he’s one of us?”
“If he’s guilty, he’ll be convicted,” Hank said. “And it has nothing whatever to do with whether he’s one of you or not. This may come as a surprise to you, but I’m only interested in the truth.”
“It comes as a surprise, all right,” Diablo said. He grinned. “In fact, it comes as a surprise whenever anybody connected with the law is interested in the truth. Around here, they’re only interested in beating hell out of you every chance they get.”
“Was Danny a member?”
“Yes and no,” Diablo said.
“What kind of an answer is that?”
“It’s the truth. You said you wanted the truth. Okay, you got it.”
“Did he belong or didn’t he?”
“I told you. Yes and no. He wasn’t exactly a coolie, but he wasn’t exactly a Bird, either. He was like— I don’t know what the hell you would call him. Like if there was a fight, he went down with us. But sometimes he didn’t. And we never pushed him.”
“How’d he achieve this status?” Hank asked.
“Huh?” Diablo said.
“He sounds like somebody special. He enjoys the gang privileges, but he doesn’t necessarily abide by the gang rules. How’d he work that?”
“Well...” Diablo paused. “There are some guys you automatically don’t mess around with. I mean, especially if he’s one of you. Don’t get me wrong. We got heart, plenty of it. And like, if we wanted to bust Danny, we coulda. But we didn’t want to. I mean, like from the very first, he made himself clear, you know? So we respected it. Also, like I said, he was sort of one of us.”
“But not actually.”
“No. Like he never bought a jacket or nothing. We got these jackets we sometimes wear, but not so much any more because the Horsemen see you wearing them they get excited and the stuff’s on. And even the cops don’t like the jackets. Jackets make everybody nervous. We hardly ever wear them. But Danny wouldn’t even buy one.”
“Did you ask him to join the club?”
“Sure. Lots of times. I mean, he’s practically one of us already. But he ain’t. He just wanted to be...” Diablo shrugged. “I can’t explain it. He’s okay, though. A down cat. We knew that right from go. Right from when he first moved around here.”
“When was that? I thought he’d lived in Harlem all his life.”
“No, no, his mother was from here. And his father, too. But they moved out to Long Island when he was a little kid. His father worked in one of the airplane factories out there. Then he lost his job, and they came back to the city. This musta been about a year and a half ago, I guess. So they came back to Harlem.”
“Did you know Danny when he was younger?”
“No. He usta live on a different block. I only met him when they moved here from Long Island.”
“Can you remember what happened?”
“Sure. You know, he was a new kid on the block. Besides, that’s when he made himself clear. I mean, where he stood. So, sure, I remember. We all remember. Right, boys?”
The boys nodded.
“What happened?” Hank asked.
“Well, it was wintertime, I remember,” Diablo said. “We had a big snow, and the plows had come through and pushed all the snow up against the curb, you know? It was a big drag, man, like who needs snow? You couldn’t drive a car or nothing for a couple of days. We were real inactive. So we were sitting right here in this candy store that afternoon. I think it was these very same guys. No. Nickie wasn’t here. It was me, and Concho, and Bud, and a kid who ain’t here, we call him Botch. We were sitting right here, in this booth, having hot chocolates. I think we were talking about gash...”
DIABLO: Listen, I’ll tell you one thing. I don’t care how much you talk about Spanish girls when none of the debs are around. But I ever hear anybody mention a spic when I’m with Carol, and I swear to God, there’s a busted head. I swear to God.
CONCHO (He is a thin boy with deep-brown eyes and black wavy hair. He is very proud of his widow’s peak, which his mother has told him is a mark of distinction in a man. He has also been told about a famous male movie star who tweezes his widow’s peak to keep it well defined. He has been tempted to use tweezers on his forehead, but he is afraid the boys would find out and consider it unmasculine. He is concerned about masculinity because his father is a drunkard whose most masculine act is beating Concho’s mother regularly and brutally. Concho is disturbed by the fact that he’s skinny. If he were huskier, he would beat up his father whenever he came near his mother. As it is, he can only stand by in impotent anger while his father, a hulk of a man, commits the unmanly act of beating a woman. Concho’s real name is Mario. He began calling himself Concho after he’d seen a Western movie in which the marshal of the town, a man named Concho, cleaned out a saloonful of toughs with his bare hands. In a street fight, Concho behaves like a wild man. He never goes into a fight unarmed, whatever the terms laid down by the war counselors. He knows he has personally stabbed fourteen spies in various rumbles. He does not know that he is responsible for having torn to shreds the ligaments in an opponent’s right hand, rendering that hand forever useless. If he knew, he would boast about it. His speech is peppered with the pseudomusical jargon of the gutter. He dresses neatly and precisely and prides himself on the fact that he always carries a clean handkerchief.): What I mean is this. Can you feature anybody actually marrying a spic chick? I mean, this is insane.
DIABLO: What’s the difference? A chick is a chick. The Spanish guys marry them, don’t they?
CONCHO: Sure, but it must drive them nuts. They’re all nymphos.
DIABLO: How the hell do you know?
CONCHO: I know. Somebody told me. You can’t never satisfy a Spanish girl. They want more and more.
DIABLO: You can’t even satisfy your hand, you shmuck. What the hell do you know about Spanish girls?
CONCHO: Listen, I know. Don’t I know, Botch?