The attack comes swiftly and unexpectedly.
The automobile turns the corner and shrieks into the street. It careens onto the sidewalk, narrowly missing Bud, who leaps off the stoop. Another car follows it, chasing Concho, who has leaped off the front stoop after Bud and who is trying to cross the street to get to a cellar where he knows a gun is hidden. The doors of the cars open. Twelve boys spring to the pavement and then break into a trot. The drivers of the cars gun the engines and race off up the street. Many of the Horsemen are armed. Big Dom is the first to see this.)
BIG DOM: They got pieces! Scatter!
(The guns begin to erupt. The Thunderbirds, close to the edge of drunkenness, reel off the stoop and into the street, trying to escape the guns. The guns, fortunately, are zip guns — one shot to a customer, and that’s all. These particular zip guns were made with rubber bands, the filed hammers of cap pistols, wooden frames and the cylinders of automobile radio aerials. The rubber band activates the cap pistol firing pin, discharging a .22-caliber cartridge through the car aerial barrel. It is easy to come by real guns in Harlem and the Horsemen boast of three .38-caliber pistols in their armory. Tonight, however, for reasons of their own — largely centered upon the fact that they realize the basis for this quarrel is very thinly founded — they are using weapons which, in Harlem, are considered passé. It is unlikely that they even intend to do any real damage tonight. In fact, they have probably staged this sneak raid to avoid the impending rumble which — for a girl whom they know to be a pig — would be both senseless and costly.
But a zip gun, while lacking the accuracy or fire power of a professionally manufactured weapon, is not a toy. The .22 slugs which carom about the gutter are the same cartridges used in a real pistol. And they are equally capable of killing.
One of these slugs catches Big Dom in the leg, and he hurtles to the sidewalk and then begins crawling up the street, anxious to find the safety of a cellar. Tower Reardon and Danny Di Pace run to where Dom has fallen, each catching an arm and half dragging, half pulling him to the chain-barricaded steps leading to the basement of a tenement near the corner. The shots are becoming sporadic now. Only eight of the boys were armed, and seven have already fired the single-cartridge guns. The last boy shoots wildly into the street, and then the twelve rush for the corner, passing the hiding place of Big Dom, Tower and Danny.)
BIG DOM: The sons of bitches! The dirty jap bastards!
DANNY: Shhhh, shhhh, they’ll hear us!
BIG DOM: Do you think I’ll lose my leg? Oh God, will I lose my leg?
TOWER: Quiet! For the love of Mike, shut up!
DANNY: What are they doing?
TOWER: They’ve stopped on the corner.
DANNY: What’s that? Listen! (They listen.)
TOWER: A siren! The cops!
DANNY: Good! They’re all carrying pieces. Man, this’ll—
TOWER: Wait a minute. Look at that.
(The three boys lean forward. The Horsemen have stopped on the corner. Rafael Morrez is standing on that corner, his jacket open. One by one, the Horsemen quickly hand him the zip guns, slapping the weapons into his open hand. One by one, he tucks the guns into his shirt and into his waistband, moving with the tactile speed of a blind person. Frankie Anarilles is the last man to free himself of an incriminating weapon. The other Horsemen have already run off in pairs, in threes. Frankie gives his gun to Morrez.)
FRANKIE (clapping him on the shoulder): Good boy, Ralphie.
(He runs off. Rafael Morrez zips up the front of his jacket. Using a home-fashioned cane, he begins tapping his way up the street as a squad car pulls to the curb.)
FIRST PATROLMAN: You! Hey you! Hold up there.
(Morrez turns blankly toward the car. The first patrolman is ready to get out when his partner, closer to the curb, stops him.)
SECOND PATROLMAN: It’s all right, Charlie. He ain’t one of them. He’s a blind kid. I seen him around.
(The squad car pulls away. Morrez begins walking faster, his cane tapping rapidly as he continues up the long street to Spanish Harlem.)
“Don’t you see?” Big Dom said. “The kid was a gun-bearer for the Horsemen. They gave him the pieces, and he walked away safe. That way, if the bulls picked up any of the guys who staged the raid, they’d be clean.”
“It beats car aerials six ways from the middle, don’t it?” Gunnison said.
“What do you mean?” Hank asked.
“They use car aerials as weapons sometimes,” Gunnison explained. “They break them off automobiles. It makes a wicked whip, can cut a kid’s face to ribbons. And it has the advantage of being available at the scene and easily disposed of afterward. Car aerials are dispensable. Guns aren’t.”
“You’re hip to the car aerials, huh?” Big Dom asked.
“Sonnyboy, there ain’t nothing you can use that we ain’t seen already.”
Big Dom shrugged. “The point is,” he said tiredly, “this Rafael Morrez wasn’t no angel.”
“You’re telling me he was a gun-bearer on one occasion?” Hank asked.
“On one occasion? Mister, I’m telling you he was a member of the goddamn gang!”
She knew all the signs of his restlessness.
Sitting opposite him in the silence of their home, she pretended to be working on last Sunday’s crossword puzzle, but she watched Hank over the edge of the newspaper as he reread his carefully typed notes, and she knew that something was wrong.
He had left the desk three times to go into the kitchen for water. He had been to the bathroom twice. He had sharpened four perfectly sharpened pencils and then sharpened them again not ten minutes later. Poring over the notes for his case, he fidgeted and squirmed in the chair.
“Hank?” she said.
“Mmm?” He turned to her, removing his reading glasses. His eyes were very pale, and she knew he was exhausted. He looked young and defenseless in that moment. A thin smile touched his mouth, and she felt quite maternal all at once, felt like going to him and holding his head against her breast.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes. I’m fine.” He smiled again.
“Nervous about the trial?”
“Usual jitters,” he said. He sighed. “Maybe I ought to knock off now. I’ve got all weekend to go through this stuff.”
“Why don’t you?”
“Well, I’ve got a report from the lab I want to read,” he said. “And then...” he shrugged. “Karin—”
“Yes?”
“Murder is— It is murder, isn’t it?”
“Darling?”
“Never mind. It’s just... Never mind.” He put his glasses on again and then dug into his briefcase, pulling out a report in a blue folder. She watched him as he leafed through it. She saw his back stiffen, and then he sat erect in the chair, and then he bent over the report and read it again, tracing his finger down the page, reading it line by line, like a beginning reader in a backward group. He shook his head and shoved his chair back, and then he began pacing the room, and she watched him helplessly.