“Hey, Pete.” Tony’s voice neatly penetrated his dreamy mood. He quickly gulped down the remainder of the roll, wiping away the flakes of sugar from his chin with his palm.
“Hi,” chorused Roachy and Tommy.
“You got a cig?” asked Roachy, grimacing like Bogart.
“I got a nickel,” said Pete. “Let’s chip in and get a pack.”
“I’m broke,” said Tony.
“Didn’t ask you, Fat,” said Pete, pushing out his palm and driving Tony against tall, skinny Tommy.
Roachy laughed, running his thin fingers through his bushy, black curly hair. “What we gonna do, Pete?”
“Feel like goin’ horse-back riding,” said Pete. “But where can we get four bucks?”
“Jeez, do they charge half a buck an hour?” asked Tommy.
Pete nodded, hitching his belt around the leanness of his waist.
“Have they got black and white horses?” said Tommy. “Them are called pintos, that’s what they call them little horses.”
“I had a big one last time,” said Pete. “I didn’t call it no pinto.”
“Let’s go to the warehouse,” said Tony. “They need help there, they pay half a buck an hour. I know.”
Pete looked at the aproned, loose haired women shuffling onto the front stoops to get some early morning sunshine. He spat into the gutter. “Yeah, let’s go earn ourselves some dough.”
They walked to the huge towering Wong warehouse that bordered the slit of the Chicago river, the waterway being diverted to make passage for the Great Lakes boats to land their materials at the warehouse loading platforms.
“We see a guy called Rock,” said Tony. “He does the hiring.”
They walked through the shadowy alleys formed by the piled crates and oil cans leading to the employment shack.
“Yeah?” said Rock, turning from the small scarred desk that was papered profusely with bills of lading and routing sheets. His bare arms came up sharply, then thudded against the arm-rests of the swivel chair.
“We wanta put in a little time,” said Pete. “Tony here” — he pointed to the big figure of Ovaki — “said you hired him before.”
“I know,” Rock said. “You guys kin work, but you better not let me catch you smoking.”
“We ain’t got no cigarettes,” said Roachy.
“Okay,” wheezed Rock, slowly getting to his feet. “C’mon, I’ll show you where you work.”
They followed him to the high platform adjacent to the swirling dirty water.
“You guys just take the crates that that boat will have on board,” said Rock, pointing to a squat steamer pulling in toward the pier. “Got it?”
“Yeah,” said Pete, matching Rock’s ugly grin.
“You see that they do a good job,” Rock said to Pete.
Pete spat into the water. “Sure, Rock.”
As Rock got out of hearing distance Roachy cursed sullenly. “You lucky baba,” he told Pete.
“I’m sorta foreman,” grinned Pete, “and you guys are gonna work.”
“Who the hell feels like riding a horse?” said Tony.
“I do,” snapped Pete, “and if you don’t work, Fat, I’ll throw you in the river.”
They laughed for a while, then the squat river boat battered against the pier and two husky seamen were tying her secure.
“Go on,” ordered Pete, “jump on the boat, and start bringing those crates up here.” He watched them jump aboard. He vaguely wished he could join them. It must feel nice being on a ship, being so close to land with nothing to worry about.
Pete pushed the crates farther back onto the pier as Roachy, Tony, and Tommy dumped them on the edge of the platform.
Two hours later they struggled onto the pier.
“We put in a buck’s worth,” groaned Tony, “let’s go get our dough.”
“We need car fare to get to the stables,” said Pete. “C’mon let’s work a little more. Then we can even buy something to eat.”
“Sure, you ain’t doin’ nothing,” growled Roachy, knuckling the sweat from his eyes.
Pete brought up his clenched fist, smashed it into Roachy’s shoulder.
Roachy’s head bobbed down and he charged Pete, swinging his left with all his strength. Pete easily dodged it, grabbing Roachy’s left arm and sticking out his right foot. As Roachy lurched past him, he smashed a pile-driving fist into his stomach.
Roachy thrashed on the splintery dock.
They watched him choke, a trickle of vomit slipping past his lips. He didn’t have any breakfast to splurge on the pier. He rolled from Pete’s foot, got to his knees, and weakly tackled Pete as he closed in. They rolled and thudded against the planking.
Finally Pete had his knees on Roachy’s arms, his feet effectively keeping Roachy prostrate.
“If you really wanta get hurt, Roach, just make a move.”
Roachy’s head twisted miserably. “Okay, I had enough.”
Pete got up and before he could straighten up, the dock crashed against his face. He twisted over on his back. Rock reached down and dragged him to his feet.
“You shouldn’t’ve been fighting, sonny,” said Rock. “Now get to work.”
Pete shook his head numbly; he reached up for it, tried to screw it on. A sudden flash blinded his vision and he fell against Rock’s chest. He reeled back rather than lean against him. Tony and Tommy caught him.
Pete shook off the protecting hands of his friends. “You hit me when I wasn’t looking,” snarled Pete, moving toward Rock.
Rock easily held him off. “If you want another smack, kid, just keep on acting smart.”
Pete lashed out with his foot, it completed a shallow arc against Rock’s thick shinbone. He yelped and hopped backward. Pete’s foot came up again, this time against Rock’s unprotected stomach. Rock went over backward.
The crew aboard the boat yelled and moved toward the platform.
Tony and Tommy picked up the small but heavy crates, and heaved them against the oncoming crewmen. They cursed and jumped back onto the deck of the craft.
Pete grabbed Roachy’s arm. “C’mon, let’s get outta here,” he yelled, helping the unsteady Roach to find his stride.
They reached the comparative safety of high tiers of crates, then they raced through the street, weaving through the tangle of traffic before the street side of the warehouse.
Their breaths were hot and hard against each other’s cheeks as they paused in the alleyway to catch their breaths.
“Dirty sklink,” Pete said thickly, “we didn’t even get paid.”
“Do you think he knows where we live?” gasped Roachy.
“He knows where I five,” Tony said tonelessly. “I worked a week there. He even got my social security number.”
“You lousy fat stink,” shrieked Pete. “You—”
“Aw cut it,” said Roachy. “It isn’t his fault. We gotta think of something.”
“You kicked him,” cried Tony. “I ain’t worried.”
Pete moved toward Tony but Roachy weakly held him off. “That’ll make it worse. We gotta stick together.”
Pete quickly regained his composure. “Sure.” He was the boss, couldn’t let a big slob scare him. He’d showed them.
“Look,” said Pete, sticking his finger into Tony’s sloping stomach. “You go home, hide in the hallways, tell your old lady to tell whoever comes asking for you that you left town. If nobody comes, okay. I just wanta know if that guy Rock’s going to do something.”
“Yeah, that’s smart,” said Tommy, flexing his arms and straightening his dirty polo shirt.
“Okay, get on home,” ordered Pete, “and run. He might’ve gone to your house already.”
Tony’s face slackened. “Yeah? What if he did already? I ain’t going.”
“You ain’t yellow?” said Pete. “Or are you?”
“Yeah,” said Roachy. “Are you yella?”