“I’ll come with you, Roachy.”
“Let’s go to Church from now on, Tommy.”
“Try and stop me.”
Tears went down their cheeks, burning down the welts that streaked their faces.
Then Pete was with them again.
“I wiped up as much of the place as I could and threw the candle away from the trailer. The cops are gonna pull us in.”
“What will we say?” said Tommy.
“That we didn’t see him tonight.”
“Yeah,” agreed Roachy. “Then his old lady’ll say he left town, and the cops will think he just slept here for a night and the hobos killed him.”
Pete laughed. “They won’t find Tony for a long time — maybe never.”
They didn’t exchange a word until the wide streets of their own neighborhood materialized before them. A bolt of lightning shattered the night’s quiet. Rain hosed down...
They must have just been standing there, for Tommy remembered when it had been just a thin drizzle.
They separated, each going to his own home. It wasn’t a house tonight. It was their last and only haven.
The rain kept them awake for long agonizing periods.
Finally they slept.
Next morning Pete was sitting on the back porch of the basement fiat which was level with the backyard. The rain had mudded the backyard and the wind still hissed damply.
He glanced at the sky. It was black. He didn’t feel like eating, smoking, or thinking.
He was sitting at the enamel-topped table in the kitchen with his burning forehead against the coolness of the table top when the two large men entered through the open door.
“Your name Peter Semo, kid?”
“Yes.”
“Come along.”
“Who’re you?” Pete said slowly; he had to keep a good grip.
The shorter one brought out his wallet, flipped it open; a badge was attached to it. Pete went along meekly.
The station house was big; the desk sergeant didn’t look as sappy as movie desk sergeants. He looked sore. The cops floating around the room didn’t talk to each other. And guys with cameras took his picture.
“In here,” said the larger detective, after he had posed with Pete for the picture.
The office was large and the man seated behind the steel desk was broad-shouldered and wore glasses. He looked like a piano-playing halfback who’s ready to stomp or grin at a moment’s notice.
“I’m Lieutenant Pierce,” he said good-naturedly. “How old are you, Pete?”
Pete’s tongue wallowed uncertainly in his mouth. “Sixteen, sir.”
“What happened to your face, son?”
Pete ran a hand over his swollen, taped face. “Hadda little argument with the gang — my pals.”
“What about?”
“They just acted smart.”
“You the Big Head, Pete?”
“Yessir, I’m sorta chief, we hang out together.”
“Too bad about Tony,” Pierce said very gently. “He in your gang too?”
Pete forced the rampant thought from his mind that Tony’s body had been found. They couldn’t have.
“What about Tony?” said Pete. His voice sounded okay.
“Some hobos found his body near an old abandoned trailer in the Bo jungle near Greenbow Street,” Pierce said with a detached tone.
“Jeez, is he okay now?”
“He was stabbed twice,” said Pierce, lighting a cigarette. “You smoke, Pete?”
“Nosir.”
“Fine.” He smiled nicely. “Oh, yes, we have your friends Tommy and Louis — guess you boys call him Roachy.”
“Yessir.”
Pierce exhaled noisily, the smoke swirling over Pete’s head. “Was it a serious quarrel you boys had, Pete?”
“Nosir.”
“You’re all pretty well banged up, and Tony’s dead. Why did you knife him, Pete?”
They had squealed. One of them must have. How could the cops have found the body so soon? Pierce was lying about the hobos finding it — that was it — nobody could have found Tony’s body so soon. But if anybody had blabbed, it would be Tommy. He’d even prayed when Pete had jabbed the knife into—
“Come on,” Pierce’s voice lashed out. “Your friends admitted you put the knife into Tony. I haven’t all day to waste on you.”
“I didn’t,” cried Pete. “Honest to God, mister. I didn’t!”
Pierce sighed wearily. “You did have a knife, didn’t you?”
“Nosir, I didn’t. When I was a kid I did, but my pa made me throw it away.” Thank God, he’d thrown that knife down the sewer.
“Quit lying.” Pierce rose, walked around the desk, stood over him.
Here it came. Pete steadied himself. They could kick him around all they wanted. Nobody talked on a murder rap. But somebody had. Maybe they did have him dead to rights, but the cops always used that old trick of saying your friends squealed on you. But he knew Tony was dead. How did he know? How?
“I didn’t do nothing,” said Pete.
“You and your friends’ fingerprints were all over that trailer.”
“We goofed around there. But at night bums sleep in there.”
Pierce stared at his palm, brought it before Pete’s eyes. “Don’t try and pin this on the bos,” said Pierce, “they notified us of the dead kid. Tony even had a buck on him. If bums had killed him they would have taken the money and blew town.”
“Maybe they’re being smart,” Pete shrilled, coiling back into the chair away from that large, square hand. “Maybe they ’phoned you justa clear themselves.”
“You see too many movies,” Pierce snapped. “There’s a difference between bums and hobos. Hobos just don’t work but they don’t panhandle like bums. The boss of the hobos notified us. C’mon, kid, spill it.”
“Honest to God I didn’t kill him,” Pete shouted, trying to evade the hand that was a fraction from meeting his nose.
Pierce turned quickly, pressed a buzzer, and told the patrolman who entered to bring in Tommy and Roachy.
Two big plainclothesmen steered Tommy and Roachy before Pete.
Pierce pointed to Pete, roared: “This guy stabbed that kid, didn’t he?”
They remained silent. Pete’s stomach jelled warmly; Pierce had been trapping him with the idea that the guys had talked.
Pierce cleared his throat. “Did you do it, Tommy?”
“No-o, sir.”
He whirled on Roachy. “You?”
“No, honest, I didn’t.”
Pierce looked down at Pete. “You’re a smart kid,” he said. “You kids are all banged up from a fight. You all admitted you fought among yourselves. How come there wasn’t a scratch on Tony other than the knife slashes?”
“We didn’t do that,” Roachy said, staring at Pete.
Tommy tried to look away from Pete but the trembling lips, the glistening white face, were too strong an attraction.
“They’re covering up for themselves,” cried out Pete. “You gotta believe me, mister.”
“Rat,” snarled Roachy. “He did it, Lieutenant. We couldn’t stop him. You see we got a job by the pier and...”
The police stenographer was called in and Roachy repeated the story.
Roachy and Tommy were taken from the room.
“Okay, Pete,” Pierce said gravely.
All they had was Roachy’s and Tommy’s word against his.
“It was in self-defense,” said Pete quietly; he hadda keep cool. “I know what you’re thinkin’, but it ain’t right. Tony’s a husky guy, it was dark in the trailer — that’s where we had the fight — he had me on the floor and woulda killed me. I got him first with a knife.”
“No dice, kid. Your pals say you beat up Tommy after you knifed Tony, and that Roachy jumped you after you buried Tony.”
“They’re lying! You gotta believe me!”