"A good place to make love, not wart," Bill replied, nodding vigorously.
"That does it!" Carol said. Two of them! "No more for either of you. The bar is closed as far as you two are concerned. It's late and we're going home as soon as you finish those! And I'm driving!"
8
Carol clutched Jim's arm as they walked into the icy wind on their way to the car, which he had parked somewhere east of Washington Square. Suddenly he broke away and left her with Bill as he darted into an all-night deli. In a moment he was out again, carrying three oranges.
He began juggling them as he returned to the sidewalk. From there he led them along like a circus act, pausing under each streetlamp to show off in its cone of light, then moving on. He dropped them at least once between each lamp.
"Where'd you learn to do that?" she asked, amazed that he could juggle.
"In the living room," Jim said as he somehow managed to keep the oranges aloft in the dark.
"When?"
"I practice while I'm writing."
"How can you do that?"
"Not all writing is done at the typewriter. A lot of it's done in the head before you start hitting the keys."
Carol was suddenly uneasy. She didn't remember it being so dark and deserted-looking along this stretch earlier in the evening. It had seemed safer then.
"You know something, Jim?" Bill said. "I've always wanted to juggle. In fact, I'd give my right arm to juggle like that."
Jim burst out laughing and the oranges went rolling into the street. Carol began to laugh too.
A strange, whiny voice cut her off.
"Hey, you laughin' a' me, man?"
She looked around and saw a half dozen or more figures huddled at the edge of a vacant lot to their left.
"No," Jim said, good-naturedly. He pointed at Bill. "I'm laughing at him. He's crazy."
"Yeah, man? Well, I don' tink so. I tink you wuz laughin a' me!"
Carol felt Bill grip her upper arm.
"Let's head for the car, Jim," he said.
"Right."
Jim fell in on her other side and the three of them started up the street. But they didn't get far before they were surrounded by the gang. If that's what they were. All were a little underdressed for the weather, Carol noted, all on the thin side, all smaller than Jim or Bill, the ex-football players. But there were six of them.
"Look," Jim said, "we don't want any trouble."
She heard a tremor in his voice. She knew someone else might mistake it for fear, but Carol recognized it as anger. Jim had good control over his temper, but when he lost it, he lost it.
"Yeah?" said that same whiny voice. "Well, maybe we do!"
Carol watched the speaker. His hair was long and matted; a wispy attempt at a beard dirtied his cheeks. He couldn't seem to stand still. His arms were jerking, his body twitching this way and that, his feet scuffing back and forth. She glanced around. They were all alike.
They're on speed!
Carol's mind suddenly flashed to an article she had read in Time about mainlining methamphetamine as the latest thing in the Village. She hadn't given it much thought then. Now she was facing the result.
"All right," Jim said, stepping away from her. "If you've got a problem with me, we'll talk about it. Just let them go on their way."
Carol opened her mouth to say something but was cut off by a sudden tightening of Bill's grip on her arm.
"No way," the lead speed freak said, smiling as he stepped forward and pointed at Carol. "She's what we want."
Carol felt her stomach constrict around the flat Pepsi. And then, as if watching in slow motion, she saw Jim smile back at the leader and kick him full-force in the groin. As the speed freak screamed in agony, all hell broke loose.
9
The effects of the night's beers had been evaporating steadily in the tension of his encounter with these punks. As he punted their grinning spokesman in the balls, Jim's head cleared completely. He had expected to get some of the old pleasure out of that kick, but it wasn't there. Concern for Carol overrode everything.
In the darkness he dimly saw the guy to his left pull something from his pocket. When it snapped out to a slim, silvery length of about three feet, he knew it was a car antenna, one hell of a wicked weapon with the knob pulled off the end. Had to get in close now—no hesitation or he'd whip that thing across his eyes.
Jim ducked and charged forward, driving his shoulder into the creep's solar plexus, ramming him up against the front of a building. It was almost like football. But these guys were playing for keeps.
Behind him, Carol screamed.
Jim called out to Bill, "Get her to the car!"
That was the all-important thing: get Carol to safety.
Then somebody or something slammed hard against the side of his head and he saw lights flash for an instant, but he held on to consciousness, drove a fist at the source, and heard somebody grunt. Somebody else jumped on his back and he went down on one knee. Screaming in the back of his mind was a white-hot mortal fear that he was going to get kicked to death here on this dark, nameless street, but he could barely hear it. He was pissed and he was pumped and he knew that despite how badly he'd let his body go since his football days in high school, he was in better shape than any of these shitheads and he was going to make some of them very sorry they'd messed with him.
He shook the guy off his back and rolled over just in time to see somebody start to swing a short length of heavy chain at his head.
10
Bill stood paralyzed for an instant at the sudden chaos around him. He and Carol seemed to have been forgotten for an instant as the gang converged on Jim. Carol screamed and started forward to help him but Bill grabbed her and steered her toward the street instead, toward the car.
He was torn between seeing her to safety and helping Jim. He didn't want to leave her side, but he knew Jim wouldn't last long in the center of that melee.
"Get to the car and get it running!" he told her, pushing her down the street. "I'll get Jim."
This is not what I'm about, he thought as he turned toward the fight. He was a man of God, a man of peace. He didn't fight in the streets. March in them, yes. But he didn't fight in them.
Then he saw the gleaming links of a doubled length of nickel-plated chain rise up over the squirming tangle of bodies. He charged. He grabbed the chain as it started to swing down, jerked its wielder around, and rammed a fist into his face.
God forgive me, but that felt good!
Then Jim was on his feet and they were back to back. There was an instant's respite in which he heard Jim's whisper.
"Carol's safe?"
"On her way."
I hope!
Then the gang charged again.
11
What am I going to do? Carol thought as she fumbled in her purse for her keys.
What was better, go for help or back the car up to the fight and shine J. Carroll's headlamps on the scene? Maybe the bright lights and her leaning on the horn would scatter the rats.
The purse was suddenly snatched from her hands.
"I'll take that, babe."
Carol cried out in fright and turned to see a scraggly-haired youth standing beside her. There was enough light at this end of the block to make out the leer on his face beneath his dirty wool cap. She reached for the purse.
"Give that back to me!"
He dropped the purse on the hood of the car and grabbed her. In one rough move he twisted her around, swung an arm across her throat, and pulled her back against him. Through the coat she felt his hands slide over her breasts.