We thought we would know each other forever.
'It's simple,' Michael said.
'You always say it's simple,' Tommy said. 'Then we get there and it ain't so simple.'
'It's a new store,' Michael explained. 'Nobody knows us. We walk in, take what we need and walk out.'
'What do they have?' John demanded to know.
'At least fifty different titles,' Michael said. 'Flash, Green Lantern, Aquaman, you name it. Just wailing for us.'
'How many work the store?' I asked.
'Two, usually,' Michael said. 'Never more than three.'
'When?'
'Afternoon's the best time.'
'You sure?'
'Follow the plan,' Michael said, looking at us. 'It'll work if we just follow the plan.'
My friends and I were thieves who stole more for fun than profit. We took what we felt we needed but could not afford to buy. We never went to our parents for money, never borrowed from anyone and never walked into a situation armed.
We hit candy stores for their comic books, toy stores for games, supermarkets for gum. And we were good at it. The few times we were caught, we either talked, fought or cried our way out of trouble. We knew that nobody was going to send a kid to jail for rounding out a Classics Illustrated collection.
We kept our escapades from our parents. Though most of them were involved in small-time scams of their own, none would have been pleased to know their children were chasing fast on their heels. Still, Thou Shalt Not Steal carried little weight in Hell's Kitchen. The neighborhood was a training ground for young criminals and had been throughout most of its history.
Time spent in the company of made men, their allegiance sworn to a life of crime, led to a desire to flex our own criminal muscles. Where once we were content to walk out of a store with a handful of Green Hornets, we now felt the need to empty entire racks, from Sgt. Rock to The Fantastic Four.
In the neighborhood, the gaze on us intensified with each small job we pulled. The old-line hoods would glance our way, an acknowledged nod toward a new generation, as active in their recruiting methods as any Ivy League head hunter. We were the promise, the raw rookies who could one day hold the neighborhood together, score the deals and keep the illegal traffic moving.
There were many roads a young man could travel on the streets of Hell's Kitchen. None promised great rewards. The majority turned into dead ends.
Career criminal was simply one such option.
Michael was the first one in the candy store.
I followed soon after. John and Tommy – Butter and the Count – waited outside, close to the front door. The entry was curved and narrow, a hardwood candy stand running down the length of the counter. Two men worked the place, both middle-aged, both smoking. A small electric fan, pennant strips attached to the rim, whirred in a side corner.
Michael walked to the comic book racks, reached for a Batman and handed it to me.
'Read that one yet?' he asked.
'No,' I said, looking over my shoulder at the two men cutting open candy cartons. 'It's new.'
Want it?'
'Not today,' I said.
'What is it, Shakes?' Michael asked, racking back the Batman.
'Let's not do this,' I said, lowering my voice to a whisper.
'Why not?'
'It just doesn't feel right.'
'We're here now,' Michael said.
'And we can leave now.'
'Don't crap on me now, Shakes. We can do this. You and me.'
'It feels different this time,' I said.
'It feels different every time,' Michael said.
'You sure?' I asked.
'I'm sure,' Michael said.
I hesitated, then I nodded my compliance. 'Make your move,' I said.
Michael pulled three comic books from a top rack, well aware that the two men were staring in his direction. I took four Sgt. Rock comics from a lower shelf, put them under my right arm and followed Michael further down the aisle. Behind me, one of the men lifted the counter top and began to walk toward us. He was tall and thin, thick dark hair sitting in clumps on the sides of his head and a large, circular scar resting below his left eye. He had a small iron pipe in one hand.
Tommy and John came into the store, pushing and shoving as per the plan. The man behind the counter stared at them between puffs on a fresh cigarette.
'No trouble. No trouble in here,' he said, his voice thick with a Middle Eastern accent, his cigarette filter clenched between stained teeth.
'I don't want trouble,' John said to him, pushing Tommy against the newspaper trays. 'I want candy.'
'That's the last time you push me,' Tommy said, picking up a paper and throwing it at John.
'Stop it!' the man behind the counter shouted. 'Outside. You like a fight? Go outside.'
The thin man facing us turned and walked away, moving toward Tommy and John and the front of the store. He walked slowly, slapping the base of the pipe against the palm of his hand.
'Get out, punks,' the man said, giving John's shoulder a shove. 'Get out!'
John turned and faced the store owner. Angrily, he put both hands on the man's shirt front and pushed him back.
'Don't touch me,' he said, watching the man tumble backwards, the pipe falling on top of discarded editions of the New York Post.
Things immediately got out of hand. The man jumped to his feet, his face red with embarrassment, and rushed John, catching him around the chest and dropping him to the ground. He straddled John's upper body and gripped his face with one hand, while the other formed a fist.
Tommy ran up from behind. He threw one arm around the man's throat and shoved a knee into the base of his spine,
Michael and I made our way to the front of the store, the sides of our jackets filled with dozens of comic books. We kept our eyes on the man behind the counter, watching for him to make a move. He never looked our way, frozen by the sight of his partner in a scrap with two boys.
John now freed one arm and landed two short blows to the man's stomach. Tommy scored with a steady torrent on the side of the man's head, causing his ear and temple to flush. The man fell to one side, tumbling off John, the bulk of his weight resting against the candy counter. One arm was dangling, free, inches from the iron pipe he had moments earlier dropped.
'We ain't ever comin' here again,' John said, back on his feet, shouting at the man behind the counter. He reached over, picked up a copy of the Daily News and threw it down on the head of his fallen enemy.
Michael and I moved past Tommy, John and the two men and walked out of the store, our stolen gains snug in their place.
John turned and followed us out. That left Tommy alone with the two men.
And before any of us knew what was happening, the man on the ground grabbed the iron pipe and came to his feet swinging, mouth twisted in rage. 'I kill you, punk!' he shouted. 'I kill you!' The blows landed in rapid succession. The first blow glanced off Tommy's shoulder. The second found a spot above his right eye, drawing blood. The third landed on the hard edge of Tommy's left wrist, the bone immediately giving way.
Tommy, his knees buckling from the pain, inched his way out of the store. A fourth shot caught him on the back of the neck, sending him crashing against the door and out to the street. Tommy fell to the cement, his eyes lifeless, his body limp.
John was the first to reach his side. 'I think he killed him,' he said, staring up at me and Michael.
'Then he's gonna have to kill us too,' Michael said. 'I no fight you,' the man with the pipe said, his anger receding, his arms by his side. 'No problem with you. No problem!'
'Yeah you do,' Michael said as he nudged his way forward. 'Your only problem is with me.'
Michael opened the front of his blue denim jacket and reached a hand into one of the inside sleeves. He pulled out four folded, stolen comic books and dropped them to the ground. Then he yanked four more books from his other sleeve. Then he reached both hands into the back of his jeans and took out three more, dropping them all at his feet. The man moved toward him, stepping over Tommy's body.