'I kill all of you,' he said with teeth clenched.
'You're gonna have to,' Michael said, balling his hands into fists, an arm's length from the pipe.
'This is bad,' I remember saying. 'This is so bad.' The man left his feet and swung the pipe, missing Michael's head by inches.
My eye caught John, his arms around Tommy, sweat streaking down his forehead, concern etched on his face. As a crowd collected, I looked at the faces surrounding me, the men focused on the action, most of them smoking, a few offering Michael free advice.
No one ever broke up a fight on the streets of Hell's Kitchen, no matter who the combatants were, regardless of the weapons used. A street fight was a respected ritual and no one dared step in.
Fights took place for any number of reasons, from unpaid debts to three-way love affairs gone sour, but the overwhelming majority occurred because they were the fastest and easiest way to settle a dispute.
Great street fights were talked about in the same nostalgic manner in which old boxers were recalled. The more street fights somebody had, the higher the esteem in which he was held.
Short of murder, nothing proved manhood more. Michael swung a sharp right and missed, grunting loudly as the punch sailed over the man's head. A fast follow-up left also failed. Large sweat circles formed on the back of his jacket and under both arms. As the crowd drew closer, the man moved to narrow the gap between the two. He took three steps forward, flashing the pipe, holding it low, squinting against the overhead sun, staring at Michael's face.
He swung the pipe, short, fast and hard, landing one across Michael's hip. A second blow caught him on the side of the face. Another quick swing, this one grazing Michael's jaw, sent him backwards, hands reaching for the ground, his head just missing the side of a fire hydrant.
The man walked to where Michael lay and raised the pipe over his head.
'You no steal from me again,' he said in a voice meant for everyone to hear. 'Nobody steal from me again.'
Michael's arms hugged the hydrant, his eyes cloudy, thin streams of blood streaking down his lips. John stood next to Tommy, his face emptied of all emotion other than fear. Butter still had his back to the candy store wall. There were tears running down his face.
I couldn't move. I stood there, shivering in the afternoon sun, my legs heavy and numb, my stomach queasy, looking down at the beaten body of my best friend.
The crowd sensed a finish and closed the circle even tighter, breaking off any chance of a quick escape.
The street wanted someone to die.
'Drop the pipe!'
The voice came out of the shadows.
It was confident and webbed with the threat of violence. The man with the iron pipe took two steps back when he heard it, panic invading his macho veneer. I turned my head and saw King Benny standing there, a cup of espresso in one hand, a copy of II Progresso in the other. He was flanked by two men, dressed in black, arms at their sides.
'Didn't hear me?' King Benny asked.
'Yes,' the man said, his voice breaking. 'I hear.'
'Then do it,' King Benny said.
The pipe fell to the ground, loud enough to echo.
'You wanna finish this?' King Benny asked, looking down at Michael.
'Yeah,' Michael said, pulling himself up against the side of the hydrant. 'I do.'
'Then hurry,' King Benny said. 'It's gettin' late.'
Michael was up on shaky legs. He turned and faced his opponent.
'Fight me,' Michael said to him.
'No,' the man said, his eyes on King Benny.
Michael charged the man, both of them falling to the ground, arms and legs in full swing. He landed two hard punches against the side of the man's head and then threw a crushing elbow to the base of his nose.
The man swung once and missed, a steamless punch thrown more in frustration than anger. Michael answered with two more closed blows to the face, the second drawing blood. The men in the crowd whistled and applauded each landed punch.
'Kid's got him now,' a fat man in an oil-stained work shirt said. 'Couple more, the bastard'll be done for good.'
'Too bad he ain't got a knife,' a short man lighting a pipe said. 'He could cut him for sure.'
Michael landed three more punches, all flush to the man's face. He jumped to his knees, slamming an ankle against the man's throat. Two more punches to the neck and a quick kick to the chest brought it to an end.
Michael stepped over the man, ignored the pleas of the crowd to finish his foe, and walked to the comic books strewn on the ground. He bent down, picked each up and went back to where he had left the man. He stood over him, staring for a minute and then dropped the comic books across his face and chest.
'You can keep your comic books,' Michael said. 'I don't want 'em anymore.'
EIGHT
As we grew older, the violence around us intensified. The moment a boy's age hit double digits, he was no longer a mere nuisance to the older neighborhood kids; he was a potential threat. The most minor infractions could easily escalate into major street brawls.
We had now also reached an age where we were targeted by outsiders looking for quick scores.
Puerto Ricans coming down from San Juan Hill in upper Manhattan would jump a kid, lift his money and head back home. Blacks from Inwood, near the Heights, would cross the designated racial divide of Ninth Avenue. Traveling in packs of a half dozen or more, they would swarm, attack and leave before any retaliation could be mounted.
A number of the local street gangs attempted to recruit us, without success. The idea of being a gang member never held much appeal and neither did the idea that we had to kick back portions of earnings to the leader of the pack we joined.
We also weren't keen on the initiation process most gangs required: rubbing hot pieces of iron on your arm until all the skin came off; scarring you with strange, permanent tattoos; forcing you to pick a fight with the toughest guy from a rival gang, and if you beat him you were in. If you lost, you were a forgotten man. It wasn't for us. We stayed with who we trusted and we covered each other's backs. Just like in the western movies we admired.
The worst beating I ever got in Hell's Kitchen came not from my father or any other man or boy. It was at the hands of Janet Rivera, street leader of the Tornadoes.
Girl gangs had, throughout Hell's Kitchen history, been in many ways the most vicious. Unlike their male counterparts, the girls often attacked without warning or reason. They were also the more aggressive criminals, wantonly stalking passersby for street muggings and casing buildings for doorway robberies. They did not belong to any organized crime faction, but worked as independent operators, hired out for the best price.
In the sixties, these gangs could already trace their lineage back to the Lady Gophers, who terrorized the Manhattan waterfront at the turn of the century. The Lady Gophers had a special calling card: They left the amputated hands and fingers of their victims behind. A few years later, Sadie the Cat and her crew beat and mugged at will. Gallus Meg was a match for any man she came across, boasting till death of never having lost a fist fight. Hell Cat Maggie was said to have once beaten four of the toughest members of the Pug Uglies Gang into submission on a 10th Avenue street corner, then taken a fifth one home to her boarding house bed.
A number of the female gang leaders who lived long enough to survive their street battles opened saloons in their later years. Not surprisingly, many served as bouncers in their own watering holes.
'They demanded respect, those women,' one of King Benny's back room men once told me. 'They didn't take any shit, they were always ready for a fight. Knew how to run a business, too, turned a profit on most things they touched. They were tough and mean and everything they did, they made sure they did better than a man. They fought dirty, drank till they were drunk and slept with whoever they wanted. For a time there, they ran the Kitchen and they ran it well.'