“How’s your mother, kid?” Skids said, and then made a panting sound. The others made sucking sounds or sounds used to summon dogs. Some of them laughed.
Michael rushed at Skids, but the Golem wrapped a huge hand around the boy’s chest and shoved him back.
“You prick, Skids!” Michael shouted. “You gutless bum.”
Suddenly Skids came in a rush, swinging the pool cue like a bat. The Golem grabbed it in midair as if it were a twig. He yanked it away from Skids, used both hands to snap it in half, and dropped the pieces on the floor. Then he grabbed Skids by the shirt, whirled, and heaved him twenty feet. Skids landed between two pool tables.
Silence, except for groans from Skids.
“That’s just a start,” Michael said. “Now, Frankie, you want my friend here to take care of you too, or do you want to do what’s right for a change? You know, go down to the precinct, ask for Abbott and Costello, and tell them what you did. To Mister G, to me, to Rabbi Hirsch. Tell these friends of yours to go and apologize to my mother. Tell my friends that I didn’t inform on anybody and we can live the way we used to. Do something really goddamned brave, Frankie. For a change.”
There was a pause.
“I’m warning you, Frankie. It’s your last chance.”
Frankie said, “Fuck you, kid.”
He looked at the others as if saying, Hey, nothing to worry about. Saying it to them, saying it to himself. There were too many of them for these two. His mouth curled, then became a slit, but his eyes were glittery.
“We got us a couple of tough guys here, boys,” he snarled. “Whatta ya think of that?”
The Russian didn’t think. He whipped open his switchblade and dove for the Golem. He was hit in midair and fell to the floor, the knife clattering from his hand. The Golem stomped his neck with his leathery bare heel and then toed him aside as if he were a stunned rat.
“Get the kid!” Frankie said, backing up, panicky, then turning to run to the small office in the rear. “Get that fucking kid!”
Two of the Falcons charged Michael, but the Golem stepped between them and the boy, and hit each of them with short, savage punches, knocking them down. Okay, Michael thought. Now it’s too late for mercy. I told Frankie what he had to do, and he answered with a fuck you. So now he has to be punished. It’s too late for Mister G. Too late for a lot of things. Including the cops. Again the Golem seemed to read his mind. He looked down at the I’M FOR JACKIE button, figured out how it worked, unpinned his cape and let it drop to the floor. He stood there, wearing only his breechclout, and glared at the Falcons. From the side, Tippy Hudnut suddenly threw a cueball, but it bounced off the Golem’s head and succeeded only in annoying him.
“It’s Frankie we’re after,” Michael said. “The others are small fry.”
The Golem gestured for Michael to go to the door and leave. Michael didn’t move. He thought: I’ve been afraid long enough. I’m not running.
The Golem then upended a pool table, scattering the balls and kicking a hole through the green top. He shoved the other Falcons aside as if they were dolls. Michael had told him to get Frankie McCarthy; he was going after Frankie McCarthy. Michael saw that all of them were panicking now, muttering, Oh shit, oh shit, this guy, oh man, oh fuck, hey let’s—And then Frankie stepped out of the office. He was holding a gun. His feet were planted, his lip curled, like a gangster from a hundred movies. Michael felt a tremor of fear; he had never seen a real gun before, except on the hips of cops.
“Don’t fuck with me, Sambo,” Frankie said. “I’ll blow a hole through you, and no jury will ever send me to the hot seat.”
The Golem walked straight at him, the muscles corded and rippling in his back. Michael could see Frankie’s eyes change. Now wide and jittery. The Golem took another step, and Frankie backed up, his jaw loose, his eyes wild, and then he fired.
Blam!
The bullet hit the Golem and he kept coming.
Blam! Blam!
And the Golem reached Frankie McCarthy. He took the gun away from him, held the grip in one hand, and snapped off the barrel. He tossed the pieces over his shoulder. Then he grabbed Frankie by the lapels and heaved him ten feet against a wall. Frankie fell in a shambling pile. But the Golem wasn’t through with him. He took him by one leg and dragged him the length of the poolroom to the front door.
“Enough!” Michael shouted. “That’s enough for now! We don’t want to kill him.”
The Golem halted, dropped the groaning Frankie by the door, and turned to Michael for instructions.
“Wait,” the boy said.
Michael turned to the other Falcons. They were backed away, far from the door, drawing closer to each other, as if for warmth. They needed to be taught a lesson too.
“Hey, listen, man, we’re sorry what happened wit’ your mother that time, okay?” said Tippy Hudnut in a pleading voice. “You see, we was drinkin’ and, you know, sometimes, you got your load on, you don’t know what you’re doing. And, hey, you know.…”
“Take your clothes off,” Michael said. “All of you.”
“What?”
“I said take your clothes off. Everything. Shoes, socks, everything.”
“Hey, man, it’s snowing,” Ferret protested.
On the floor beside the door, Frankie moaned.
“You take them off,” Michael said, turning to the Golem, “or he takes them off for you.”
Ferret was the first to unbutton his shirt. Within minutes they were all naked, shivering in the poolroom, a cluster of pale bodies, tattooed, scarred, muscled. The clothes were piled on pool tables, along with brass knuckles, switchblades, a homemade zip gun, a length of pipe. The Falcons looked much younger now, stripped of their armor.
“Now what?” Tippy whispered.
“Go home,” Michael said.
“Through the fucking snow?”
Michael went to the door and opened it with the key. The wind howled. The black dog waited at the curb, snow gathering on his pelt.
“Go.” The naked youths started reluctantly toward the door.
But now the Russian was on his feet, his jaw hanging loose. He looked at Frankie, who was facedown beside the open door. He looked over and saw Skids in a sitting position.
“Hold on, everybody wait,” Michael said, as if addressing prisoners of war. “Russian, you go over there and help Skids get ready for his outing,” Michael said. “Take his clothes off. Then take off your own. Very fast.”
“You kiddin’, or what?” the Russian said.
“You’re one of the Falcons, right? Look at them.” The Russian looked at the pale shuddering mass of the others. “One for all, all for one.”
The Golem picked up a pool cue, and casually snapped it in half, as if doing an exercise. The Russian did what he was told. Skids limped naked toward the door, held under one arm by the naked Russian. I should go over and slap their goddamned faces, Michael thought. I ought to make them crawl on their hands and knees to beg my mother for mercy. But no. Wait. We’ll save it for Frankie.
“All right,” Michael said. “Get outta here. Run home to your mothers.”
The naked Falcons began to run now, crowding through the door, past Michael, past the Golem, past the stricken Frankie, out into the falling snow. The black dog snapped at them, barked, lunged for them. The groggy Russian staggered out last, holding his jaw, guiding the shivering Skids. Michael closed the door behind them.
Then they were alone: Michael, the Golem, and Frankie McCarthy. We should wreck this place, Michael thought. The way they’ve wrecked so many places and people. The Golem somehow heard him. He smashed each of the six pool tables, the phonograph, the wall telephone, the office furniture, the benches. He tipped over the table loaded with food and drinks, glasses splintering, bottles breaking, beers and ice and potato salad carpeting the floor.