Evan Hunter
The Jungle Kids
“Small Homicide” and “First Offense” have been selected for inclusion in the 1954 and 1955 volumes of Best Detective Stories of the Year, published by E. P. Dutton & Company.
“Vicious Circle” appeared originally in Real, in March, 1953, under the title of “Murder Comes Easy.” Copyright, 1953, by Literary Enterprises, Inc.
“Small Homicide,” “The Follower,” “Sucker,” and “Kid Kill” appeared originally in Manhunt. Copyright, 1953, by Flying Eagle Publications
“To Break the Wall” appeared originally in discovery no. 2 Copyright, 1953, by Pocket Books, Inc.
“...Or Leave It Alone” and “The Beatings” appeared originally in Manhunt. Copyright, 1954, by Flying Eagle Publications, Inc.
“First Offense” and “See Him Die” appeared originally in Manhunt. Copyright, 1955, by Flying Eagle Publications, Inc.
“The Jungle Kids” appeared originally in Adventure, under the title of “The Mild Ones.” Copyright, 1955, by Popular Publications, Inc.
“The Last Spin” appeared originally in Manhunt. Copyright, 1956, by Flying Eagle Publications, Inc.
Some of these stories preceded The Blackboard Jungle and some followed it. In my own mind, however, all of these stories are related to it — all were provoked either by research done for the novel or by subsequent research inspired by the novel.
“To Break the Wall,” for example, was my first attempt to voice some of my feelings about the vocational high school. Many months later, I expanded this story into The Blackboard Jungle, using it — with minor revisions — as the climactic chapter. “...Or Leave It Alone” has much the same history in connection with my novel, Second Ending. I had always been interested in the problem of drug addiction, and it came up briefly in many of the stories I wrote. This story, though, was my first attempt to enter into the mind of an addict.
For the most part, however, the stories in this collection were written for magazine publication, intended originally and exclusively as expression in the short-story form. All of them are fictional. Many of them are based on firsthand experience; on talks with policemen and detectives and lawyers and troubled parents; on visits to the line-up; on discussions in bars and candy stores, in hallways, on street comers, with average citizens, with criminals, with addicts, with teen-age gang members in some of New York’s worst slum areas.
All of these stories deal with violence.
Many of them are based on firsthand experience; on talks with policemen and detectives and lawyers and troubled parents; on visits to the line-up; on discussions in bars and candy stores, in hallways, on street corners; with average citizens, with criminals, with addicts, with teen-age gang members in some of New York’s worst slum areas.
I make no apologies for the violence I present. The violence was, and is, there in the streets. But I have tried, in these stories, to present much more than a bloody canvas.
— EVAN HUNTER
CONTENTS
First Offense
Vicious Circle
Small Homicide
... Or Leave It Alone
The Follower
To Break the Wall
Sucker
See Him Die
The Jungle Kids
The Beatings
Kid Kill
The Last Spin
About the Author
First Offense
He sat in the police van with the collar of his leather jacket turned up, the bright silver studs sharp against the otherwise unrelieved black. He was seventeen years old, and he wore his hair in a high black crown. He carried his head high and erect because he knew he had a good profile, and he carried his mouth like a switch knife, ready to spring open at the slightest provocation. His hands were thrust deep into his jacket pockets, and his gray eyes reflected the walls of the van. There was excitement in his eyes, too, an almost holiday excitement. He tried to tell himself he was in trouble, but he couldn’t quite believe it. His gradual descent to disbelief had been a spiral that had spun dizzily through the range of his emotions. Terror when the cop’s flash had picked him out; blind panic when he’d started to run; rebellion when the cop’s firm hand had closed around the leather sleeve of his jacket; sullen resignation when the cop had thrown him into the RMP car; and then cocky stubbornness when they’d booked him at the local precinct.
The desk sergeant had looked him over curiously, with a strange aloofness in his Irish eyes.
“What’s the matter, Fatty?” he asked.
The sergeant stared at him implacably. “Put him away for the night,” the sergeant said.
He’d slept overnight in the precinct cell block, and he’d awakened with this strange excitement pulsing through his narrow body, and it was the excitement that had caused his disbelief. Trouble, hell! He’d been in trouble before, but it had never felt like this. This was different. This was a ball, man. This was like being initiated into a secret society some place. His contempt for the police had grown when they refused him the opportunity to shave after breakfast. He was only seventeen, but he had a fairly decent beard, and a man should be allowed to shave in the morning, what the hell! But even the beard had somehow lent to the unreality of the situation, made him appear — in his own eyes — somehow more desperate, more sinister-looking. He knew he was in trouble, but the trouble was glamorous, and he surrounded it with the gossamer lie of make-believe. He was living the storybook legend. He was big time now. They’d caught him and booked him, and he should have been scared but he was excited instead.
There was one other person in the van with him, a guy who’d spent the night in the cell block, too. The guy was an obvious bum, and his breath stank of cheap wine, but he was better than nobody to talk to.
“Hey!” he said.
The bum looked up. “You talking to me?”
“Yeah. Where we going?”
“The line-up, kid,” the bum said. “This your first offense?”
“This’s the first time I got caught,” he answered cockily.
“All felonies go to the line-up,” the bum told him. “And also some special types of misdemeanors. You commit a felony?”
“Yeah,” he said, hoping he sounded nonchalant. What’d they have this bum in for anyway? Sleeping on a park bench?
“Well, that’s why you’re goin’ to the line-up. They have guys from every detective squad in the city there, to look you over. So they’ll remember you next time. They put you on a stage, and they read off the offense, and the Chief of Detectives starts firing questions at you. What’s your name, kid?”
“What’s it to you?”
“Don’t get smart, punk, or I’ll break your arm,” the bum said.
He looked at the bum curiously. He was a pretty big guy, with a heavy growth of beard, and powerful shoulders. “My name’s Stevie,” he said.
“I’m Jim Skinner,” the bum said. “When somebody’s trying to give you advice, don’t go hip on him.”
“Yeah, well what’s your advice?” he asked, not wanting to back down completely.
“When they get you up there, you don’t have to answer anything. They’ll throw questions, but you don’t have to answer. Did you make a statement at the scene?”
“No,” he answered.
“Good. Then don’t make no statement now, either. They can’t force you to. Just keep your mouth shut, and don’t tell them nothing.”
“I ain’t afraid. They know all about it anyway,” Stevie said.