Cage the Park

By Robert LeBlanc

Jean Paul Comeau is born to an alcoholic father and hapless mother. He lives in the smog of industrial Kensington on the Canadian east coast. In his small city, gangs rule the streets. Ghetto thugs lure marginalized kids into escalating lives of crime, and even Jean Paul is not immune to their promises of wealth and power.
When a drug deal goes wrong Montreal bikers make their way to Kensington to kill Jean Paul. He has one option: run. He thinks of America, land of the free, and a girl he once met named Debbie who lives in New York. He hits the road to follow the woman of his dreams and escape the life of crime that surrounds him.
In The Big Apple Jean Paul tries to re-make himself as a man of integrity: discrete, determined, and loyal. However, these exact attributes draw the attention of local crime bosses. When he discovers Debbies family has ties to the Mafia, he sees no way to escape. Will Jean Paul return to a life of crime or die fighting to be a good man?

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jun 26, 2014
• ISBN: 9781491735114

Robert LeBlanc

Robert LeBlanc has enjoyed the Bible since his teenage years. He loves to sing and occasionally sings with his wife on Singsnap.com. His handle is “mrpsalms.” He prefers contemporary Christian style music. One of the things he loves to do is praise and worship with fourteen thousand to seventeen thousand believers. So far he has nine chapters of the Psalms to memory and has found that some people are touched deeply as he shares them. He enjoys hiking, sailing and seeing new sites.

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CAGE THE PARK

Copyright © 2014 Robert LeBlanc.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4917-3512-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-3511-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014908932

iUniverse rev. date: 5/27/2014

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-Four

Chapter Fifty-Five

Chapter Fifty-Six

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Chapter Sixty

Epilogue

Prologue

Two hoary men shunted along a wintery garden path, gossiping about the old neighborhood, lamenting their fragilities while conceiting their gifts. Gaits were unsteady, but their canes would provide adequate support unless this morning’s hoarfrost had sprung her traps.

As was his wont, the elder began the day’s discourse with questions—rhetorical queries regarding the brittleness of the human spirit. Today his topic pivoted around morality—whether morality is self-evident and fixed and whether we, as mortals, are incapable of assuming such a weighty mantle and, therefore, allow morality to descend into decisions of convenience.

Listening carefully, the younger replied, We have on occasion and in this forum discussed Jean Paul, his father of the cane sugar and he of virtuous ambivalence. He once told me that when a threatening storm approaches, it’s a man’s duty to ….

The elder interrupted, Wait, is it that Jean Paul who abandoned the companions of his youth to all sorts of furies and travails. As the years passed, I often heard of him as a rascal and savior, a man who championed the poor and looted their treasure. Were you were not a member of his entourage, at least for a time?

The younger answered, True, but it was not, my good friend, an entourage; it was a gang. We stole, we fought and, as befits a gang, we were, at times, depraved and barbaric. Providence, however, struck my family with an inheritance that appeared unexpectedly from an aunt we barely knew. It allowed me to escape the shackles of my youth and refashion my trajectory, one that has brought me to this point, with satisfaction I must admit, a satisfaction from inspiring others with that which is both thoughtful and useful. I am a professor of engineering, after all.

The elder paused and considered, As in all good stories, Jean Paul’s account branches through quietness, romance and even verities, then thrusts into that which is hard, crusty and, yes, evil. Like other men, Jean Paul was a creature of circumstances such that he felt carried along by the ardent currents of others. His best days were idyllic rambles along the placid banks of the Saint John River but this mirage was soon betrayed by his place and time. Each of us has won a place of respect in these university halls and courtyards; our awards and accolades followed the code of the academy. Jean Paul, on the other hand, thrashed about, making progress here and there but, more often than not, he was tormented about choices made.

The younger paused and then added, "I spoke to his wife a few months back. Jean Paul has been writing furiously, documenting his life, addressing shortcomings, exclaiming successes. She said he wanted to explain everything—to himself mainly, others, not so much. He has gone so far as to hire a ghost writer posing as a detached narrator, hoping that this writer will insert just the right amount of self-serving objectivity to legitimize Jean Paul’s account of his life.

"Jean Paul could recite Samuel Beckett one minute and execute a robbery the next. As assemblyman in New Jersey, he fought for civil rights, especially for African-Americans—nobody ever knew why—while as a criminal associate, he tendered copious amounts of public moneys into his vest pocket. Now that he has secured retirement in Gondola Point, he bestows his plunder upon underprivileged boys, museums, hospitals and, dammit, even our own faculties here at Dalhousie.

For all that, Jean Paul aspired to conduct his life in a manner circumscribed by the great works of the ancients while he failed those of the present. His tale might be interesting if he doesn’t become too self-absorbed like those Argentinian novelists of late. I’d read it if I had the time but time is short.

Maybe it’s best he read it alone, the elder replied sharply.

We are our choices.

Jean-Paul Sartre

Chapter One

Ripped from a drunken sleep, Big Frankie was heaved violently onto a floor covered in stale clothing and half-finished pizza. The surge from Big Frankie’s massive frame caused the boards to clap like the keening banshees of County Tyrone. A lean and sinewy man moving with the agility of a circus acrobat jumped on Big Frankie and pressed a gun against his temple. Big Frankie as a rule loomed large over the neighborhood; his younger sisters boasted that he could block out the sun on a July afternoon. Now Big Frankie looked insufficient hugging the floor boards.

Another man, a much taller man, wearing a tweed newsboy cap stretched to cover his brow, in a deliberate and daunting demeanor, measured his pace around Big Frankie as if appraising his carcass for the abattoir. With a ferret-like twitchiness and sleep-deprived eyes, he began to zigzag around the room stopping at a windowsill decorated with a hodgepodge of odds and ends. Each item on the sill—an ashtray filled with pennies, a ceramic frog and a brown-speckled seashell bearing a colony of ivory white barnacles—was played with gently, softly and then smashed against the wall. The throwing motion caused the man’s jacket to fling open exposing that he too was carrying a gun, a Colt maybe.

Turning away from the window, the taller of the two continued to nervously pace the room and then, with a more careful and purposeful stride, walked towards his prey. His drooping eyes, pale skin and sloping shoulders made him look like a Vincent Price character emerging from a catacomb. Moving quickly, maybe too quickly, the taller man pounced onto Big Frankie and viciously jammed a gun into his right eye.

You Jean Paul Comeau?

Big Frankie said nothing.

His breathing more agitated, his face more contorted, the taller man, raising his voice, repeated his question.

Big Frankie said nothing.

Answer me or I’ll fuck you up real bad.

Big Frankie paused and then, in his own good time, replied, Who the hell are you?

Pushing the gun even harder into Frankie’s eye, the thug snarled, I ask the questions here, boy. Any more lip and you’ll be wearing a permanent eye patch. One more time, and be very careful with your answer. Are you Jean Paul?

No.

Ricky, check his wallet … over there … on the chair. No. Jesus Christ, the other fuckin’ chair … by the window.

Ricky rifled through the wallet, pocketing a fiver and stammered, Greg, it says here his name is Francesco Cabrini.

Greg leaned even closer to Big Frankie and bellowed, Sounds like a wop name to me. Are you a wop, Francesco? Tell me where Jean Paul is, and I’ll let you keep both eyes. Don’t bullshit me.

Okay, Okay. Take the gun out of my eye and I’ll talk.

Greg raised his voice even louder, Talk now or you’re fucked. I don’t like dirty dago pricks. Hey Ricky, wouldn’t it be fun to see if I can shoot out this wop’s eye without killin’ ’m. He hurled a nasty laugh.

Now, you got sumthin’ to say to me?

Big Frankie replied, Jean Paul went to Prince Edward Island a couple of days ago. He’s on vacation with his girlfriend ’til next Wednesday, I think. That’s all I know. He didn’t tell me nuthin’ else. I’d give him up to you in a minute. I wouldn’t protect his sorry ass.

Wop boy here better be tellin’ the truth. Ricky, leave a little memento of our visit on his cheek. Now Francesco, I wouldn’t move or yell out while Ricky does his job or his hand might slip and you’ll lose that eye after all.

Ricky moved around to the front of Big Frankie. He tossed his gun onto the bed. Ricky was an insignificant man with big hands and a crooked face, a face that hadn’t been born right. His eyes were steely black, crested by eyebrows long and drooping. As he unsheathed his straight razor, he smiled a raggedy smile. This wasn’t his business; this was his amusement. Ricky’s distinctive physiognomy and hag-like crackle exposed a blackened soul, a soul already bartered to the Prince of Darkness.

The razor was well-admired, polished and sharp, exceptionally sharp. Ricky fondled the green handle, a handle embellished with decorative tribal scrolling. Slowly, he opened the shank. In a workmanlike performance, Ricky carved into Big Frankie’s right cheek. Big Frankie didn’t make a sound. Blood dripped down his face and onto the floor. Ricky stared into the congealing liquid like an amphibian about to return to the primeval ooze. He dipped his little finger into the blood and tasted it, checking its vintage, paused and then issued a short, soft hum. He leaned close to Frankie’s ear and said, If you’re lyin’ to us, I’ll return and carve my full name across your ugly face.

Greg said, We’re gonna search your apartment for what’s mine. Don’t fuckin’ move. Remember, Ricky likes to carve and I like to watch.

Frankie heard drawers emptied, jars broken and mattresses ripped apart. It took only minutes. There was little in the apartment to search.

Okay, wop boy. When you see Jean Paul, tell him Greg’s lookin’ for him. All I want is the parcel he stole from me. Return it or he’s a dead man. He knows where to find me. I live where Henri works. Jean Paul’s acquainted with Henri; they’re cousins you know, although I’m not sure he’d recognize Henri today. Now, kiss the floor for ten minutes after we shut the door. Bye, asshole.

Big Frankie lumbered to the bathroom and wiped his face of the blood now dripping onto his chest. He would carry this monstrosity, this scar, this capital letter R on his face forever. Big Frankie made a bitter oath that Ricky would be repaid for this abomination—soon, very soon. He tried to lock the apartment door but the lock had been popped out with a crowbar and was lying discarded on the floor. Big Frankie grabbed his bat. This piece of hard oak was infamous; his buddies called it the widow-maker. Such a weapon, however, was semi-useless against guns. He hurriedly cleaned his wound and stormed out of the building.

Big Frankie searched the neighborhood for Armstrong, the leader of his gang. No one was capable of making a decision or taking action in an emergency except Armstrong or Jean Paul. Frankie’s proficiency was limited to enforcement.

One of Armstrong’s boys saw Big Frankie and asked, What happened to your face?

Don’t worry about me. There’s guys with heaters after Jean Paul. Come with me; we’re gettin’ Armstrong and the boys together.

It was a rainy summer morning—cats and dogs—adding to the darkening aura of an impending cataclysm. They circled the Projects and gathered more of the gang members and associates, extending the search to the Square and the dives along the dockyard roads. Big Frankie, his large-boned frame lumbering around the city with blood caked on his cheek and fire in his eyes caused pedestrians to steer a wide berth. After beating the bushes for an hour, Big Frankie and now six of Armstrong’s gang stopped searching and huddled inside the main entrance to Armstrong’s building to await his return.

Well into mid-afternoon, Amos, the main drug dealer for the gang, who had been with Armstrong earlier that morning, ran into the building brushing dirt and leaves off his pants with his left hand. His right hand was covered by a plaster cast, a remnant of a recent car accident, now scuffed and caked in mud. For a man who was meticulous about his appearance, Amos was a mess: shirt buttons missing, hair looking like he had just gotten out of bed, scratches on his chin.

Seeing Frankie, Amos said, Jesus, you look worse than my sorry ass.

Frankie asked, What the hell happened to you? Where’s Armstrong?

Breathlessly, Amos replied, "Me and Armstrong were walkin’ down Front Street talking business with this Mafia guy from Montréal, a real classy guy wearing a double-breasted suit and big-brimmed hat. Even with the fancy clothes, he’s a hard-looking ticket—big nose and a face like sandpaper. This guy—he’s called The Bull—is a no-nonsense son-of-a-bitch. Anyway, we’re sittin’ on a park bench when two dudes jumped out of nowhere and shoved guns into our faces. We weren’t prepared for them assholes. Kidnappers, fuckin’ kidnappers, can you fuckin’ believe that? In broad daylight. On our turf!

They used the names Ricky and Greg and hustled us….

Big Frankie interrupted, Those were the two goddamn guys who cut my face.

Amos continued. "They pushed the three of us into a car and took us to an apartment on the second floor of that new apartment building on Basinview Drive in the East End. All the time, this asshole has a gun pointed at us while the other one drove.

"When we arrived at the apartment, this really weird guy, Ricky, the driver, a nut job, started to tie us to the kitchen chairs. The Mafia dude, stubborn bastard he is, said, ‘I don’t know what this is about but leave me the fuck out of it. You don’t mess with me, capiche?’ Greg turned and yelled, ‘I don’t want any more lip from some wop who thinks he’s a goombah.’ With Greg distracted, Armstrong turned into a beast. He caught Ricky unawares and smacked him down good. I’m sure Armstrong broke his leg. Greg pulled out his gun. Lots of yelling; it was fuckin’ crazy man. Both Ricky and Greg had their hands full with Armstrong. Even with Greg hittin’ Armstrong with the gun, they could hardly hold him long enough to tie him to a chair. That was my chance. With my busted hand, I was near useless in a fight. I figured I’d make a run for it and get help. I ran down the hall, found an open window and dove outside. I was two stories up but I landed in some bushes, my clothes all ripped to rat-shit. I ran into the woods and hard down the hill until I found a taxi."

Did they shoot at you?

"They never had a chance to shoot; Armstrong was a fuckin’ distraction but with both them bastards with guns, it was a losing battle.

Big Frankie sputtered, Let’s go over there … and crack some heads.

Amos replied, We gotta be smart. They got guns and we’re naked.

Continuing to rant and rave, Big Frankie yelled, Amos, look what that fuckin’ Ricky did to my face. He pays; him and that other arsehole pay today.

Amos asked Big Frankie, Jesus Christ, how did you meet up with Ricky?

Big Frankie replied, I was at home, asleep, and they jammed me up with their guns. They were looking for Jean Paul about some drugs or somethin’ that was stole from them. At least, that’s their story. When I didn’t tell them nothin’, they cut me.

Barking orders, Amos said, Big Frankie, you get us three cars and wheel men from David Land. The rest of you get armed.

At the kidnapper’s apartment, Armstrong and the Mafia dude were now tied securely to a couple of kitchen chairs. Ricky was on the couch moaning while Greg asked, Where did that little fucker get to?

The Mafia dude, still calm, still cool, still collected, asked Greg, who continued to pace the room, Where you boys from? You’re not from this hick town. I figure Montréal, like me. You with the Irish? I’m right, aren’t I?

Greg replied, Who are you to know so much?

I work the other side of town. Who’s your captain?

Greg paused. Looking concerned, he said, with little conviction, None of your fuckin’ business.

Sensing the upper hand, the Mafia dude said, Before you motherfuckers make any more mistakes, you better phone your captain or let me talk to Sean Dunne.

Greg asked, How do you know Sean? He’s a busy man. Sean don’t talk with just anybody.

Oh? Sean will talk to me.

What’s your name?

Salvatore Parrino. Sean knows me as The Bull.

All the while Greg and Salvatore were sparring, Ricky continued to complain about his broken leg. He asked for some aspirin. Greg told him to shut up.

Realizing that things might be going south, Greg dialed Sean’s phone number. Salvatore and Ricky watched as he spoke into the phone and heard him say he was holding Salvatore Parrino, and then they watched as his face turned pale and his forehead furrowed. Quickly loosening the ropes around his captive’s wrists, Greg handed Salvatore the phone. After a few minutes of listening, Salvatore handed the receiver back to Greg.

"Yes … yes … yes. I’m sorry Mr. Dunne…. Yes, I’ll see to it.

My apologies, Mr. Parrino. Mr. Dunne wants me to take you wherever you want to go and to make sure you got no problems from nobody.

Salvatore sneered, Okay, punk, just get me the fuck out of this hole.

Greg replied, I’m gonna phone my guys. They’ll drive you anywhere you want.

Salvatore said, And tell that fuckin’ Ricky if he moves a muscle, I’ll kill him with my bare hands.

Yes sir, Mr. Parrino.

Back in the Projects, Amos and the rest of Armstrong’s boys were gathering knives, brass knuckles and chains, but they were still without guns. The gang cruised out of their home neighborhood and circled the South End where they spotted Jack Beaton, a deep-dyed sociopath of monstrous dimensions, walking across the Square with two of his henchmen. Jack had been a friend, nay, an accomplice of Jean Paul and Armstrong for years. No one had ever been a friend of Jack Beaton; the bond of friendship was not in his bloodline. Jack, Jean Paul and Armstrong sometimes found their union to be advantageous; otherwise, it was a fight for business and turf.

Amos laid out the scene to Jack, telling him that Armstrong’s gang was ready to rumble, … but those two kidnapping bastards got heat.

Jack, animated, turned to Amos and said, Drive me and my boys home.

Jack lived near the bridge in a dilapidated brick house with a pair of junkyard dogs, as mangy and terrifying a pair of dogs as you ever saw. Jack grabbed the dogs and shoved them into a large steel cage. He used the dogs to intimidate his enemies and acquaintances. It worked.

Full of piss and vinegar, Jack came out of his house and turned towards this assembly of hoodlums and ex-cons. Through chipped teeth and pursed lips, Jack cast a sinister scowl, a scowl that smoldered with an unrepressed savagery that made lesser men tremble, and then yelled, Let’s ride boys.

Jack was packing a mother of a Forty-five Colt. Both of Jack’s enforcers clutched sawed-off, double-barreled shotguns—twelve-gauge, of course. Everyone was jacked-up.

Slowly driving by the apartment building where Armstrong was being held, this armed convoy turned onto a service road and parked on the opposite side of the building from the apartment. Amos had met the building caretaker, Henri, on two previous occasions, most recently when Henri had delivered three thousand tabs of acid to Jean Paul, acid that he had stolen from Greg and Ricky setting off the chain of events that had led to today’s chaos.

Amos identified himself on the intercom. Henri buzzed in him and his posse. Henri’s apartment was in the basement next to the boiler room. A small dingy place made all the more dreary as it was lit only with a single child’s nightlight. Jack barged in, as he was wont to do when amped. Turning on the kitchen light, Amos saw that Henri had been badly beaten, his face carved.

Jesus boys, don’t kill me. I hadda tell. They tortured me. Look at my chest. Henri ripped open his shirt; there were a dozen raw razor slashes across his hairless chest and cigarette burns on his arms, I can’t even go to the hospital for treatment. That Ricky promised to kill me real slow. He’s whack-o, a fuckin’ nut!

Amos replied, Henri, don’t you worry. We’re gonna fix this problem.

Jack snapped at Henri, Give me their apartment number and your master key. Amos, you and Big Frankie join me and my boys. The rest of you station yourselves around the building. Creep, watch the front door. I don’t want to be surprised if friends of those two dickheads show up. Henri, sit still. If you even think about warning those assholes, I’ll come back here and rip out your fuckin’ heart.

With Jack in the lead, they climbed the stairs. The apartment was located at the end of a long, lonely corridor. Jack kneeled down at the apartment door and slowly, silently, inserted the key and turned the handle. Both shotguns were pressed against the door while Jack cocked his Forty-five.

Throwing open the door, he yelled, It’s party time.

How had Jean Paul come to be a tenant of such a treacherous place?

Now, an account of the beginning or thereabouts. It was the sixties before the sixties was conceived, before there were flowers. These were Jean Paul’s seasons to cradle dreams and raggedness.

Chapter Two

Jean Paul froze.

He had seen it coming but he was paralyzed.

It had come at him like some specter, all tumbling and menacing.

He felt the sickening sound of stone on skull.

He collapsed.

His head bounced violently off the pavement.

He lost consciousness.

In a fog, lying on the sidewalk holding his head, his hands turning red with blood, Jean Paul screeched a long painful cry and then was quiet. The next thing he remembered was being bundled in a denim jacket and lugged down the street by Kenzie’s dad, Jacky McNeil, who was carefully cradling Jean Paul’s limp body. Jacky bounded up the steps to the boy’s apartment building and into the kitchen where Jean Paul’s mom was preparing lunch. Seeing the bloody mess of her son wilted in a neighbor’s arms, she crumpled. Moments later she was able to lay a towel on his head, pressing hard to stop the flow of blood that had coated his face and soaked his shirt. Jacky phoned the hospital for an ambulance while his wife entered the apartment and immediately went to work keeping Jean Paul awake.

Jean Paul, no longer a boy, not yet a man, stuck in that tainted half-light between newly-hatched and filled-out, had been assaulted by a barrage of bricks. His head continued to gush warm, thick torrents of blood. He tasted the iron and slowly began to lose consciousness again. His sight fading, he felt soft gauzes enveloping his body as a strangely welcoming coldness came over him. There were lots of sounds but they were detached, dulled, unimportant. He heard sirens, faintly. There were sirens in the Projects most days; today, they were coming for him. The ambulance attendants with all their kits and procedures slowed the bleeding. Jean Paul, however, was weak and getting weaker.

Everyone from the neighborhood, including Jean Paul’s buddies, massed around the apartment door.

One of the dads yelled, It was that son-of-a-bitch Teddy Wilson and his brothers what done this.

Hazily, he caught another voice yelling, Don’t you worry Jean Paul, I’ll get that goddamn Teddy Wilson for you.

Hours later, in the hospital, Jean Paul awoke as a pasty intern was sewing the last of thirty painful stitches along his anterior cranial cap. Wrapped in a sling to hold his sprained left wrist, an IV attached to his right arm, dried blood on his face and hands, with a skull that was partially shaved and stitched, Jean Paul was a sorry sight.

In a pale voice, he asked, What happened? Where am I?

No one responded.

His parents and a doctor were in intense discussions at the foot of the bed. Jean Paul overheard his mother, distraught and emotive, plead, Please Doctor Stern, my son needs to be admitted.

Jean Paul’s dad interjected before Dr. Stern had a chance to answer, Maybe the boy would be better off at home with his mother to tend to him.

His dad had often complained about the amount doctors charge to fill their pockets with the working man’s wages. The Comeau family had no medical insurance and a night in the hospital would cost almost a week’s pay. A long stay in a hospital had financially ruined the Walkers in number fourteen who, like the Comeaus, barely scraped by on one meagre paycheck. For years, governments had promised universal medical care but those promises wouldn’t help today.

It will be at least four or five hours before he can be released. He has lost a considerable amount of blood and we need to ensure that all fluids have been completely replaced. I also need to review his x-rays. If Jean Paul’s prognosis is good, he can go home tonight. When he gets home—and this is very important—you must wake him every hour to make sure he doesn’t fall into a coma. Severe concussions like his are difficult to forecast. If you can’t wake him, bring him back to emergency by ambulance. Don’t hesitate. We’re now open twenty-four hours.

Jean Paul’s family had moved to the Projects several years ago. Soon afterwards he developed a bond with a boy named Armstrong who became his first friend and, later, his best friend. Even though Armstrong was several years older, the two boys shared a common profile—resolute, gritty and pugnacious. Armstrong knew everyone in the Projects and most of the shadier characters in the city. He taught Jean Paul what a boy needed to survive life in these environs. In hindsight, perhaps he had taught Jean Paul too much, but for now, they were partners in adversity.

A week after he left the hospital, Jean Paul, with his sling and bandaged head, judged himself well enough to go outside; a score required settling. It took only a few minutes to find Armstrong and less time to engage him on a mission to find the jerk who had put him in the hospital.

They found Teddy outside his apartment building. Armstrong leaped into action. All the teens in the neighborhood, even those three or four years older, were afraid of Armstrong. Soon, it would be everyone in the community.

Teddy, you fuckin’ prick. Stay where you’re at. Don’t move an inch or you’ll get it worse, he barked.

Teddy stopped in his tracks, scared shitless.

Armstrong stalked his prey. Slowly, deliberately, he moved towards Teddy, not in a straight line but in a right to left semi-circle, his right leg deliberately crossing over his left. Armstrong lumbered ever closer; his was an awkward walk, an intimidating walk. Armstrong never took his eye off Teddy, staring him into submission. His clenched right hand hung stiffly over his right leg while his left arm pointed at the prey.

Having reached the trembling Teddy, Armstrong put his left hand around the boy’s neck and pushed him hard, very hard, onto the brick wall. Armstrong leaned close and whispered into his ear. Jean Paul couldn’t hear what was being said but Teddy soon cried out, Yes. Yes. I promise. Armstrong slowly let him down but not before he slammed his head onto the wall one more time. A trickle of blood showed on Teddy’s forehead and tears welled up in his eyes as Armstrong kicked him in the ass and ordered, Run home to your mamma.

The neighborhood didn’t see Teddy or his brothers very often after that. However, a few months later, Armstrong announced that Teddy could hang out with the gang if he proved himself. That’s how Armstrong worked; he shredded each potential rival and then absorbed him into his crew. Once you were in Armstrong’s crew, you owed him and he owned you. It was just part of the Projects life cycle.

Jean Paul was bred into the Projects, an understudy molded by this place in this time. The neighborhood was called the Projects by both wardens and inmates. The city, to satisfy its hubris, had erected a sign—rightly defaced by spray paints—telling the neighborhood otherwise. For the city fathers, this was Sunnyside Heights.

Beautiful Sunnyside Heights had been carefully triangulated between the oil refinery to the west, lead and zinc smelters to the east and paint factories to the northeast. In this way, the Projects were assured of having acrid belches from at least one chemical emitter every day, same sky days repeating as if there had been a hedonic calculus. There were days when the air was so cruel that Jean Paul and his sisters would cough and spit out yellowish phlegm. No interventions rescued the Projects from the pollution of the city. It was never a place intended to be rescued.

As the sea fogs emerged from the ocean, they snaked into the city enveloping each neighborhood with a film of tears. These tainted specters collected dabs of yellow ochre and droplets of Indian red as they made their journey inland. The Projects, at their appointed time, meekly submitted to these misted gumbos; gumbos built not with a toothsome base of celery, onions and peppers but with disagreeable elements selected from the periodic table. There was little relief from the noxious airs inside the houses as almost everyone in the Projects smoked cigarettes. Jean Paul’s lungs might as well be living in Dickens’ 1890s London.

The Projects were adjacent to a series of old wooden slums awaiting another conflagration. Built after World War II, the Projects were touted by politicians as modern, affordable housing for the working man and a remedy to the slum problem. No politician lived there, of course, but you could always count on them visiting just before polling day.

A famous architect from the United States who had constructed the Midline Projects in Chicago was invited to Kensington by the mayor to design a minor league version of Midline. Just another come-from-away making a big buck off the local rubes. Snake-oil huckster.

The Projects consisted of forty identical brick apartment buildings hugging one side of a drumlin. Jean Paul lived with his family at number eight, up five stairs from the street. There was a short concrete walk leading from the street to the main entrance. On either side of the walkway, scraps of patchy grass began the spring optimistically as Kelly green and then, when defiled by the industrial oxides of carbon, sulfur and nitrogen, turned a brownish bistre color. The perimeter of the grass was outlined by a rounded cast-iron fence barely six inches off the ground. This fence of no discernible function was the only decorative feature in the Projects.

Jean Paul regularly visited Armstrong who lived with his mother and two sisters in the basement apartment which was down five steps from the front door. Opposite Armstrong’s apartment was a boiler room and janitor’s closet filled with cleaning supplies and brooms. When the boys were younger, the floor space between Armstrong’s apartment and the boiler room became the Indy 500 for their Dinky toys. There was a flattery within their boyish affections. They were inseparable to a fault and as the years passed, their attachment escalated from playmates to pals and finally to partners in crime.

Jean Paul never met Armstrong’s dad.

As his mom explained to Jean Paul, Mr. Armstrong is away, working in Alaska, and only comes home every year or two.

That explanation satisfied Jean Paul until he met other kids in the neighborhood whose fathers were also away. As he matured, he discovered that many of these men, including Armstrong’s dad, were not in Alaska; they were serving hard federal time in the Dorchester Penitentiary. Curiously, several of these felons were war veterans possessed by an assortment of real and imagined grievances who used their military training to explode a factory safe or ambush an armored van. Such men, violent men, could only be contained by barbed walls.

The Comeau’s apartment was on the first of four floors. It had a living room, the smallest kitchen anywhere, a bathroom and two bedrooms. Jean Paul shared one bedroom with his two sisters. His mom had recently bought a second-hand mauve sofa and matching chair from Mrs. McGillivray. The sofa was turned diagonally to better see the TV that had been jammed into the far corner of the room. Most nights, the kids ate supper on the floor watching cartoons or The Lone Ranger until the news came on. Their dad, Noël, watched the news every night from the kitchen while he nursed his Black and Blacks. Jean Paul never understood why he watched the news faithfully as he complained about every item, especially when it was about the government.

Those politicians, bastards all of them, steal our money. Throw them out; they’re a bunch of crooks.

The Projects was a tough place. People hung out on the steps of their building or walked aimlessly around the two circular streets. There was always an edge, not the same edge each day, but a constant foreboding like they were standing on the rim of a canyon when the forecast called for strong winds.

Don’t look Freddy in the eye.

Cross the street if you set eyes on Wilson’s father when he’s drunk.

Don’t take the short-cut through the alleyway to the ballpark alone.

And then there were the implied rules, far too many, but woe to those who refused to comply. There were sirens and shouts most evenings. Warm nights meant open windows letting all hear dangerous arguments and breaking glass. For some reason, Jean Paul was never nervous. You just had to know the right people.

As Armstrong’s gang got older, Sir Charles Tupper Park, which shared the drumlin with the Projects, became their playground. Its back entrance was accessed through a seedy service road behind Jean Paul’s apartment building. The park encompassed an untold number of hidden and deceptive lives, a perfect place for teenagers to learn how to be depraved. Men and women of all ages set off into those woods on missions of self-indulgence and debauchery. Well-worn areas of the forest floor, often shielded by shrubs, were likely as not to be littered with used condoms and odd pieces of clothing. How do you go home without your pants?

A bevy of alcoholics lived in the woods and drank sherry, the kind of sherry you can only get in half-gallon jugs. Jean Paul and his buddies regularly came across winos asleep under a tree or propped up awkwardly against a glacial boulder looking like bales of rags waiting for pick-up by the Starvation Army. None of the gang ever hurt the winos. Winos were harmless enough. However, the guys always checked to see if there was any wine left in their bottles. There never was, not a drop.

Among the gang members, there was much talk about fruits and faggots and the kinds of unnatural stuff they did to each other in the park. Truth be told, there was more talk about homosexuality than anything else. When you think about it, and clearly it wasn’t thought through, that topic was a strange obsession for supposedly virile men. Every piece of graffiti it seemed was focused on who was a fruit and what they did—except for all the references to Lisa who seemed to have sex with everyone else.

The park was the best place for the neighborhood guys to rob the unsuspecting, especially men who were cruising. These muggings were called rollin’ the fruits. For some reason, Thursday was considered fruit night so that’s when most of the two-bit bullies went hunting in the park.

One night after a few drinks of home-made wine at the ball field, Mario and Willie, two gang members, revealed to Jean Paul and Armstrong how they stole money from fruits, First, you wanders around the area behind Princess Pond, near sunset, real casual-like. I always got a red handkerchief in me back pocket. I don’t know why but this is a signal you want to get fruited. Some queer sees me and asks for a smoke or the time. Anyways, we gets to talkin’. Usually they’re real old, like forty, some even older. After a while, they’ll suggest we go into the woods where it’s more private. ‘Hold on, Melvin,’ I say, ‘I needs some walkin’ around money.’ Then we discuss a price. Usually they just ask to blow me for a fiver but I lets ’em know that I’ll let them fuck me up the arse if they gives me fifteen dollars, payment up front of course. Once I gots the money, I tells ’em, ‘Go down that path and wait for me on the first bench. Once everything’s copasetic, I’ll find you and we’ll do our thing.’ Of course, I just run off and pocket the money. It’s a gas, man. I don’t feel bad about robbin’ them because they’re fruits and shouldn’t be doin’ stuff like that anyways. Now the Disciples, they rob ’em and after they empty their wallets, beat the crap out of ’em. That ain’t right."

Willie chirped in, Tell him about that big fruit what cracked you.

See, I only got eight bucks from this big, I mean, real big dude. To be honest, he didn’t look like any fruit I ever seen before but he wanted to blow me. Anyways, as I started to leave, this motherfucker came running out of the woods and hits me in the head. He went all ape-shit. I just threw the money on the ground and ran as fast as I could. Now, whenever we go out fruit huntin’, me or Willie hides in the woods. We cover each other’s back.

At first, Armstrong didn’t like robbing queers; it was beneath him, But a guy gotta make money somehow so I don’t give Mario or Willie no grief, but they better not turn into fruits. Man, I don’t want no fuckin’ fruits in my crew.

When the gang