Close on the Heels of the Day

By Richard Conte

A gripping tale that takes the reader on a midnight odyssey in the erratic life of one: Hector Iorio. Encouraged by his parents to pursue a degree in Mathematics at a leading university, Hector chooses to stay his cherished ambition of making a career for himself as an artist. Embarking on his freshman year, outside forces are pulling him in numerous directions as he struggles to reconcile the fate he has chosen to accept with the life he believes is his destiny. Closest to him is a sinister group of companions from his South Philadelphia neighborhood from whom he cannot – or will not – detach himself. Next, there is Gretchen, an outcast Manhattan socialite who relentlessly urges him to break free of the social norms that confine him and to do the work that he was put on this Earth to do. Finally, there is Leah – the broken doll – an emaciated drug abuser who is prone to violent outbursts and with whom he suffers a lengthy and stormy relationship. Hector’s parents believe him when he complains that it is the demands of his curriculum that prevent him from returning home for even a brief holiday visit, yet, unbeknownst to them, he is driving three hundred miles back to his old neighborhood every weekend to join with his friends and girlfriend Leah in their lifestyle of revelry and debauchery. Always caught up in the moment, the night comes quietly as the reader walks in Hector’s footsteps from a stable homelife to overwhelming academic challenges, to the exotic luxury of lavish mansions and penthouse apartments, and ultimately to the buried squalor of the city. Looming in the backdrop all the while is his slow descent into psychosis as he struggles with the bitter realization that he will never be the person he had hoped to be.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Jan 8, 2021
• ISBN: 9781645757481

Richard Conte

Richard Conte is a native of Philadelphia and has resided there for most of his life. He is a graduate of Drexel University and holds degrees in psychology and architecture. Aside from being a writer, he is also a painter and has studied for many years at the Fleisher Art Memorial and at the Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts. His work has appeared in galleries and numerous shows.

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Chapter One

Leelee was led into the Green Room, that lofty accommodation being the library of Great Uncle Tobias, a place where he was accustomed to receiving his most valued clients in his declining years. The walls of this rotund room were overlain with an olive velvet wall covering, and the high vaulted ceiling was a masterpiece of carved mahogany, with Florentine cornices and curved wood paneling, the likes of which would adorn the finest mansions of New York State. The floors were laid in solid oak, not plank, but cross-cut oak blocks, roughly two inches by two inches, and set like a puzzle such that the finished surface culminated in a matrix of squares, which lay bare the rings of the trees from which they had come. This chamber, where Tobias Tock Esquire conducted his legal affairs, would have been otherwise fairly echoing if not for the wisdom of his architect, suggesting that the better part of this oak flooring be covered with a thick hand-woven rug from Egypt, and the triple sash windows be dressed with luxurious drapery of viridian velour.

The two armchairs facing the ebony desk of Uncle Tobias were cushioned with Peruvian leather and studded with abundant rows of glimmering brass tacks to hold the aniline skins in place, and it was to one of these chairs that the petite brown-eyed girl was led and seated before the austere man. Dressed in a black vicuna suit, with a gold watch chain stretching from pocket to pocket across his vest, he sat up straight in his high-back chair. Hung on the wall between the windows in the background, and gazing down over his shoulders, was the painted portrait of his only sister, one Elizabeth Tock Lushfield, an elegant woman in a Gainsborough hat and long white gloves, seated in a fan chair and bearing a faint resemblance to the image of Greta Garbo.

The young girl of twenty-one had been told that her mother’s death was instantaneous, that she had most likely blacked out seconds before the actual impact. The coroner had calculated, from the extent of damage to the car, that the vehicle had been traveling in excess of eighty miles per hour when the late model Cadillac collided with that infamous oak tree, on a treacherous stretch of Righters Mill Road. That notwithstanding, the autopsy had also pointed to the significant volume of valium and alcohol found in her bloodstream.

Tobias Tock Esquire began to read from the paper set before him:

This is the Last Will and Testament of Misses Leah Lushfield… I, Leah Lushfield of… declare this to be my last will and testament… act free of duress… am of legal age and sound mind… appoint Mr. Tobias Tock as executor of my estate… I devise and bequeath all of my real and personal property to my daughter, LeeLee Lushfield… In testimony whereof I have set my hand and seal to this, my last will and testament.

Leelee scarcely expected the next words to escape past her uncle’s lips:

My dear grandniece, it disheartens me to inform you that following probate your mother’s estate will in fact be bankrupt. She would never disclose to me, or to anyone else, who your legitimate father was. Having been sent away to school at a very young age, you could never have known – or even imagined – the kind of lifestyle she led. As executor of your Grandmother Elizabeth’s will (Here, he gestured over his shoulder to the portrait above him.) it fell within my fiduciary responsibilities to caution your dear departed mother about her inheritance, her lavish spending, and the reckless liquidation of her assets, but your mother was of an impetuous nature and never one to listen. The old man sighed, and a sense of helplessness descended upon him. Ultimately, she was forced to relinquish title to the Penn Valley estate to her father – your grandfather and my brother-in-law, Mr. Luther Lushfield – who, now deceased, at last willed it all to his young wife, leaving you out entirely.

Leelee’s eyes began to fill, and it was at that prudent juncture that Tobias Tock produced another document – a deed – and began further elucidation: A year after you were born, your mother purchased this parcel of property in the city of Philadelphia. I understand that it, being located in a fairly spruce neighborhood, should be worth a tidy sum on the market today. Contained within the same brown envelope, from which the deed had been produced, were two other items: a business card and two keys on a ring with a brass amulet bearing the initials ‘H.I.’. Tobias examined the business card. I’m not sure if your mother had ever inhabited the property following its purchase, though I am informed that this parcel is under management by a… Keystone Real Estate Company. The agent is a Mr. Kenneth Dice. I would recommend that you contact him to discuss arrangements for a sale – should you be so inclined.

The neighborhood where the house was located was a quiet and secluded haven tucked away in a hidden pocket of urban Philadelphia. Quigley Street at a single glance was a hodge-podge of connected facades, each flaunting its own uniqueness, the sum of which formed a narrow aisle, appearing not unlike books on library shelves. This particular December morning was a gray and misty one, with dampness that sunk into the young lady’s bones. Making her way southward along Quigley Street, she passed on either side of her, rows of brick-built houses, some with marble wainscots, some with not, some with flat double sash windows and wooden shutters, some with bay windows and drapery, some with elaborate window boxes on every floor, some with planters at the steps, some with front doors red and some with black, some with polished brass rails and some with wrought iron, some bright and some dark, some warm, and some cold. Christmas decorations brightened almost every entrance portal and, in the low set windows, electric candles remained illuminated even though the hour barely bordered on noontime. Many of the window boxes and planters spilled over with holly, swags of pine, and ribbons of red and green. Most doors were embellished with wreathes and bells and the faint melody of ‘Silent Night’ willowed in the chilly air.

At length, Leelee came upon one colonial style abode at the obscure intersection of Quigley Street and Irwin Place, that intersection being marked by an old gaslight pole. All the young girl knew of the property was what the language of the deed had imparted: that it had been purchased by her mother, Miss Leah Lushfield, in the year nineteen hundred and seventy-five. Remnants of the preserved structure suggested that, in its original form, the design had accurately represented what would have been typical of a mid-to-late-eighteenth-century urban row house. Over the years, it had undergone several modernizing alterations, the most extensive of which included the Irwin Place facade being almost completely cut away and a full height section of the two-story house being pushed back to create and enclose the resulting courtyard area on three sides. The flat surface of the courtyard had been laid with paving stone upon which stood an assortment of decorative planters containing geraniums, myrtles, and cactuses all enshrined under a white arbor now entwined with unruly vines. The shorter end walls on the ground level of the oblong house were brick with small fenestration, and the long wall stretching along Irwin Place was a rhythmic arrangement of wooden windows and clerestory, surrounding an ornate set of wood and glass double doors, which led from the courtyard into the kitchen. Above were two wrought iron balconies with French-style doors overlooking. Where the house had been displaced along Irwin Place, a brick privacy wall capped with terracotta tiles had been added. The height of the wall at its lowest points was more than a man, whereupon it curved up gracefully from either end towards the center and culminated in a gothic arch to signify the street entrance to the courtyard. There, inset within the arch, was an oak plank door with a small wrought iron porthole, thus providing the stray pedestrian with a pinhole view of the tranquil enclave.

Across the rugged cobblestone surface of Irwin Place, stood the blank brick walls of two similar colonials, one whose entrance faced Quigley Street, and the other whose entrance faced a parallel byway known as John Street. In between these two, and directly in line with the oak door of the aforementioned courtyard, was an open lot of no special character, which had been deeded with the house at issue, and could accommodate the parking of one sedan and one compact car.

The front entrance to the house was properly located on Quigley Street. This facade was the more traditional: strong and balanced with two windows at the first floor, evenly spaced on either side of the entrance portal, and three evenly spaced windows directly above on the second. Old as the structure was, it had a subtle newness about it, particularly where the creamy luster of the white-painted woodwork stood out against the background of the nicely pointed Flemish bond. The window casements were firm and tight, with paneled shutters dressed in black iron hardware, and the front door, a six-panel edifice with well-defined trim, was marked in the center with a black iron knocker in the form of a skull.

The lock cylinder was stiff, but after a fair amount of jiggling and pulling up on the heavy door, it swung inward and the girl found herself inside a small vestibule facing two glass pane doors, through which she could see into the living room. To the left, there was a bar, one of polished mahogany with matching cabinetry and leather stools in front, and to the right, stood a white marble fireplace set in the north wall, fully equipped with brass irons and wrought iron tools. Directly in front of her, and facing the fireplace, was a crimson velvet sectional couch arranged in a semicircle. Between the couch and the fireplace stood a glass coffee table with an elliptically shaped portable television atop. The carpeting throughout was an atrocious white shag, the ceiling had been painted a pale shade of blue, and the alabaster walls of painted plaster were almost completely eclipsed by arrays of framed silver gelatin prints.

Leelee opened the vestibule door and stepped into the living room. The air was musty and the room had the feel of a sarcophagus. Beyond the living area, there was that part of the house which opened to the courtyard comprised of a small kitchen, a dining area of equal size, and a wrought iron spiral stair that rose from the basement to the second floor. Alongside the stair, a white fiberglass pod chair, upholstered in crimson velvet to match the couch, was sloppily tied to a ceiling anchoring plate with rope. A broken brass chain dangled down from the plate’s eyelet and the chair itself, in the shape of an egg, had a crack in it that went from top to bottom. Having scanned the extents of her surroundings, her initial reaction was one of devastating horror. She gasped under her breath: "Bachelor Pad meets Psychedelic!"

Soon, she was on the stair making the awkward climb to the second floor which terminated in a small areaway enclosed by three bedrooms and a bathroom. She peeked into the front and middle rooms, both of which seemed safe and traditional enough. The bathroom, clad in white marble tile, retained a classic turn of the century elegance, with a free-standing claw-style bathtub and a pedestal sink. There were no built-in cabinets, only free-standing, white, wooden medical casework with glass doors.

The walls and ceiling of the rear bedroom had been covered with a crimson, patterned silk wall covering and then overlaid with brass framed mirrors in an orthogonal geometric pattern. The furniture, consisting of a bureau, an armoire, and two nightstands, was of polished ebony with glass tops and gaudy brass pulls. Atop the bureau, there was a portable stereo system with a dusty Janis Joplin album still sitting on the turntable, some half-filled vodka bottles, a brush and comb set still with a few blond hairs entangled in the bristles, an empty jewelry box, a rotary French-style telephone, and an assortment of men’s colognes. Set on top of the nightstands were tall French-styled lamps, crystal ashtrays, and an assortment of framed photographs, one of which she recognized as a picture of her mother, taken maybe twenty-five years ago. She was sitting alongside a young man on that living room crimson sectional. There seemed something familiar about him, yet she was certain that they had never met. His hair was umber, like her own, and his eyes dark and vacant. The sleeves of his denim shirt were rolled up and, on his wrist, he wore the most extraordinary timepiece. The band was beautifully crafted of mirror-polished gold and the casing was trimmed with a hobnail pattern of unique workmanship.

The room thus far had plunged the young girl into a state of bewilderment but even more staggering – more striking than the rich crimson color, the mirrored walls and ceilings, and the big bear rug which covered most of the hardwood floor – was the king-sized, circular waterbed (covered in the obligatory crimson bed dress) which occupied the center of the room. She almost laughed as she approached the (then deflated) contraption and noticed that it was wired to a control panel affixed to the bed frame. Selecting one switch to throw, she was literally stunned to see the mattress jerk into a rotating motion. Having no interest in what the other switches might be capable of, she turned it off and headed downstairs.

Finally in the basement, she found a comparatively bland environment consisting of a small washer and dryer set, a stack of folding chairs, an old couch with two end tables, a recliner, two guitar stands, an amplifier, and several glass terrariums filled halfway with dirt, all laid on wood planks along the basement wall.

Upon returning to the first floor for her final look around, she at last took notice of a mural on the north wall opposite the kitchen. The life-size scene was unfolding in a densely wooded graveyard. Family members and friends were gathered around a gravestone, the top of which had been piled up with roses. Underneath the name of the decedent, the inscription ‘Sing Me Back Home’ had been carved into the monument. A priest was giving his final blessing as the coffin was being lowered. Yet, rising up from behind the stone was the figure of a young man clad in denim. His hair was long, his eyes were masked by sunglasses, and he was playing an electric guitar. The artist’s signature in the lower right-hand corner read: Hector Iorio, 1974.

Leelee’s eyes began to wander about the room, over the numerous silver gelatin prints set in thin black frames and bordered with white flannel mats. These photographs were mostly urban scenes: an Italian market, shirtless children in the spray of a fire hydrant, school girls in uniform, a young woman with luscious curls seated on a step, and the chiseled portrait of a young man smoking a cigarette.

Closer examination of these prints revealed that cryptic notations, names, and dates had been penciled in many of the margins, and it was only after reading a good number of these notations and comparing one photograph to another that their resemblance to a mysterious collection of paintings suddenly became apparent to her. Having only once viewed them at the Institute of Contemporary Art, she couldn’t remember the name of the artist. although the subject matter and the characters possessed an uncanny similarity, even though the rendition of them was quite the opposite. The photographs had all the appearances of memorializing them in the light of day, while the paintings struggled to resurrect them from beyond the grave in the dark of night. Side by side, the two contrasting art forms at once suggested to her a separate convoluted riddle, one at the center of which stood her recently departed mother.

Another photograph, a much larger image over the fireplace, contained the same young man as in the previous photograph with her mother, included in a group of four males standing before the storefront of a billiards parlor. The name of the establishment painted across the plate glass window in graceful gothic lettering read: Monty’s Billiards. In the reflection of the window, she could observe the blurred image of two small boys washing an old Lincoln Town Car as well as the muted shape of the photographer, a man, long-haired and bearded, with several cameras and a tewe hanging from around his neck. Scrawled in the margin below the scene, a title read: The Rite of Spring, 1972.

Leelee unlatched the double doors leading out to the courtyard and pushed through. Stepping onto the mildewed paving stone, it became clear that no one had attempted to make use of this space for many years. The white wrought iron table and chairs at the center were black with soot and covered with bird droppings. The flowerbeds were laden with almost a foot of decomposed foliage, and weeds, at least a foot high, were shooting up from every paving joint. Suddenly, through the porthole in the oak plank door leading out to Irwin Place, an eye appeared. The idea that any level of visual communication could be established at such a distance, and through such a tiny orifice, was almost surreal. Yet, with the keys still in her hand, she impulsively made way to the door, unlocked it, and swung it open.

Standing before her was a man clothed in a weather-beaten black leather car coat, the surface of which was scuffed and stained with a galaxy of paint spots up and down the front. The coat was open, and underneath was a loose crumpled mass of faded denim. His footwear took the form of heavy construction boots, the laces of which hung loose on the cobblestones of Irwin Place. A map of scars and wrinkles defined his face and told a story of pain and passion in equal measure. His thick gray hair was damp and sprouting upward in the misty air. Leelee imagined his age to be roughly that of what her mother’s might have been, had she not so carelessly thrown her life away.

Yet, from this raw, uncouth – even brooding – image, there peered out from underneath his left coat sleeve, a wristwatch of singular elegance as his hand rubbed the stubble below his nose. The graceful curve of the lugs and the diamond hour markers were unmistakable. Any uninformed observer would have imagined there to be some intimate, yet long lost, connection between this mysterious figure and the wide-eyed young girl, the way they stood frozen, each gazing into the eyes of the other. Speak to me, he said, and suddenly the sound of some unaccustomed vehicle, its tires squealing along the granite curb as it tried to maneuver its way up the street, distracted their curiosity. Leelee turned her attention away and in that instant, the rumpled man rushed off eastward on Irwin Place.

Chapter Two

Hector glanced about like a hunted animal.

The Point Breeze crowd was there: Vincenzo Marone, Tommy Schnoz, Bones, Andre, Lopez…

Plus, there were Zombie, Tommy Toot, Moose, Cool Breeze… and some Passyunk Crossing guys as well.

Two blocks away from CHS2601 (the regional parochial high school for boys), this ragtag assemblage rallied around a fragile-looking senior. He bordered on medium height with a mop of chestnut hair and wide staring eyes set in a gentle face. He, one ‘Hector Iorio,’ stood on the corner of an obscure little intersection known as Titan Place, a hallowed location where more than one such dispute had come to settlement. Across the intersection, Goobers had whipped off his regulation necktie and was then rolling up the sleeves of his white shirt. A chilly wind whipped up. Late October, the sun was positioned at three o’clock, dispensing waves of warmth through openings in the rolling clouds. The rays beamed down and drenched the paucity of golden foliage on the curbside trees.

Around him, Hector’s group of supporters had gathered, coaching him and bolstering his confidence.

Gimme your blazer. You’ll rip it, advised Vincenzo, helping Hector off with it.

Gimme your tie. Friggin’ Goobers, lowlife. He’ll strangle you with it, added Schnoz, while yanking the accessory from Hector’s neck in one quick stroke.

Bones began removing the pens and pencils from Hector’s shirt pocket, all the while grumbling, Jesus Christ! What are you, a friggin’ doctor?

Zombie confiscated Hector’s schoolbag for safekeeping while Moose and Cool Breeze demonstrated their pugilistic expertise on each other for Hector’s benefit.

Tiny Titian Place by then, in the midst of all the ceremony, was beginning to attract a noticeable crown and a good amount of unwanted attention. Guys leaving CHS2601 for the day, on their way to catch the trolley at Morris Street, stopped and waited for the action to begin. Girls returning home from CHS1000 (the regional parochial high school for girls) via the Passyunk Avenue trolley, lingered at a safe distance. The noise and excitement climbed to a fevered pitch and neighborhood residents were beginning to poke their heads out. A protracted free-for-all was not the uncommon conclusion to such disputes. Neighbors had seen it before. Something was about to happen and it promised not to be pretty.

Goobers finally stepped forward and a dark figure emerging from the Passyunk crowd slipped the gold wristwatch off of Hector’s trembling wrist before pushing him into the street. Gangs on either side were hooting and hollering like drunken Romans at a gladiator match as the two high school seniors converged on each other, and it was at that critical moment when the CHS2601 fire doors burst open and several young Norbertine Brothers came barreling out in the direction of Titian Place. Soon, there were sirens and red cars pulling up on pavements with their hood lamps spinning, and finally, strutting forcefully into the crowd were Rizzo’s Storm Troopers, ominous figures on horseback in navy-blue uniforms with white helmets and rugged leather boots.

The horses easily dispersed the crowd. Hector and Goobers were detained. One patrolman examined Goobers’ school ID and shoved him on his way. Another shouted in Hector’s face, Get home before I put my foot up your ass! causing him to hastily scurry off in search of his guarded possessions.

Further north on Twenty-Seventh Street, he caught up with Vincenzo and Bones at the Morris Street trolley stop. Vincenzo tossed him his jacket and Bones reinserted the pens in Hector’s shirt pocket. Soon, Schnoz rejoined them, returning Hector’s necktie with the comment: "I hate when I go to a fight and don’t see one, and, as the trolley arrived, Zombie turned up with the missing schoolbag. Hector, then checking himself for other articles gone missing, suddenly cried out, Where’s my watch?!" Curiously, they all looked at one another.

Hector and Goobers had each pled their case in front of the collared principal, Father Piro, the next morning when summoned by public address from their respective homerooms. The origin of the dispute is barely worth the readers’ consideration. Rest assured that it was what all disputes at CHS2601 were about, someone got bumped in the corridor… Someone made an off-color remark about another’s mother or sister… Before long, the shoving would start… Punches would be thrown… Schoolbags would go flying… Friends would join in… and at length, the fracas would have all appearances of Napoleon at Waterloo.

Fighting was an offense that merited suspension at CHS2601. Working in Hector’s favor was the fact that he had been no more than the occasional recipient of a trivial demerit up until that point in time. It was Goobers’ misfortune, however, to have often been the recipient of demerits for such offences as not wearing a tie, being late for class, not turning in homework, speaking out of turn, sitting at the wrong lunch table, and bucking traffic in the corridors and on the stairs, the sum of which added up to the word nuisance. Still, no actual fight had taken place. It looked to be a difficult decision for Father Piro. Ordinarily, the mere intention would have been sufficient grounds for the suspension of both students, but he instead chose to absolve Hector and, for reasons unknown, availed Goobers of the same mercy, letting each of them off with two days on ‘work crew’ – a labor which amounted to sweeping out the classrooms and corridors after dismissal. Considering that CHS2601 served the geographic area of Philadelphia extending south of South Street from the Schuylkill River to the Delaware, and occupied the footprint of an entire city block with four full floors, the idea of sweeping the building out at the end of each day might seem to the casual observer a daunting task, but with twenty-eight hundred pupils in attendance, there were bound to be anywhere between one hundred and fifty to two hundred delinquent students on work crew on any particular day.

Later that same day, which happened to be the third Friday in October, Vincenzo snuck up behind Hector during lunch period and took a seat beside him at the long cafeteria table. The cafeteria at CHS2601, like the classrooms, the auditorium, and the gymnasium, were all arranged in military fashion, with desks, chairs, tables, and benches all laid out in a grid-like pattern, the furnishings then numbered and bolted down to the painted concrete floor slabs. Located in the basement of the building, the cafeteria was a huge hollow space enclosed with glazed block walls and exposed concrete overhead. The room, at any one time, held about seven hundred students. There was a moderator one ‘Brother Jack,’ who sat perched on an elevated platform behind a podium barking orders into a microphone, whereupon those directives traveled through low voltage wiring and blasted out from huge loudspeakers hung from columns around the room.

The stainless-steel lunch counter faced the podium along the opposite wall of the room, running its entire length, and it was there that lunch was prepared, set out, and sold. The food was cheap, but it made no improvement to the sale of it because it was basically uneatable, most students only making use of that service to purchase packaged snacks, sodas, and juices. Like everywhere else in CHS2601, students in the cafeteria had assigned seats, little stool tops that swung out from beneath the sixty-foot long tables. Each table accommodated forty students, and each student had a number that corresponded with the seat number, and each seat needed a body sitting in it at all times to provide the moderator and the floor walkers with a level of comfort that all was under control.

Standing or walking in the cafeteria, without a good excuse, was grounds for demerits. Leaving the cafeteria before Brother Jack dismissed was grounds for demerits. Talking in the cafeteria was grounds for demerits. Failure to return soda or juice bottles to the lunch counter in the cafeteria was grounds for demerits. Failure to discard lunch bags in the cafeteria trash receptacles was grounds for demerits. Laughing, running, and pushing in the cafeteria were grounds for demerits. When a student collected enough demerits, they spent a couple of weeks on work crew. The floor-walkers however, mostly Brothers, were generally flexible about the rules as long as some semblance of order was observed.

Vincenzo was a known prankster, a trouble-maker, and a malicious fabricator of the truth, if it served his amusement. Snickering, he taunted Hector, "They called you down this morning. I heard it on the loudspeaker: ‘Hector Iorio, come to the office.’ What did you get? They suspend you?" He wrung his boney hands together and patted down his frizzy hair.

Hector laid his sandwich down. "How the fuck could I be suspended if I’m still sitting here? If I was suspended, I’d be home. That’s the definition of suspension. Is it not?"

Vincenzo’s sneaky smile withered away from his narrow face and his tiny mouth curled up into a snarl. Thick eyebrows converging together, he snapped, Hey! Screw you, jerk-off! I guess you don’t want your friggin’ watch back then. Throwing his arms up in a helpless gesture, he announced, I was gonna tell you who had it but…

Who? replied Hector.

The smile crept back onto Vincenzo’s face, and for several minutes he delighted in his refusal to supply Hector with the information he so eagerly wanted. But then Vincenzo was such a keckadone, his capacity to keep a secret being nothing to feel secure about. Soon, he could no longer hold it. He began in a low voice, Somebody, I’m not gonna tell you who, (He moved closer to Hector.) saw Ramiro Ianizzi slip it off your wrist when you weren’t payin’ attention.

Hector watched him suspiciously as the information registered. Dark-haired dude I see you with sometimes? Little taller than me? Built like a brick shithouse…?

Vincenzo nodded. Yea. He comes from East Passyunk Crossing. I know him from summers in Atlantic City.

What was he even doing there? asked Hector.

Vincenzo snickered. He said he was in your homeroom. Said he wanted to see you get your ass kicked. I don’t think he likes you very much.

You know where I can find him?

Vincenzo slapped the table and laughed. What? You think he still has your watch? That thing is gone.

I want that frigging watch back, declared Hector.

"You ain’t gonna get your watch back," assured Vincenzo.

Hector thought and then said, He hangs out with those Passyunk Crossing guys?

Used to, answered Vincenzo. Now he hangs out in that poolroom. You know… Leon’s at Tenth and Morris? You ever play in there? You know Leon?

Hector shook his head.

Monty?

Again Hector shook his head.

Vincenzo was getting impatient. Well, it’s their place, and your boy is always in there, but you go around there by yourself and you really will get your friggin’ ass kicked.

"I have to do something," insisted Hector.

Vincenzo thought for a moment and then offered the following advice, You know what to do? Bring a baseball bat with you. When you get to Leon’s, peek in the window and, if you see your boy in there, just bust in and start bashin’ his freakin’ skull in. Don’t even give him a chance.

Ramiro’s last sojourn at CHS2601 had earned him the reputation of being an unpredictable and often violent individual. He regularly had trouble acceding to discipline and was being called to the principal’s office almost daily. Consequently, at the end of his freshman year, he had accumulated a generous quantity of demerits for an array of infractions including the use of foul language, assaulting other students and teachers alike, inappropriate dress, smoking, vandalism, use, possession, and sale of narcotics, and truancy. A failure in almost every subject, his sophomore year began with him on academic probation. At mid-term, he was finally put out, though only to mysteriously return at the beginning of senior year. No one knew what the mitigating circumstances were. No one dared to ask.

"Well, I’d rather take my chances with him than face my mother one more time asking me about that frigging watch, admitted Hector. Come with me tonight."

No way, replied Vincenzo.

Maybe Schnoz or Cool Breeze…

They ain’t gonna go with you either, Vincenzo assured. Get their asses kicked for what? Your stupid friggin’ watch? My advice? Get a new one and forget it.

I can’t forget it, insisted Hector. "My mother is all amped up about it, asking me, ‘How come you don’t have your watch on? Where’s your watch?’ My parents gave me that watch for my confirmation. It’s a good frigging watch, frigging fourteen karat…. Engraved and everything…! I had to wait ten frigging years before they trusted me enough to wear it outside the house and here that frigging asshole swipes it. So, not only do I not have the watch, but now I have to live with the fact that my parents were right not wanting me to have it this soon. The dismissal bell rang. You know what? said Hector, standing up when the order to dismiss was issued by Brother Jack. That was a damn good frigging suggestion you made about bringing the baseball bat."

Hector headed directly over to ‘Designs by Iorio’ after school that day, as he had done every day since he had learned to count and could reach the buttons on the cash register of his parents’ flower shop. His work schedule, at that point in time, was loosely defined to be three o’clock to six o’clock, Monday through Friday and all day on Saturday. Located on West Passyunk Avenue in the twenty-one-hundred block, the shop had been a successful enterprise in the Iorio family for two generations. His father, one Ansel Iorio, a short balding man of fifty, usually dressed in a flannel shirt and Casmir cardigan sweater, employed periodic part-time help, but it was he who, with Hector’s assistance, designed the arrangements. The mother, one May Lavorio, in her maiden status, was the daughter of a jeweler whose shop was located on West Passyunk Avenue in the twenty-two-hundred block. She was a well-dressed petite size four (forty-eight years of age) and she had no interest in flowers. Her role was to handle the business. She did the buying, set the prices, and handled the books, making only periodic visits to the shop when a large volume of business required her assistance.

Both parents had attended a local catholic college, though it was expected by their parents that (regardless of what area of study they chose to pursue) their careers would begin and end in their respective family businesses. Ansel and May, however, had broader plans for their only son, top priority being that he attends no less than an Ivy League University. Furthering his education after that would be a decision left entirely up to him, though it was abundantly clear, in the minds of all concerned parties, that the sum of his aspirations would not be realized in the flower shop. Under such parental guidance – particularly Ansel’s – Hector’s application to the grindstone earned him superior grades, the likes of which would be sufficient to satisfy entrance requirements to any leading university and more importantly fulfill his parents’ ambitions.

While it had been Ansel who had pestered him about school, it was May who handled the more pedestrian concerns: Make sure you’re in by twelve o’clock… Don’t wear that shirt… Comb your hair… Put a coat on…

That same evening after dinner, Hector stood at the bathroom mirror observing the progress of a strip of hair growth above his upper lip. School authorities had not yet ordered him to shave it, as they had been doing of late with a number of seniors, but he had always heard that the more facial hair is shaved, the thicker it becomes. Opening the medicine cabinet, he spotted Ansel’s razor and a canister of shaving cream. Squirting a small amount of the cream out into his hand, he applied it to the hirsute area and cleared it away with Ansel’s razor. It stung more than he thought it would but, after moistening it with some witch hazel, the soreness faded away. He often wished that his brow was more protruded and that his eyebrows were thicker, his jaw more pronounced, and his neck longer. Yet, standing before him, for better or for worse, was an integrated image of himself: smooth-skinned and soft-featured – a whole, cobbled together in his own mind from the sum of its parts. He showered and dressed in jeans, a blue denim shirt, and earth-toned work boots. It was a chilly autumn evening and the so-called ‘experts’ predicted that the temperature would drop to the freezing mark by midnight. So, over this casual uniform, he wore his heavy suede car coat.

You know you need a haircut, May told him when he appeared in the living room. Hector shook his head and waved her away. No, it’s getting too long. I don’t like it that long, she insisted. Do you have your gloves? Where are your gloves? She dashed out of the room to find them.

Reading glasses perched on the edge of his nose, Ansel was buried in the day’s newspapers. He raised his eyes over the business section and asked, Where are you going?

Out, replied his son.

Where? demanded May as she marched back into the living room carrying the suede gloves. Brushing her son’s hand aside as he reached for them, she forcefully inserted them into his right coat pocket.

Hector began to laugh. Just out, he insisted. Then, on second thought, he added, I’m going to Messaro’s to play pool.

Ansel reminded, You know what time you’re supposed to be home. Right?

Hector nodded.

Not a minute later, his father warned. "Be careful… Stay out of trouble… No drinking… No smoking… No fighting…"

May suddenly asked, Did you find that watch yet?

Nooo, whined Hector. I told you it’s around here somewhere. I didn’t lose –

May interrupted, Because that’s a good watch, you know. We gave it to you for your confirmation. You’ve had that thing for so long… I knew you weren’t ready to wear it just yet. Your grandfather had to special order it from Geneva. He engraved that thing himself…

Ansel raised his hand to silence her, calmly assuring, Okay. Okay. He’ll find it. Then he started back on Hector. When are you going over to church to see Father Pilla? He’s been asking about you. They need people in the choir for midnight mass on Christmas Eve. They’re starting rehearsals next week.

Hector began shaking his head. No, he replied. I’m finished with choir. I did it for three years of grade school and three years of high school. My singing days are over. The church, St. Domenic’s, had been a main-stay of the Iorio business since the first generation.

May chimed in, That’s not the point. That church is one of our biggest customers –

Hector let out a sigh.

Don’t take that attitude with me, scolded his mother.

Okay! cried Ansel at last. Just go, Hector. We’ll discuss this later.

Hector journeyed east on Porter Street, then battled a stiff wind heading north on Broad Street, and then traveled a short stretch on Passyunk before finally turning due south on Morris. Continuing down Morris towards Tenth Street, he encountered along the way more than a few young males he knew to be from CHS2601 as well as an attractive assortment of female attendees of CHS1000 out for the night. Some were engaged in the normal accepted practice of simply loitering on the street corner, some strolled in noisy crowds, and some sat on porches and steps where their parents could keep a watchful eye out.

The neighborhood closer to Tenth and Morris Streets was a fairly desolate one. Further down on Morris past Tenth, Hector could see the rowdy group known as ‘Passyunk Crossing’ crowding their corner at Ninth underneath the glowing sign of ‘Al’s Hardware.’ At Tenth however, the scene remained quiet; the pavement only illuminated by a pale light that filtered through the window sheers beyond a storefront window stylishly labeled as ‘Leon’s Billiards.’

The building was sandstone brick, two stories high, with the poolroom on the first floor and what would appear to be living quarters on the second. Like most corner properties in this section of Philadelphia, there was a business on the ground level which addressed the intersection, such that its entrance was notched into the corner of the building on a diagonal. Both the Tenth Street side and the Morris Street side had similar storefront windows but through the Morris’ side window, where Hector stood, there was a small parting in the sheers through which he could perceive a tall, slim, approximately twenty-six-year-old male standing behind the counter along the far wall, one ‘Leon Levinworth.’ His hair was blond and he wore it in a long, puffed out, shag haircut. Above his upper lip, an enormous handlebar moustache gushed forth and gracefully curved into two waxed whips at either corner of his mouth. On the other side of the room, at a card table, sat another male approximately the same age with bushy brown hair, thick eyebrows, and a smaller but equally substantial mustache, one – ‘Monty Bride.’

Hector scanned the layout. The walls were clad in dark paneling, and three regulation pool tables arranged at random angles filled the center of the small room. Installed in proximal spots were typical poolroom fixtures such as cue racks, powder boxes, scorekeepers, players’ chairs, and obligatory photos of the old pros. The lighting was dim, supplied only by the Tiffany-styled lamps that hung low over the tables. Suddenly, a dark image began to ripple in the sheer. Closer it came, revealing a black double-breasted leather car coat and the sharp angular profile of Ramiro’s face, as he lifted himself onto one of the players’ chairs by the Morris window.

Hector took a deep breath and ascended the two steps leading to the front door, a solid oak slab with three small vision panels in a diagonal arrangement. Giving the door a hard shove, it swung wide open and Hector barreled inside. A hush of astonishment fell over the room as he quickly focused on Ramiro, perched up in his seat like it was his own private throne. Dressed completely in black, his coat was spread open, revealing two heavy gold chains around his neck that glittered against his olive skin. Hector dashed to a nearby cue rack and yanked out a twenty-one-ounce house cue. Ramiro, with a look of confusion in his eyes, made an attempt to leap from his seat as he observed Hector bearing down on him with the butt end of the cue and, with the use of his forearm, he successfully prevented the first blow from hitting his face. A second quickly followed against the same forearm, slapping the thick cowhide of his sleeve, and then a third, upon which the cue stick cracked in half, the heavy end gone flying off to parts unknown.

I want my fucking watch! Hector shouted, as Ramiro struggled to regain his balance.

Leon rushed out from behind the counter while Ramiro, already latched onto Hector’s lapel with one fist, was firing jabs into his face and upper body with the other. Hector flailed blindly, struggling to get free, until Leon managed to take hold of him from behind and drag him a few feet back.

Hold him, Leon! shouted Ramiro. Let me bust his friggin’ face in.

Dispossessed of any fears which he may have been harboring up until that point, Hector wrangled for his life. Meanwhile, Leon rode him around the room panting for breath and calling out to Monty for help.

Monty at last rose from his seat at the card table and lumbered forth to pile on but, even with the combined strength of two, they could not hold the raging Hector who continued to holler, I want my fucking watch! as blood spurted from his nose and mouth.

Damn! He’s a wiry little prick, complained Leon.

Strong sonofabitch too, Monty added.

Just hold him! Ramiro directed. I can’t get a good shot at him.

The struggle could have gone on indefinitely if not for the pulmonary needs of Leon and Monty to pause for a rest, thus allowing the bloody Hector to scramble free of their grip, grab an object ball off the nearest table, and fire it towards Ramiro’s head.

Ramiro was quick to dodge it and Monty yelped, Ahhh, you fucker! as the Number Five struck him on the upper arm.

Ramiro, in that moment of shock, seized the opportunity to pick up a second house cue and swing the butt at his attacker. The cue landed on Hector’s neck and instantly cracked in half.

Hector grabbed a third cue from the wall rack at which point, Leon yelled, You’re breaking all my sticks!

I want my fucking watch! squalled Hector as he swung it at Ramiro, hitting him broadside. Breaking in typical fashion, the butt went sailing off, this time hitting Leon on the shoulder.

All combatants out of breath at that point, the scuffle at last reached a lull by the ball return of Table One. Blood had poured down over Hector’s shirt and coat and his knuckles were badly bruised. His hair was in disarray, and one sleeve of his coat was almost completely torn off. Still, I want my fucking watch! he cried across the table to Ramiro.

Ramiro’s ferocity was suddenly replaced by an odd look of bewilderment. His face was bruised but he wasn’t bleeding. He shouted back, "I don’t have your friggin’ watch, dickhead!"

"I know you have it, insisted Hector. Vincenzo told me. You took it off me at the fight."

What fight? questioned Ramiro.

Goobers, answered Hector.

Ramiro laughed unexpectedly. "Eh… Let’s be clear. That wasn’t no fight buddy-boy. Besides, I can’t find it. I probably threw it out. It looked like a piece of friggin’ shit anyway!"

Hector turned to the table behind him and swept up another ball. Again, he fired it off at Ramiro’s head, and again Ramiro was quick to dodge it, only this time it slammed against the decorative Morris Street window behind him and the four disheveled rabble-rousers looked in horror as the glass cracked from top to bottom.

Leon lunged forward and grabbed Hector by the coat. Whirling him around by the lapels, he landed him on his back across one of the tables and began pounding the side of his head against the solid slate bed. Asshole! Now you broke my fucking window! he hollered.

Ramiro attempted to join in the pounding, but Monty held him at bay.

Hector yelled back, Fuck your window! Then he spat in Leon’s face. Leon was stunned for an instant, as were the other two observers, then he finally hauled off and smacked Hector hard across the face several times, until he was almost lifeless. Finally, dragging him off the table by the front of his coat, Leon let his listless body drop to the floor. Wiping the spit and sweat from his face with his shirtsleeve, he then kicked Hector four times in the ribs.

Looking to Ramiro, he wheezed, "Do you have his watch?"

I can’t find it, replied Ramiro.

Leon looked down to the floor at Hector and nudged him with his foot. "That’s it. Watch is gone. Grow up, kid."

I want my fucking watch, moaned Hector from his fetal position.

Yea, I want my window fixed too… replied Leon. Maybe we’re both out of luck.

Screw your window, said Hector. Your plate glass insurance will pay for it.

Looking over to Monty, Leon smirked and said, We’re dealing with a real wise-ass. Then he kicked Hector one last time.

Monty walked over and stood beside Leon. Looking down at Hector, they shook their heads in unison. You have determination. I have to give you that, said Monty. Turning to Ramiro, he asked, "Who is he anyway?"

I don’t know, replied Ramiro, "somebody from school, I think."

Leon stared at him as though he expected more in the way of an explanation, but before the matter could be pursued, Monty looked at the clock above the counter, nudged his friend’s arm, and reminded, Come on, we have that thing…

Leon nodded and both went for their jackets which were hanging from a wooden clothes tree by the door. Don’t make me come back here and find anything else broken, warned Leon.

Monty pointed to Hector and directed Ramiro, Keep him here. We’re not finished with him yet.

Following the departure of Leon and Monty, a silence descended over the room. Ramiro slunk back onto his throne and Hector rolled from his then-fetal position onto his back. For a while, there was stillness in the universe. Then, gripping the edge of a table, Hector labored to pull himself up. On his feet, he then faced his opponent who mocked, "Wild Hector Iorio… the scourge of Passyunk Crossing."

Taking a crumpled cigarette pack from his coat pocket, he selected one and set it in the corner of his mouth. You’re like what – a real badass now?

Hector grinned and dangled the remnants of Ramiro’s two gold chains in front of him. Ramiro immediately looked down and felt around his chest. Realizing their absence, he tossed the unlit cigarette to the floor and made a sudden lunge for Hector.

You want your chains, go get my watch! yelled Hector as Ramiro descended on him and pounded him down onto a table. Prying loose from his fist the pieces of chain, Ramiro stood back and gasped at the glittering fragments then scattered across the green felt. Look at this shit. You’re gonna friggin’ pay for those chains.

Go get my watch! ordered Hector.

Ramiro collapsed back against an adjacent pool table. "Your watch… You know, I’m just too friggin’ tired to beat the shit out of you anymore. Friggin’ Vincenzo – that rat bastard cocksucker… I’ll tell you the truth. I really can’t find it. I was gonna keep it, or maybe sell it, but when I got home that day, I really couldn’t find it. I thought I had it in my jacket pocket but…"

If you think you’re tired now, I feel sorry for you, warned Hector. "Think of how you’ll feel six months from now when I’m still dogging you out every minute of your life for that watch. I don’t care how many beatings I have to take. I’ll get used to it. You’re going to have to kill me to get me off your back."

Ramiro rubbed his face. Well, what do you want? Money?

I don’t want your frigging money, replied Hector.

Well… then take the chains and we’ll call it even, offered Ramiro, gesturing towards the scattered pieces that lay in front of him. Altogether, they have to be worth at least a grand. You’re not gonna get better than that.

Just then, the door swung open and three men walked in – two lifeless-looking pillars of muscle and bone, flanking a smaller, older man draped in black cashmere, one, Franco Ianizzi (aka ‘Franco-the-Tailor’). He was impeccably groomed with a sculpted face and a neatly combed waft of graying hair. He questioned Ramiro, How’d the window get broken?

Ramiro scrambled for the broken chains and clandestinely dumped them into Hector’s coat pocket. Innocently, he replied, I don’t know.

The man, with his two companions alongside him, approached. Taking Ramiro’s face in one hand, he turned it to the side and carefully perused the marks that were beginning to form. I know when my son is lying, he said. Then turning to Hector, he reiterated, How did the window get broken?

Hector looked dumfounded and offered the man a petulant shrug.

I am Franco, announced Mr. Ianizzi, and then added with a gesture to either side of him, This is Sal, and this is Lester. Hector stood motionless in the shadow of the two overpowering figures. Franco meanwhile affixed a penetrating stare on him and awaited the details. The old man didn’t appear to Hector to be the type of individual who one might chance to leave unanswered.

I got jumped outside, said Hector finally. I was walking by and three moulinyans jumped me. Then Ramiro here, he ran out and helped me. He paused to add, "And they took my frigging watch!"

Ramiro, in the background, was shaking his head.

Franco continued his questioning. What’s your name?

Hector.

"You have a last name?"

Iorio.

Franco thought. Iorio… There’s a flower shop… Right? I see the advertisements in the Chronicle all the time.

That’s my father, said Hector.

Eying the torn sleeve of Hector’s coat, Franco slowly shook his head and said, "Okay, son-of-Iorio-flowers, you can stop by my tailor shop tomorrow and I’ll sew that sleeve for you. Gesturing to Ramiro, he said, My son will show you where it is."

I can’t tomorrow, Mr. Ianizzi, said Hector. I have a lot of homework to do.

Franco looked unimpressed and replied, Well, the next time you’re in the neighborhood then.

Facing his son once again, Franco said, Tell Leon and his compadre to stop by the tailor shop and see me sometime tomorrow. Ramiro nodded and the three men walked out.

Ramiro began laughing as soon as the door closed behind them. Homework… Got jumped… You’re alright, Hector. He reached down into the ball return of the nearest table and spread a handful out over the felt surface. Let’s play some nine-ball.

Hector stared at the floor and remained motionless.

Come on, you friggin’ baby, coaxed Ramiro, "I’ll give you the eight. You got the chains and… Tell you what, I’ll look again for the watch and I’m only doin’ it because you didn’t go cryin’ to my father about it, who by the way probably would have taken pity on a pathetic-lookin’ piece of shit like you, and most likely would have caused me a lot of friggin’ grief over it. Now, ten a game suit you?"

Hector dusted himself off and grabbed one of the last remaining cues from the wall rack. Meanwhile, Ramiro threw the diamond onto the table and began dropping balls into it. He shook the rack vigorously and squeezed the balls tight before he rolled it to the center spot. They lagged for the break and Hector won. Bending down over the table, he took aim and stroked the cue smoothly before firing the cue ball down into the pack, whereupon trails of colors went shooting off in every direction. Two balls were sunk, and with an open table, Hector cleared the remaining.

Ramiro was stunned. Lucky bastard. You’ll never do that again.

Yea? Rack, replied Hector.

Ramiro racked another game and then reached into his pocket to produce a fat roll of bills. He peeled off three tens and laid them on the rail of the table, announcing, There’s the ten you won, plus another twenty that says you can’t do it again. Hector broke the rack with a power equal to the first and a similar scenario followed. Ramiro threw down two more tens after the second rack and Hector repeated the drill on the third.

Where the fuck did you learn to play like that? asked Ramiro.

I taught myself, was Hector’s answer.

Bullshit, replied Ramiro.

What? said Hector. Didn’t you ever teach yourself anything?

Several games later, in the course of which Hector had given Ramiro such weight as the breaks to start off with, then the nine to call, then the nine to luck, and finally the eight and the nine to luck, he was still ahead by one hundred and twenty dollars. Leon and Monty returned as he was making a final count of his winnings. Monty was carrying a leather briefcase of noticeable quality and Leon had in his hand a roll of duct tape.

I thought you two girls would have killed each other by now, said Monty as he headed towards the back of the room, disappearing into a narrow corridor where a bathroom appeared to be located.

He’s hustlin’ me now, announced Ramiro.

Leon swaggered towards Hector and fired the roll of tape into his midsection. Hector dropped his cue and caught it. Hustling? Leon queried while standing toe-to-toe with him. "What are you going to do about my window, hustler?"

Nothing, said Hector.

Ramiro burst out laughing, and at that point, the front door swung open and two girls in their early twenties – a conflagration of curls, make-up, jewelry and leather – strutted forth and displayed themselves in the center of the room. One had dark hair and a face that bore the same sculpted features as Ramiro, one, ‘Vanessa Fiocco.’ The other had bright red hair and a slim, pointed face with rosebud lips, one ‘Claudia Cali.’ They glanced at the broken window and winced at Hector in his battered shape, and then turned an inquiring look to each other and shrugged.

"No. You will be paying for that window, assured Leon. Roughly a grand for the window, plus another grand for the graphics? That’s two large, plus all of the broken cue sticks."

Easy, said Hector, raising both his hands as though he was being held up. "You get three estimates on getting the glass replaced, and I’ll pay your deductible on the lowest amount. Then I’ll do the graphics."

You’ll pay for the whole thing or you won’t see your next birthday, replied Leon.

Leon! cried Vanessa. Look at him! He’s just a kid! Where’s he gonna get two thousand bucks?

Exactly my point, argued Hector. Where would I get two grand? If I had two grand, I’d replace the watch. Look, I know you have plate glass insurance. You couldn’t get a lease without plate glass insurance. Everybody has it. So, why should I pay you the full whack when I know you’re only going to pocket my money and then turn the repair bill in to your insurance company? We don’t need a Ouija board to figure that out. Now, as far as the graphics, I could do that. I know how to draw. I could do a damn sight better than what you had. Where’d you get that hack anyway?

Claudia stepped closer to Hector and examined the bruises on his face. He’s kind of cute, Vanessa, underneath all that blood.

Leon looked perplexed.

Leon… look how pathetic he looks… pleaded Vanessa. Did he purposely break your window or was it an accident?

Monty returned from the corridor. All the while he was gone, he had been listening to the exchange. Let’s just get it done, Leon, he advised. We can’t leave it like that. It has to be done tomorrow. Let’s at least see what he comes up with for the graphics.

Leon paused for a moment and then pointed his finger in Hector’s face. You’re taking a big risk here, kid, he warned. Now start taping it up.

Ramiro drew back the sheers and Hector climbed up onto the seat of a chair, a position from where he could just about reach the peak of the jagged crack. Outside, three girls were standing on the corner at the time, and they jumped back in surprise when the bloodstained Hector appeared in the window. Soon, the moment passed and they began to laugh hysterically, making their way towards the front door.

The door swung open and in they walked, all looking to be roughly sixteen years of age. The first one in – the apparent leader of the cabal – was thin and well-proportioned with waist-length chestnut hair and a Cheshire smile. Her face was tight and smooth, her eyes huge and glistening like two opals floating in pools of water. She wore a form-fitting, waste-length black leather jacket with jeans and boots that clinked with heavy buckles.

Taking an interest in the repair work being done on the window, the lead inquired, "How did that happen?"

Get home, Joanne, ordered Ramiro.

Turning her attention to Ramiro, she took note of the disheveled hair and the bruises on his face. "What, were you fightin’ again?" she asked.

Ramiro continued, Take your two little clones and get back to the house.

Joanne strolled up to the brute with the fearlessness that