Street Fighting Man

By Dennis Jones

Street Fighting Man chronicles the experiences of a group of young Brooklyn toughs who, coming of age in the emerging Sixties counterculture, turn to playing rock and roll music to escape the streets. Kevin OBriens street fighting consumes an inordinate amount of time. Hes not as adept as others with his fists and so he takes to carrying deadly weapons. Following a brush with the law, Kevin immerses himself in the drums in an attempt to straighten himself out. The transition is less than seamless, however, and trouble continues to stalk him into the Sixties renaissance.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 27, 2002
• ISBN: 9781453582879

Dennis Jones

Dennis Jones le gusta dibujar. Su obra puede encontrarse en muchos libros para niños, en las cajas de cereales y en las tareas de la Escuela Dominical. El también ha ilustrado Lee conmigo la Biblia y Superhéroes de la Biblia para Zonderkidz. Dennis vive en Indiana con su esposa y dos hijos.

Book preview

Copyright © 2002 by Dennis Jones.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Contents

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 One

THE ROLLING STONES were slated for the Hollywood Palace television show that Saturday night in June, 1964, beginning at nine-thirty, so Kevin had scheduled his fight with Roberto for seven. That gave Kevin plenty of time to battle, shoot pool, and still get home in time to see The Stones.

The showdown had become necessary following the events of the previous Monday morning. Spring was in full bloom in Brooklyn, but all Kevin could think was, ‘One more fucking year of this rot and I’ll be finished with school forever.’ He stepped dejectedly from the B-36 bus and walked up Avenue X, toward Sheepshead Bay High.

As Kevin approached the corner candy store located a block before the school, he noticed Roberto standing tall among the usual crowd of students and dropouts who congregated there during school hours. Kevin had some time to kill before class and, not seeing anyone else he knew, strolled over to Roberto.

Kevin put his books on the tailfin of a ’59 Chevy and greeted Roberto. Whataya say, man?

Roberto answered coolly. I’m alright.

Suddenly Kevin felt a too-hard-to-be-friendly smack on the back and heard Marty’s voice ring out, How the fuck ya doin’ O’Brien?

Kevin glared and barely nodded in Marty’s direction.

Marty continued. Hey, O’Brien, you know that Jew cunt Adele over there thinks you’re cute. She doesn’t go down though. But you’d fuck her if you could, right?

Kevin didn’t answer. He glanced at Adele, to whom he previously had felt a distant connection. She was standing near the candy store doorway with her friend Sheila. For some reason, Adele threw Kevin a dirty look. He thought, ‘Forget it.’

Marty taunted loudly, Hey, Roberto. Adele thinks O’Brien is cute.

Roberto laughed. Yeah, cute,

Must be your Elvis hairdo, mocked Marty whose own hair was too thin and kinky to be admired by anyone. Then, glancing over Kevin’s face, Marty ridiculed, Well I guess she doesn’t mind pimples.

Crash! Kevin delivered a solid right hand punch flush to Marty’s nose. Marty never saw it coming. He staggered a few steps backward and Kevin braced for an attack that didn’t happen. A stunned Roberto just watched.

Marty spat. What the fuck is wrong with you O’Brien?

The crowd started to gather round and stare.

Kevin warned forcefully, Watch your fuckin’ mouth, Martinez.

What are you, fuckin’ sensitive or somethin’?

Just watch your fucking mouth, Kevin repeated, jabbing his right trigger finger in Marty’s direction.

Kevin realized that Marty was backing down. No stranger to being on the wrong side of a punk out, Kevin could relate to Marty’s humiliation.

A few silent seconds elapsed before Marty started up again. You know, you’re fucked up O’Brien. I hip you to the fact that this chick digs you and what the fuck?

Kevin glared at Marty who paused. Then, in an attempt to recapture some lost ego, Marty cracked, The chick digs you. So what if your face is rotted out?

Boom! This time Marty saw the punch coming but was too slow to react. Kevin had caught him with another right and Marty’s mouth poured blood.

The crowd gasped.

Roberto shoved Kevin’s shoulder and ordered, Hey fucko. Leave him alone.

Bam! Kevin struck again, this time catching Roberto square on the jaw with a punch launched from left field. The crowd roared its approval. Roberto, at six-one almost a half foot taller than Kevin, did not hesitate. He charged at Kevin who sidestepped and bombarded Roberto with a dozen wild lefts and rights, almost all of which Roberto blocked. The few punches that did land just made Roberto more determined.

His energy almost spent, Kevin couldn’t avoid Roberto’s flying headlock. The battlers slammed into the Chevy, scattering Kevin’s books to the street. Roberto crushed Kevin’s face against the fender and was banging him upside the head when the candy storeowner rushed out and tore the battlers away from each other.

Kevin, dazed but intact, looked up and saw Roberto’s mocking grin. Marty screamed triumphantly, Yeah man! Yeah!

Kevin hated being laughed at even more than he detested getting beaten up. He broke off the aerial from the Chevy and charged at his foes, ready to slash. Roberto and Marty turned and ran down Avenue X before Kevin got close. He chased them for half a block but did not make a true effort to catch up. Then, when Kevin saw his adversaries hop on a bus, he threw down the aerial, walked back toward the candy store and gathered his fallen books from amidst the buzzing crowd.

Some guy said, That was boss, man!

Way to go, man! said another.

Kevin just stared, then mechanically walked away.

Sheila lectured her still-smitten girlfriend. See. I told you how he was. So what if he looks like Bobby Rydell? Don’t go near him. What would your parents think? He goes nuts because someone says something about his pimples? He doesn’t even have hardly any. He’s too crazy!

Adele was too shocked by the events to reply. Later that day, she let the grapevine know that she would never date a hood like Kevin. A few days after that, Kevin got the message and shrugged. He was more concerned that people were saying that Roberto had kicked Kevin’s ass, and Roberto was bragging that he could do it again: any time, any place.

As fate demanded, Kevin and Roberto crossed paths in the halls at school.

I hear you think you can take me, Kevin challenged.

Anytime you’re ready, little man.

How about Saturday night, seven o’clock by Port’s?

Everyone knew where Port’s candy store was, on the northwest corner of Sheepshead Bay Road and Voorhies Avenue.

You’re on, Roberto said, sounding fearless until he added, But no fuckin’ aerials.

No aerials, Kevin promised.

Kevin realized that Roberto was right about who would win a fistfight. Roberto was much bigger and stronger than Kevin. And Roberto had some heart.

Kevin couldn’t bear the thought of losing to Roberto. He pictured Roberto’s mocking grin and shuddered. Then Kevin had a brainstorm. He had promised no aerials but had not given his word as to some other form of weaponry. He needed something. An equalizer. But what? The question remained while Kevin rummaged through the tiny attic of his parents’ rented and run down four-room stucco framed house, the attic in which wild birds would from time to time appear and attack whoever ventured there, including Kevin, his parents, and two younger brothers. In his father’s old tool chest Kevin found an odd, heavy screwdriver with solid steel running from under the wooden teardrop handle to the tip. He picked up the tool by its shaft with his right hand and pounded the long, heavy handle rhythmically into his left palm. His hand stung as he thought about the blackjacks he’d seen in gangster movies. ‘This’ll do the trick,’ he thought to himself.

Quietly, Kevin closed the tool chest, rose and went downstairs, hiding the blackjack/screwdriver in the bottom of the communal chest of drawers allocated to him and his two younger brothers: Butch (age thirteen) and Gerry (almost ten).

After the family supper on Saturday, Kevin prepared for the showdown. Nervously he dug the blackjack/screwdriver out of the drawer and put it inside his black seven-eleven jeans, down along his right hip. To avoid scrutiny, Kevin tried his quick-exit routine. I’m goin’ out, Ma, he said as he neared the front door in the living room.

Kevin’s father emerged from the bathroom, wearing his usual white boxer shorts and tee-shirt. Mr. O’Brien was average height, but long in the torso and short of leg. His biceps bulged impressively. Out? Where the hell is out? the father asked.

Down the Bay, Kevin said anxiously. "I’ll be home by nine-thirty. I want to see The Stones on Hollywood Palace."

Mr. O’Brien mocked, The Stones? What the hell are The Stones?

Atypically, Kevin responded with patience. The Rolling Stones, Dad. You know? You woke me and Butch up to watch them on Les Crane that night.

Mr. O’Brien knew, even before his son had reminded him. He was just being intentionally obnoxious, as usual. Oh. Those hooples. I’m glad I won’t be here. Me and the Polack are goin’ bowlin’.

Kevin felt his mother wince. Goin’ bowlin’ was often a euphemism for getting drunk. Mr. O’Brien was a chronic alcoholic. Kevin had lost count of all the times the family was forced to eat only rice for supper because Mr. O’Brien had drunk away the paycheck.

See you all later, Kevin said as he darted out the door. Reflexively, Kevin looked back at the house as he rushed down the dilapidated stoop.

Kevin hated that house, the three-level structure that once had been situated on a parcel of land in the poorest section of Coney Island. After New York City officials condemned it, the house was moved during the dark of night to the back of a lot, behind another house, where it now stood between Gravesend Neck Road and Avenue X, on the tail end of intermittent Sheepshead Bay Road.

The block of Sheepshead Bay Road where the O’Brien family lived was unique in that it had been racially integrated for decades. Many of the Negroes (as they were respectfully referred to at the time) who worked at the once-popular but long-since defunct Sheepshead Bay Race Track had settled permanently in the then rural-like community. Only a couple of areas had become racially integrated, but one that had was the O’Brien block where in the late Fifties and early Sixties, children grew up without much concern for race, playing games and sports together, hanging out on stoops, listening to records, and dancing in the street, especially during the summer.

The O’Brien house stood behind another detached one-family structure owned by Mrs. O’Brien’s sister and husband who rented the shack in the back to the O’Brien family for sixty-five dollars a month. The run-down O’Brien place stood twenty-five feet long, twenty feet wide, with an A-frame roof. A ten-foot high cement wall—part of the garage that serviced the six-story L - shaped apartment house next door— abutted the dirt alleyway and the tiny back yard. On the other side stood a neighbor’s private garage, completing the claustrophobic setting.

Faded pale yellow paint capped by a roof full of sickly maroon-colored shingles helped make the O’Brien house the worst one on the block. Tall rectangular gray slabs of cement and one picture window had replaced the overabundance of glass on the front and side of the house, and stood as testimonials to the fact that Mr. O’Brien had once possessed the initiative to renovate, but lacked the money and resolution to complete the task on somebody else’s house.

Kevin’s walk to the heart of the Bay Road was filled with tension, as usual. If another guy challenged his walking turf, Kevin would have to show heart and not move out of the way. It was the macho game of the times, and often led to banging shoulders, bunking elbows, and/or a full-blown fistfight. Kevin was nowhere near as tough as many of the street fighters in the neighborhood, but he accepted physical challenges and could hold his own. On this night, Kevin backed down the only two guys who did threaten to cross his path—they moved aside for him.

When Kevin arrived at Port’s candy store at six forty-five, his best friend Billy Rodgers was waiting for him. As was his style, handsome, blonde-haired, blue-eyed Billy presented a loud and friendly hello. His white teeth sparkled. Whataya say, Kev?

Hey Bill. You see Roberto yet?

No. It’s early. He’s supposed to be here at seven, right? Kevin nodded. Billy hesitated, not knowing exactly how to put what he was about to say. Then he blurted out, Don’t you ever get tired of this shit? Who’s next after Roberto? Marco?

No. There’s nothing happening with that. Marco came up to me and said that he didn’t know Butch was by brother, and that he was sorry that he shoved him around. I told him that he was a scumbag for picking on a little kid . . .

Little? He’s as big as you.

Kevin knew that was true. He and Butch had been wearing each other’s clothes for a while. Kevin became defensive. Yeah but he’s only thirteen.

Billy laughed. Yeah, thirteen going on thirty-five. You know his mouth. He was probably asking for it knowing that he could call you, like always, if things didn’t go his way.

That doesn’t mean I should just stand by and let him get pushed around, Kevin said heatedly, re-living a pain he felt when he had at times not done enough to prevent his brother from being bullied by the older guys on the block when the O’Briens first moved onto the Bay Road, seven years before.

Billy realized that Kevin had a point, but felt compelled to ask, So what are you gonna do? Fight his battles all your life?

Kevin had no answer so he changed the subject. Where the fuck is Roberto?

Billy looked at the huge clock jutting out from the Manufacturers Hanover Bank building a couple of hundred feet away. Relax. It’s only ten to seven. Then he glanced the other way and said, Hey look. Here comes Sweet Ass.

Carrie Sweet Ass wiggled toward Kevin and Billy. Hi, she said first. You see Emily?

Kevin and Billy mumbled No and Carrie resumed her strut down the Bay Road. Billy watched until Carrie’s white, skin-tight, short-shorts disappeared into Del Mar’s Pizzeria. Then he looked at Kevin who was in an apparent hypnotic state, staring as if Carrie were still in view. Billy laughed and snapped his fingers in front of Kevin’s face. Come out of it, man. She’s gone. Look at you. I never saw anybody get hung up on a chick’s ass like you do.

Kevin smiled as he turned toward the pizzeria. Carrie Sweet Ass reappeared. There she goes again, Bill.

Carrie strutted out of the pizzeria and wiggled gleefully down the block. The guys again stared in awe. Wow! Billy said dreamily. You sure named her right. That is one sweet ass.

Kevin and Billy hung out on the corner for another forty-five minutes. Friends and acquaintances came and went. But no Roberto.

Billy checked the bank clock again. He ain’t comin’. Let’s shoot some pool.

Nah. Not yet.

Fuck it, man. He woulda been here by now. I’m starved. I didn’t eat supper. I’m going for some pizza. You want?

No.

I do. Be right back, Billy said as he turned and left.

Just then, Roberto came around the East Eighteenth Street corner. Kevin saw him and felt the adrenalin spike, a feeling he never enjoyed. He crossed the Bay Road and drew the blackjack/screwdriver.

In the next instant, Roberto saw a wild-eyed Kevin charging at him. At ten feet away and his opponent closing fast, Roberto caught a glance of the ominous object in Kevin’s right hand. Kevin swung. Roberto ducked back and literally heard the weapon whiz by his ear. Petrified, Roberto straightened up and ran away.

Kevin yelled, Where ya goin’, big guy?

Roberto turned to face Kevin but kept backpedaling. Then he raised his arms high above his head and yelled, Fight with your fists.

Kevin couldn’t help but laugh—a light heavyweight lecturing a welterweight that he had to fight fair. Kevin screamed back triumphantly as he waved the blackjack/ screwdriver in Roberto’s direction. "This is my fist." Then Kevin took two steps toward Roberto who turned again and ran. Kevin didn’t bother to chase him.

Kevin crossed back over to Del Mar’s and Billy, a half-eaten slice of pizza in his hand, swallowed and asked, Where were you?

I met Roberto down the block.

What! I fuckin’ missed it! What the fuck happened?

Kevin revealed the blackjack/screwdriver. I threw a punch at him with this and he split.

Whoa! What’d ya wanna do, kill him?

No, man. It’s just an equalizer. Come on. Let’s shoot some pool before we go watch The Stones.

The best friends walked across Voorhies Avenue to John’s Billiard Academy, a few doors down from the Sheepshead Theater where How The West Was Won was playing. Then the buddies bopped into the poolroom and immediately headed for the silent jukebox. Kevin dropped in a dime and selected Del Shannon’s Runaway, which began as the friends took a table up front and began to shoot pool.

The boys turning into men had been competing against each other at pocket billiards ever since they were thirteen and had to use phony proof to get in the poolroom, where you had to be sixteen to enter. When at their best, the friends were evenly matched. But tonight Billy was hot and Kevin’s mind was elsewhere. Billy won the game easily, fifty to thirty-two.

Afterwards, the friends hung out for a while, then left for Kevin’s house to watch The Stones. About a block and a half before they reached their destination, two menacing figures appeared at the fork in the road formed by the convergence of East Thirteenth Street and Sheepshead Bay Road, just north of Avenue Y. Kevin recognized one of them, Bad Louie, a roughneck from Bedford Park. Kevin and Billy saw Louie and his pal cut across the street in their direction. Confrontation loomed. Kevin reached for the hidden weapon. The four teenagers, all of comparable size and age, crossed paths. Louie, hands in his pockets and elbows jutting outward, positioned himself directly in Kevin’s way. Kevin held his ground and banged his arm into Louie’s side. All four stopped to face off. Kevin saw the fear in Louie’s pinned eyes. Louie started to take his hands out of his pockets but he never had a chance. Kevin crushed Louie’s temple with the blackjack/screwdriver, immediately knocking him into unconsciousness. Louie’s eyes rolled up behind his forehead as he fell straight backwards and crashed into the pavement. Kevin, cold and robotic, turned and walked away with Billy at his side. Louie’s pal stood petrified.

Billy said, Wow, man! You knocked him out with that thing. It was like in the movies.

The sound of Billy’s voice awakened Kevin from his trance-like state. Did you see how he went down? His eyes rolled back into his fuckin’ head. He looked like he was on goofballs. Then he goes and crashes his fucked-up head into the fuckin’ concrete. Did you see how he looked? Kevin paused. Shit. I think I killed him.

Billy, speechless, stared at Kevin’s ghost-white face. They walked on, silently. All Kevin could think about was his future as a convicted murderer. He resigned himself, ‘I’ll be thirty-six when I get out.’ Then in horror, he thought, ‘Oh fuck. Twenty fucking years. Maybe worse.’

When the dazed friends stepped onto the dirt driveway leading to the O’Brien place, Kevin hid the weapon in the weeds near his aunt’s house and told Billy, Don’t say anything to my mother. Billy agreed.

Mrs. O’Brien (Irish in name only, her parents both being emigrants from Naples, Italy) was straightening up the kitchen when she heard Kevin and his friend enter. She walked into the living room and immediately noticed the pale in her son’s face. Billy gave his stylish big hello. Hi Mrs. O’Brien.

Mrs. O’Brien, a pretty and petite five-foot two brunette, greeted the visitor. Hi Billy.

Kevin’s brothers Butch and Gerry were seated on the couch and also exchanged greetings with Billy who was being overly personable.

Mrs. O’Brien asked the silent Kevin, What’s wrong, son?

Nothing’s wrong, Ma. Why do you say that?

Are you sick, son? Did something happen?

Kevin hated his mother’s insight sometimes. I told you, nothing happened. Gimme a break, will ya? We’re here to watch The Stones and that’s it. Kevin turned to his brother. How long before they’re on, Butch?

Butch looked at the thermostat clock on the wall by the archway leading to the kitchen. It was nine twenty-five. In about five minutes, he said, if they go on first, which they won’t.

Kevin manufactured some enthusiasm. Alright! Ma, anything to eat?

There are some pretzels and chips, said Mrs. O’Brien, suspending her concern as she walked to the kitchen to get the snacks.

Kevin avoided his mother’s eyes as he hustled toward the bathroom. There the mirror clearly revealed to Kevin the horror his mother had noticed. He looked blindly into the sink and saw Bad Louie’s eyes rolling into unconsciousness. Thoughts of murder, court, jail, and the electric chair replayed relentlessly in Kevin’s head. He turned on the faucet and splashed cold water in his face, took a few deep breaths, examined his now less-horrified expression in the mirror, and began to comb back his wavy brown hair. As usual, his drop wave barely dropped. Too much Vaseline.

When Kevin left the bathroom he was determined not to let his fear show. As he entered the living room, Kevin sat in his father’s dark green, vinyl recliner chair and leaned back. Hollywood Palace had already begun. He glanced over at the couch where Billy and Butch were seated, saw their faces and realized that Billy had told Butch what had happened. Kevin glared at Billy who shrugged and looked away. Mrs. O’Brien entered the living room and asked Kevin, Feeling any better, son?

Yeah, Ma. I’m fine.

Keep the TV down. I just got Gerry into bed.

Butch groaned. Maaahhh. The Stones are comin’ on. We wanna hear them, you know?

You’ll hear them, Mrs. O’Brien said as she lowered the volume. It’s loud enough. I’m going to my room to sew.

A few seconds after Mrs. O’Brien left the room, there came a sudden pounding on the door. Kevin turned white as his adrenaline spiked. ‘The cops,’ he thought. He looked at Butch and Billy, their eyes opened wide. No one moved to see who it was. Kevin broke the silence with a contrived but strong and demanding voice. Who is it?

There quickly came a gravelly yell. Kevin?

Kevin didn’t respond. Suddenly the door flew open and everyone jumped out of their seats. Standing outside the doorway was Bad Louie, his left temple bloodied and swollen. Louie turned and screamed out, They’re in here, then ran down the stoop and toward the street where his gang was waiting. Kevin quickly locked the door. He peered out the door’s diamond-shaped window and saw five or six guys. Then Butch shouted from the corner of the picture window, which presented him with a clear vantage point for observing the scene in the alley. Holy shit! There must be thirty of those fucks out there.

Kevin barely heard his brother’s report. His mind was busy rejoicing, ‘He’s alive! Bad Louie’s fucking alive! Yes!’

Though she had a hearing loss, Mrs. O’Brien had no problem discerning the commotion in her living room. She appeared quickly and asked, What’s going on? What’s happening out there? as she walked to the picture window and peered outside.

As his mother focused on the gang in the alleyway, Butch told her, Kevin krelled some wise-guy from the park and now all his friends want to do him in.

Mrs. O’Brien shook as she turned and faced her oldest son. Kevin, is it true?

Afraid so, Ma.

A voice from the alleyway hollered, Come on out Kevin. Come on out you scumbag.

Kevin pulled out two baseball bats from behind the radiator near the door. He handed one to Billy. Here ya go. Billy accepted the bat in silence.

Butch asked, Where’s mine?

Kevin answered in a commander’s voice. There are only two.

Gerry came into the living room rubbing his tired eyes. Ma, I can’t sleep.

Mrs. O’Brien grabbed the hand of her youngest son while telling her oldest, Kevin! You’re not going out there.

Butch stated, Of course he is, Ma . . .

Kevin said, No, I’m not going out there. These are in case they try and get in.

Mrs. O’Brien shuddered. Oh my God, she said, then made the sign of the cross and began praying.

Butch looked at his mother and little brother and tried to grab the bat out of Kevin’s hands. Kevin resisted. Butch demanded, Gimme the fuckin’ bat. I’m not afraid to go out there.

Kevin held firm. Nobody’s going anywhere.

Gerry rubbed his eyes and said, Mommy, I’m tired. I wanna go to bed.

Kevin walked over to the end table by the couch, picked up his mother’s hand written telephone book, looked up the number for the 61st Precinct, and dialed the beige rotary telephone. The police sergeant at the desk answered. Kevin spoke in a convincing Jewish accent. Hello, hello. This is Irving Goldberg. There’s a gang in the street going crazy, beating up somebody. I think it’s a policeman they’re hitting . . . On Sheepshead Bay Road between Neck Road and X . . . Okay. Hurry.

Kevin hung up the phone. An Alka Seltzer commercial blared on the television, its volume momentarily capturing the attention of Kevin, Butch and Billy. Mrs. O’Brien continued comforting Gerry who was now falling asleep as he stood leaning on his mother. No one spoke. A loud threatening voice from outside intruded. Hey O’Brien you scumbag. Do we have to come in and get you or what, you chicken fuck?

Suddenly, sirens could be heard in the distance. The Bedford Park gang scattered. All but one got away, Bad Louie.

Kevin, Butch and Billy, watching from the picture window, couldn’t resist the temptation to go outside. Unarmed, they walked through the alleyway towards the street. Mrs. O’Brien called from the doorway, Come back here! But they didn’t listen. She rushed out, Gerry in tow.

Near the street, a giant of a police captain among a dozen other cops, and in view of the gathering neighbors, approached Kevin. What the hell are you doing out here?

We live here, Kevin replied.

Where? Who lives here? All of you?

Mrs. O’Brien arrived short of breath, dragging her youngest son behind her. Officer, officer. These two are my sons. We live in the back. My sister’s family are all away and . . . this is Billy, a friend of Kevin’s.

And who are you, ma’am?

Me? I’m . . . I’m . . . Mrs. Theresa O’Brien.

Do you know what all the fun and games are all about, Mrs. O’Brien?

Kevin spoke quickly. How the hell would she know? The question and attitude cued Mrs. O’Brien not to say anything and manipulated the officer’s attention.

A wise-ass, are you? the captain said calmly. You’d better wise up and watch how you talk.

Kevin said nothing. He glanced beyond the captain and noticed other police officers talking to Louie. A sergeant put his arm around the bloodied teen and the two of them walked toward the captain. Kevin thought, ‘Oh shit.’

The captain, not missing a trick, noticed the change in Kevin’s expression as Bad Louie and the sergeant approached. Billy and Butch stood silently. Mrs. O’Brien gasped when she saw Bad Louie’s swollen and battered face. The sergeant said, Take a look at this kid, Captain.

The captain asked, Who did this to you, son?

Louie answered, I fell.

Kevin breathed a sigh of relief.

The captain almost laughed. Fell?

Fell, Bad Louie said. F-E-L-L. Fell

Another snot-nose. This isn’t a spelling-bee, son. What are you doing here?

I was taking a walk. I saw a crowd. I came by to see what was happening.

Turning to face Kevin, the captain said, Sure you did. Then he asked his sergeant, Anyone else hurt?

No, sir.

The captain stared off into the clear night sky. Seconds slowly passed as he made up his mind and looked back down. I don’t want any more trouble out of you two. Got it? Kevin and Louie looked at each other, then away. The captain added, Alright then. Everybody go home . . . except you son. You’re going to Coney Island Hospital.

The sergeant took Bad Louie to a squad car and Mrs. O’Brien led her three sons and Billy back into the house. On the television, a grinning Dean Martin was mocking the departure of the O’Brien brothers’ favorite rock group, rolling his eyes and asking sarcastically, Weren’t they great?

Damn, Butch said. We missed The Stones.

Chapter Two

AFTER SCHOOL ADJOURNED for the summer of 1964, Kevin ran into Vito Gregorio, a leader of the Bedford Park gang. To Kevin and most everyone, Vito was one of those guys who had it all: looks, street fighting ability, and girls. Kevin was regarded similarly among his peers, but Vito held a slight advantage overall. That of course didn’t stop Kevin from challenging his distant acquaintance about the events a few weeks before. I heard you were with the Bedford boys outside my house that night.

Yeah. I was there.

What the fuck’s the matter with you pullin’ that shit outside my house?

"What’s the matter with me? What’s the matter with me? What the fuck is wrong with you? Look at what you did to Louie’s head."

Kevin took a step forward and raised his voice. "Yeah, okay. But why the hell did you bring the whole fuckin’ park to my house?"

I didn’t bring them, Vito said strongly and convincingly. "They were goin’ anyway. In fact, I’ll tell you what, man. I’ll tell you what. In fact, they wanted to storm into your house, but I talked them out of it."

Kevin sensed that Vito was telling the truth and took a step back.

Vito continued. But what the fuck? It’s over, right?

Kevin thought for a moment. Yeah. Okay. Let’s forget it.

The adrenalin subsided. Silence dominated. Then Vito broke the newly-formed ice. So, what are you doing tonight? Seeing Dinah?

Dinah? No. I broke up with her. Haven’t seen her for ages.

"She’s gorgeous . . . like Carol Lynley. How come you broke up with her?"

I don’t know. It was like . . . automatic or something. I never go out with anyone for more than a few months.

Yeah, I know what you mean. So what are you doin’ tonight?

Nothin’. Just hanging out. How about you?

Nothin’. I was supposed to meet Linda but her mother won’t let her out of the house . . . Feel like some beer?

Nah, I’m broke, replied Kevin, thinking, ‘I’m always fuckin’ broke.’

I got some money. You wanna get drunk or what?

Yeah, okay. You got proof?

No, but I can get some beer without proof at the grocery store off Shore Parkway. My friend Charlie works there. If he’s at the register tonight, then . . . You wanna fuckin’ go or what?

Yeah, sure. Let’s go.

And with that, the duo headed for the grocery store and bought three quarts of Ballentine Beer, which was on sale, three for a dollar. As the new pals were leaving the store, Vito asked Kevin, Where do you wanna drink?

Let’s go to the waterfront. I got a great spot. No cops, benches . . .

Oh yeah, I know where you mean, down by West End Avenue.

Right, around there.

Yeah, okay.

The waterfront was actually Sheepshead Bay, the Atlantic Ocean inlet where charter-fishing boats flourished. Speedboats, sailboats and cabin cruisers brightened up the brownish, polluted water. The Bay itself divided the poorto-middle class Sheepshead Bay inhabitants from the rich folks in Manhattan Beach, one of the wealthiest sections in Brooklyn.

Kevin always liked the western most portion of the Bay where a block-long stretch was kept like a little, unenclosed park with grass, tall trees, and wooden benches. Although there was a one-man police booth at the southern end, very rarely did any policeman ever actually patrol away from the booth. As a result, the area became a favorite escape for Kevin, a great place to drink with buddies or neck with a girl.

When Kevin and Vito arrived on the scene, the place was deserted. Kevin could never figure out why such a great hangout area was usually empty. They picked a bench, sat down facing the Bay, and prepared to drink. One for the boys, Kevin said as he poured some beer into the grassy earth.

What’s that? Vito asked.

One for the boys who died in wartime. Don’t you drink to them?

No, I never heard of that.

Tommy taught me that when I first started drinking, Kevin bragged in reference to the time when he was fourteen years old. We always do it.

Alright, what the fuck? Vito said, pouring some beer into the earth. One for the boys.

It was hot and muggy and neither Kevin nor Vito could hold his drink to begin with. They became intoxicated before finishing the first quart and were having a great old time for themselves—sharing stories about girls, joy-riding, high school, fights, and the likelihood of being drafted into the Army in a few years. Neither recognized his own aimless future. Together they sang some Beatle songs and a few doo-wop numbers but couldn’t get the harmony right. Kevin was too inebriated to notice that his vocals were flat but he did realize that Vito had a very distinctive and powerful voice, somewhat high pitched, but still masculine.

After the beer was too warm to enjoy, the new friends nevertheless continued drinking until two of the three quarts were done. Then, thoroughly drunk, they decided to leave, but first they hid the unopened bottle behind a tree for later.

On their way to Del Mar’s Pizzeria on the Bay Road to see what, if anything, was happening, the drinking buddies conscientiously placed the two empty bottles in a nearby litter basket.

At Del Mar’s, Nunzio was working alone when the two drunken teens staggered in.

Hey Nunzie, Kevin said. See anyone around?

Some of your pals were here before, Nunzio answered with a look of disgust.

Vito yelled out in his comic-obnoxious way, Who gives a fuck about them? Where’s the fuckin’ chicks? The half dozen or so patrons all laughed, but no one answered.

Let’s check out the poolroom, Kevin suggested, wanting to see his buddies.

Vito spoke loudly. The poolroom? There ain’t no fuckin’ chicks in the poolroom. Most of the patrons laughed again, but not as hard.

There ain’t none here either, Kevin yelled, continuing the spectacle. Not without dates, anyway.

Even through the haze, Vito sensed the performance going downhill. Alright, let’s check out the fucked-up poolroom.

As the two intoxicated teens left the pizzeria and staggered towards the poolroom, Vito glanced across the Bay Road and noticed that the store next to Kay’s Children’s Wear looked different. What the fuck is happening to Kay’s?

Kevin knew part of the answer. Next door is where the old shoemaker hung himself. They’re putting some kind of new store there.

What shoemaker?

The shoemaker who used to have the store there. Didn’t you hear? He hung himself.

No . . . but fuck him. What’s gonna be there now?

I’m not sure. Another clothes store, I think. Let’s check it out.

They crossed the Bay Road and entered the recessed area leading up to the doorway. The brand new windows and framework indicated renovation. Kevin peered through the window next to the door but it was too dark inside to see. He moved over to where there was more light, cupped his hands along his temples and leaned on the glass door which suddenly flew open. Kevin fell to the floor, halfway inside. Hey Vito, the fuckin’ door’s unlocked.

I see, man, I see.

Let’s go in.

Uh . . . I don’t know, man. What’s in there? Can you see?

It’s pretty empty. Just looks like some boxes and shit. Come on, let’s go.

Vito agreed, reluctantly. Kevin pushed the door and held it open for his partner in crime. As the trespassers went inside, Vito let go of the door and it slammed shut behind him. Both teens jumped and then laughed at their own fear. Vito tried to open the door but couldn’t. There’s no fuckin’ doorknob!

Let me see, Kevin said, feeling through the dark. Then, with his long, strong fingernails, Kevin pressed hard against the quarter inch of metal that had not closed flush into the frame. He pulled the door open about six inches before it slipped closed. He did it again but this time with less tension and was able to grab the door before it closed completely. No sweat. We can get out anytime. Let’s check the place out.

The boys fumbled around as their eyes adjusted to the darkness. Kevin grabbed a sealed cardboard box, about one foot square, and ripped it open. Inside was a brand new wall lamp. Vito opened a similar box and discovered the same. Kevin opened another. They’re all fucking lamps, Kevin said dejectedly.

Wait a minute, what’s this? Vito asked as he pointed to an eight-foot long, one-foot wide box leaning against the wall.

I don’t know. Open it.

Vito tilted the cumbersome but surprisingly light box and set it down. An anxious Kevin tried to rip it open but couldn’t get through the industrial tape that lined the edges. Let’s take it over to the Green Grass and open it there, Kevin said, referring to the tree-lined stretch of patch grass and earth near the Coney Island Avenue exit of the westbound Belt Parkway.

Okay.

They positioned the mystery box in front of the store as Kevin opened the door which slammed shut as he tried to lift up the box’s front end. They both laughed hysterically at their own ineptitude. Kevin repeated the process, this time putting his foot in front of the door before it closed. Then he kicked opened the door, but it closed back, jarring the box from Vito’s grasp. Both stumbled and fell, laughing uncontrollably. Once more they tried, this time with Kevin opening the door for Vito who slid the front end of the box outside. They were nearly hysterical as they pushed the damn thing out the door. Once outside, Kevin reached down and barked directions. One, two, three . . . lift!

Six steps later, Kevin looked up to see the scowling face of Fat Frank, the new cop on the beat. Kevin raised an eyebrow, nodded, said, How ya’ doin’? and continued walking.

Astonished, the policeman yelled, How am I doin’? and drew his pistol. Drop that fuckin’ box and get up against the wall, both of you. Move it! Kevin reacted slowly and the cop grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and threw him toward the window. Kevin turned his face but still crashed his cheek against the glass.

Hey, take it easy, Kevin said. We found that thing lying against the door.

Don’t give me any of that shit. I know the door was open . . . Hey, you too. Over here. Vito complied.

Frank stopped waving his gun and began gliding it back into his holster when Kevin said angrily. If you knew the fuckin’ door was open, why didn’t you call the owner to lock it? The answer was a nightstick across the back of Kevin’s thighs. Kevin just glared.

The cop grabbed Kevin in a hammerlock and commanded Vito to come closer. Then he handcuffed the teens together, pushed them over to a No-Parking sign, and handcuffed them back-to-back, around the pole, with a second set of cuffs.

Roughly, Frank frisked Vito and then Kevin who felt a hand grab hold of his crotch. Hey! Kevin said angrily. Keep your hands off my balls.

Shaddup, the officer hollered, then yelled to the crowd gathering outside of Del Mar’s, Somebody call the station and get me a radio car. I got me a couple of burglars here. Somebody made the call. Frank took a few steps backward and lit a cigarette.

Realizing how uncharacteristically quiet Vito had been during all this, Kevin arched his head back and whispered, Vito, did this fuckin’ homo grab your balls too?

Vito spoke weakly. No.

What’s wrong?

Vito sighed. Ever been busted before?

No, not really. I got picked up once when I ran away to Philadelphia with my friends Dennis and Jackie from Tech, but that was no big deal.

Vito became impatient. "No big deal for you maybe. They’ll take us to the station, then court tomorrow, and if your parents put up bail you’ll go home until the trial, if there is one. Anyway, you’ll probably get probation. But for me, this’ll be my third bust. I’m already on probation for stealing cars. I could go away."

For this shit? They’d put you away for this shit?

Not just for this. I told you. I’m already on probation. The judge told me last time that he’d send me away if I ever came before him again.

The seriousness of what was happening finally started to dawn on Kevin.

Vito continued. This is a fuckin’ felony. Burglary is a fuckin’ felony. Unless my lawyer can plea bargain, I’m gonna be fucked.

We gotta hire a lawyer?

Of course, man. Or else we don’t stand a chance.

An uncomfortable wave of reality swarmed over Kevin. He was going to jail and might stay there unless his parents would bail him out. He’d have to get an attorney, he realized, but doubted that his parents could afford to do so. Silently, he cursed his own stupidity.

The police car arrived and two uniformed patrolmen got out. The driver asked, What’ve you got there, Frank?

A couple of burglars! Frank announced proudly.

What’d they get?

Nothing. I caught them trying to steal the package over there, Frank said pointing.

Probably a fixture, the other officer said. We can’t take that and them too. I’ll radio another car to pick it up. Let’s unlock the handcuffs and get them in the car.

Frank released the prisoners from the pole, and then cuffed them individually with hands behind their backs. Alright, you little pricks. Get in the car.

Kevin entered first and yelled boldly, Watch your balls, Vito. You don’t want Frank to get them.

Frank raged after Kevin and crushed Vito in the process. Ayyyy, Vito screamed in exaggerated pain.

The driver pulled his fellow-officer away. Easy, Frank. They’re kids.

Frank screamed at Kevin, I’ll be seeing you again, you wise little shit.

Kevin adopted a sissified voice and said, Sorry chubbsy ubbsy, you’re not my type.

You wait, you little prick!

Five minutes later they arrived at the 61st Precinct on Avenue U and East Fifteenth Street. Kevin wondered if any of the cops from the Bad Louie night would be there and recognize him. Some were there, but no one recognized him.

By the time the prisoners were booked, fingerprinted and thrown into separate but adjoining cells, it was nearly midnight. The police allowed the teenage prisoners no phone calls but did secretly contact their parents and explain the situation.

After an officer left them in the cell area, Vito called to Kevin who was still staring disbelievingly at the lock. Kevin?

Yeah.

Scratch your name on the wall.

What wall?

The wall in the back of the cell.

Kevin turned to the wall, which recently had been painted battleship gray.

Vito asked, See my name over there?

Kevin checked again. No. It looks like they just painted it.

Vito turned and examined the walls of his cell. Names were all over the place. Mine ain’t painted, he said, and then yelled out, Guard, I want a new cell. Kevin laughed.

A voice from the end of the cell area shouted, Shut up you two and go to sleep.

Vito shot back, Fuck you. There was no reply. Vito semi-whispered, Kevin, did you check out your cot yet?

Uh, no.

Try it.

The two-by-six foot cot was attached to a wall about three feet off the floor. Kevin sat down and leaned back on the thin lumpy mattress. Oh fuck, man, this is the worst.

Come on you guys, I’m trying to sleep, the unknown prisoner complained.

Just jerk off, Vito yelled. That’ll help you sleep.

Kevin felt the need to rest. Vito, I could dig some sleep too.

Don’t forget to scratch your name on the wall.

What for?

It’s what everyone does.

With what?

Got any change?

Kevin checked his pockets. All I have is a nickel.

That’s good.

Kevin hesitated. Are you gonna do it?

No. My name is already in this cell.

Kevin turned to walk to the rear wall. Alright, what the fuck? He etched his full name in three-inch high letters across a two-foot long area and felt more stupid than proud as he yelled, Done!

Cool, Vito said, then asked, You goin’ to sleep, now?

I’m gonna try.

Yeah, me too.

The unknown prisoner rejoiced. Finally!

It was the last word spoken in the cell area that night.

At five-fifteen the next morning, a cop called out mockingly, Rise and shine, and dragged his billy-club across the bars. Kevin woke up immediately and felt a full bladder. Vito arose and realized hunger. Kevin asked for permission to use the bathroom and the officer allowed him to do so.

As he walked to the dirty, smelly toilet, Kevin saw the other prisoner, an old bum, still sleeping. The officer rattled his billy-club between two bars and yelled, Come on, get up Pop. The hobo stirred.

Kevin stepped into a puddle of pee as he approached the bowl half-filled with urine, cigarette butts, and toilet paper. He had to concentrate to heed nature’s call. Then he zipped up and kicked the flusher, but it failed to work. Instinctively, Kevin reached for the faucet to wash his hands but thought better of it when he saw that it hadn’t been cleaned in a long, long time. He zipped his jeans, turned and left, wishing he had a comb for his hair.

The officer returned Kevin to his cell and then escorted Vito to the bathroom and back.

Before the officer left, Vito asked him, Hey, can we get some breakfast today or what?

The officer said, Sure. Got the money?

Vito gave his last dollar. Coffee and a toasted bagel for me . . . Kevin! Do you want somethin’?

Kevin was too disgusted by the bathroom stench still in his nostrils to think of eating anything. Nah.

The officer left and two minutes later another policeman came in. Let’s go, he ordered.

Go? Vito asked. Where’s my coffee and bagel?

The policeman joked, Didn’t you get it to go?

Vito took him seriously. To go? Who the fuck knew we were going so soon?

I did, for one.

Nobody told us.

Well, next time we’ll keep you informed, okay? I promise. Now come on, let’s go. With that, the cop unlocked Vito’s cell and Vito, grumbling, got out. Next came Kevin and then the sleepy old drunk.

On leaving the precinct, Kevin stared at Avenue U, a street that he had walked along so many times before, never appreciating the freedom now denied.

Neither Vito nor Kevin spoke as they went submissively into the paddy wagon. The sun hadn’t risen completely yet and the filthy, gated windows provided little light. The old drunk plopped himself down on one side of the paddy wagon bench. Kevin and Vito sat rigidly on the other. Where we goin’ first, Vito?

Probably to Coney Island. That’s where we stopped last time. There’s always busts there.

Fifteen minutes later, three heroin addicts entered the paddy wagon from the 60th Precinct in Coney Island. They were White, in their thirties, and still stoned from the night before. Kevin and Vito shot each other knowing glances. One addict shoved the old drunk who sat up. Then the addict and his cousin sat down to the left of the drunk and almost immediately both junkies started to nod. The third addict sat next to Vito and said, Hey, I know you, while furiously scratching the bottom of his nose with the top of his right index finger. You’re from the End, right?

The End was at the southeastern end of Sheepshead Bay, and was also called Plum Beach, where, due to the highly-polluted conditions of the water, swimming was prohibited.

Yeah, Vito answered.

What’s your name?

Vito.

I’m Mickey, the addict said, offering to shake Vito’s hand. Vito accepted. Mickey asked, "Hey Vito, you got a

cigarette?"

No.

How about you, friend?

No, we don’t smoke, man, Kevin said.

No shit? Mickey replied, and then fell into a heroin nod. Kevin and Vito stared at him for an instant. Mickey emerged from the nod and continued the conversation where he had left off. Yeah, smoking’s no good for you. Kevin and Vito ignored Mickey who returned to his nod where he remained until half an hour later when the wagon made one more stop, in Flatbush.

When the door opened to let in four more prisoners, Kevin couldn’t believe what he thought he was seeing: big, young, hard-looking colored chicks. Kevin nudged Vito who kept staring out the door. As the new prisoners entered the paddy wagon, Kevin and Vito both started to realize that these weren’t females at all, but men in their twenties fully dressed up as women in heels, skirts, falsies, blouses, make-up and wigs. Kevin and Vito had seen transvestites before, but such a sight was rare, especially at such close range. The chicks with dicks set themselves down ever so gingerly on the floor between the benches.

How’s my makeup? one transvestite asked the other in an exaggeratedly feminine voice.

Oh, it’s such a mess, the other meowed.

I’m just so embarrassed, the first said. I need a mirror. Either of you boys have a mirror?

There was a few seconds of silence before Kevin said helpfully, Yeah, I got a mirror.

Pleasantly surprised, the transvestite continued. Well, can I borrow your mirror, sweetheart?

Nope.

Nope? Why not?

"Because my mirror is home."

It was an old sucker-joke Kevin often used. Only Vito laughed. The junkies and the drunk were out cold.

Well, they’d better have a mirror in the stinkin’ hole they’re taking us to, the first transvestite said, ignoring Kevin’s barb. I want to be pretty in court.

Kevin and Vito traded looks and burst out laughing. Their explosive and exaggerated hysterics didn’t seem to bother the transvestites who retreated into their own little conversation as the sardonic hysteria continued.

Fifteen minutes later the paddy wagon pulled up to the criminal courthouse in Downtown Brooklyn. Two police officers exited the cab to let the prisoners out and escort them to the holding cell in the courthouse building. As he approached the rear of the wagon, the driver asked his partner, Do you think we’ll need the cuffs, Mark?

Nah. All we got is three junkies, four queers, two jaydees and a drunk-and-disorderly.

What did the jay-dees do?

Stole a lamp or some stupid shit.

Additional security guards came out of the courthouse to bring the prisoners inside. Mark opened the paddy wagon door and ordered, Okay, let’s go, as he banged his nightstick against the floor.

One of the transvestites started to bitch. Pleeeease, not so loud!

Get up! Mark demanded, pointing the club at the transvestite’s lower body, Or you’ll end up with this stick up your ass.

Ooooo, the transvestite cooed.

Mark crashed his billy-club against the door. Let’s go, goddamn it!

The guards drew closer to the wagon. Vito nudged Kevin to exit. The pals both stood up at the same time and headed for the door. Kevin noticed that the sun was shining. It’s gonna be a hot one, he said to no one in particular, stepping down and out from the wagon. Vito was next and turned to see the transvestites rising to leave.

Mark banged his club on the door once more. Let’s go! Move it! The three addicts and the drunk, all emerging from a dead sleep, followed the transvestites out of the mobile cage. The guards led the prisoners from the street into the courthouse and to the elevator that took them to the holding cell area.

In transit, the old drunk, red-faced, bleary-eyed, and thinking he was about to speak to women, approached the transvestites. Please excuse me, darlings, the drunk slurred in a pitiful attempt at acting seductive. But do any of you happen to have a cigarette?

One transvestite shouted, No, you dirty old fool, and if I had one I wouldn’t give it to the likes of you.

The drunk opened his eyes wide and realized that this was no female. He bowed in gentleman-like fashion and said, So very sorry, Your Highness. Please, please forgive me.

Yes, you should be sorry, the transvestite scolded.

Kevin and Vito started laughing hard again. The transvestites stared at them but said nothing.

Moments later, in the holding area, whistles and catcalls filled the air as outstretched hands groped through the bars in the new prisoners’ direction. Hey, girls, yoo-hoo, I got something here for you. Over here, maricone! Over here! Come on over here baby and suck my dick.

A guard was about to unlock the door to the cage when the animal population converged toward him. The guard retreated and told his partner, Better put them in the next one. The cat-calls, vulgarities,