Streets

By Sharon Killingsworth

STREETS
If you dare to cross over, can you ever come back?
1957
Seventeen-year-old Frankie Moreno’s life is a mess. Raised on the streets, his father dead, his mother just a memory. His sister’s boyfriend, a drug dealing pimp, complicates Frankie’s life.

Being war lord for a street gang, the Regents, gives Frankie a sense of belonging—a family. But that all disappears when his girl moves away and his best friend, Lennie, Regent president, threatens to disband the gang, to quit. Their conflict explodes and Frankie runs—straight to the rival gang.
Then it all comes apart.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jan 7, 2021
• ISBN: 9781664150447

Sharon Killingsworth

Sharon Killingsworth is the author of many short stories including “E Street Trailer Park” and ”Good Cat.” Her short story “Born to Ride” appeared in the anthology Stories and Poems from Close to Home published in 1986, and her racetrack story “Crazy Sally” appeared in the 2015 anthology Carry the Light. Her first book, Zero, was published in 2010. This is her second novel. She is a native Californian and makes her home in Mountain View, California.

Book preview

Copyright © 2021 by Sharon Killingsworth.

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.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 03/11/2021

Xlibris

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CONTENTS

Acknowledgements

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Dedica

tion

For Floyd

Acknowledgements

A special thanks to my dear friend, Kathryn Maller, for her reading, editing and endless encouragement.

Thanks also, to my fellow authors in our writing group, especially Sylvia Halloran. Without your help and support, I wouldn’t have finished this book.

Thank you,

Sharon Killingsworth

Prologue

STREETS

Frankie climbed the last step and pushed the heavy door open. He flicked his cigarette over the roof’s edge and stared out over the city. He liked being up high. Liked the air, the wind, the cold that froze your fingers in the winter, the summer heat that made you pray for snow.

Today was a day of oppressive heat, where sweat ran down your back and your lungs struggled for air. Not one whisper of breeze slipped down from the white sky. He could see everything from here, up and down Fulton Street—the boundary line between Regent and Bishop territory. All that went on in the neighborhood—the good, the bad, even miracles sometimes. The roof offered the solitude he craved, yet kept him safe. And he could know everything.

His eyes shifted to the tarp-covered chest stuffed under the overhang of the ancient heating unit. Nobody ever went near it, or even knew it was there—nobody but the Pigeon Guy. Pigeon Guy didn’t care about anything but his damn birds anyway. Frankie fed them once in awhile, when Alvin had one of his spells. He didn’t mind helping the guy out a little. Besides, the birds always seemed happy to see him. And his war chest was safe among the cages and rusted pipes. Not Mike or Rocky, not even Lennie knew where it was. It was his ace-in-the-hole, his insurance.

His power.

Chapter 1

1957

Another lousy day of school. Frankie flicked his half-smoked cigarette onto the hallway floor where it disappeared under an onslaught of penny-loafers and motorcycle boots. He straightened his black Regent jacket and turned the collar up. Satisfied, he ran his fingers through his brown hair, knowing it would fall back in place—the perfect cut, the natural wave. Didn’t need the grease and goop to get what he wanted, the perfect ducktail.

He slammed the door of his locker and stepped into the over-crowded hall. He liked the way everyone moved out of his way. Nobody fooled with the Regent war lord. Not if they were smart. But things were changing—some of the older guys were leaving the gang—with no new recruits in sight. Frankie’s fingers moved to the bruise on his jaw. Only three Regents left at Caldwell. Their numbers were dwindling.

The tardy bell sounded. Mr. Thompson turned from the blackboard as he entered, motioned with yellow, chalk-covered fingers. Frank.

Shit. The damn jacket rule.

Frank, the English teacher repeated.

He stopped in front the teacher’s desk, crossed his arms over his chest. What?

Mr. Thompson eyed the black nylon jacket. You know the rule. No club jackets allowed on school premises.

Class chatter quieted. Frankie let out a slow breath. They were waiting, waiting to see what he was gonna do. Put this guy in his place, or what? He stared hard at the fresh-out-of-college teacher, at the pressed shirt, the neat, short haircut. This guy had been on his case since the beginning. Said he wasn’t living up to his potential. What the hell did it matter?

How about it, Frank? Mr.Thompson asked. Why the jacket?

Forgot, he shrugged. So what? Behind him a shuffle of feet as Mike and Rocky pushed and jostled each other into the room, late as usual. Frankie smiled. His buddies wore the same jackets, white lettering spelling out Regents embroidered across the backs. Carbon-copies of himself.

Mike. Rocky, Thompson called. Over here.

Rocky glanced at Frankie and flicked a strand of jet black hair out of his eyes before moving. Mike followed.

I suppose both of you forgot? the teacher said.

Forgot what? Mike smiled and ran a finger down a blond sideburn.

Yeah, forgot what? Rocky repeated. What’d we forget?

The rule. About club jackets, Thompson said. Maybe you boys had better take a walk down to see Mr. Leland.

Frankie’s dark eyes narrowed. Thompson knew he was getting dangerously close to suspension. The creep would like nothing better than to see him booted out. Fine with him—he hated school, hated every damn second of it. Besides, he was seventeen. Plenty old enough to quit. If only Lennie Fresno, the Regent prez, would let him.

Let’s go, Thompson said.

We forgot. Frankie’s tone was cold. So what? It’s a stupid rule.

Thompson looked past him and spoke to the murmuring class. Begin reading the next chapter. I’ll be right back. He motioned Frankie and the other two toward the door. I said, let’s go.

Gotta be kidding, Mike mumbled. Club jackets. Big deal.

Move, Thompson ordered.

Frankie stood. His buddies waited. They’d follow his lead, whatever it was. He counted off five seconds to himself then stepped into the hall, Rocky and Mike on his heels.

The vice principal’s office never changed—dingy beige walls, battered cabinets, the wilted violet on the windowsill. The room stank of tuna fish sandwiches. Mr. Leland sat behind the messy desk. Beer-belly Leland. What an ass.

Leland leaned back in his creaking chair and pushed his glasses back up on the bridge of his nose. Tired eyes stared at the three boys. Take them off. Right now.

Frankie stood in defiant silence, Mike and Rocky’s eyes on him, waiting.

Frank, Leland said. Off.

Frankie’s eyes turned hard. Stupid rule. You got no right.

Wrong, Moreno. Shed those jackets right now, or I’m going to make a call downtown. I’m not putting up with any more crap.

Go ahead. Call, Frankie challenged. Beer-belly always threatened. Threaten was all he ever did.

Leland paused for a moment, then reached across the desk for his phone. He picked up the receiver and started to dial.

Hey. Frankie? Rocky nudged him in the side.

Frankie hesitated, then pulled his jacket off. Couldn’t afford a shakedown. Leland knew it. Damn him.

Three jackets lay in a pile on top of the desk.

Pick them up after school, Leland said. I don’t want to see them here again. And you, Moreno, you show up in this office one more time and you’re out.

Frankie smiled. Promise?

All eyes were on them when they returned to class. Frankie stopped in front of Mr. Thompson’s desk and flipped the yellow pass at him. You win, Teach, he said. For now.

No reaction.

Frankie straightened. You hear me?

Sit down, Frank. Mr. Thompson didn’t bother to look up.

Frankie stuffed his hands into his pockets. This guy wasn’t gonna play his game. He turned and started back to his desk at the end of the third row. Every damn kid in the class watching.

Jesse stuck his jean-clad legs into the aisle, blocked his way. Frankie glared at the smirking face, and the creep pulled his legs back. Then Frannie giggled. The heavily made-up blonde smiled, pursed her red lips at him, then looked away. Frankie’s dark eyes narrowed.

Little tramp.

Frankie slid into his desk, wishing he’d stayed in bed. He let out an uneasy breath, actually glad when Thompson stood and began his never-ending lecturing. He glanced at the clock above the blackboard a thousand times. Finally, the bell.

He stood as the class scrambled for the door. Mike and Rocky hung back, but he motioned them on. He walked past Thompson’ s desk without a glance and stepped into the crowded hall, stood a moment, debating whether to go to History or not.

A skinny brunette in a tight black skirt and sweater walked up to him. She poked him in the ribs with a long, pink fingernail. Thompson got the best of you, Frankie, she said, tossing her long hair. You’re slipping.

Get lost, Marsha. He pushed her hand away. She was forever bugging him.

Keep your hands offa me! she screeched.

He stared at her. Damn you, he said, grabbing her wrist. She’d yelled just loud enough. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Mr. Thompson hurrying towards them.

Frank! Let go of her, the teacher ordered.

Frankie glared at Marsha’s satisfied face, wondered what he’d ever seen in her. He released his grip. "Thanks a lot, sweetheart."

You’re gonna be sorry, Frankie, Marsha said, rubbing her wrist. Real sorry.

Frank, get in here, Thompson ordered from the doorway. You all right, Marsha?

I think so, she answered in a tiny voice. She looked at Frankie from under thick, black lashes and smiled. "See you around, War Lord."

Bitch.

Frank. Get in here. Thompson repeated.

Damn.

Frankie strolled back into the room, hands stuffed deep into his pockets. He’d love to give her what she deserved. One of these days, maybe he would. He glared at Thompson. Yeah? What?

We don’t treat young ladies like that.

Yeah? Frankie raised his eyebrows. Well, she ain’t no lady.

You keep your hands to yourself, Thompson lectured. Got that?

You through?

Do you understand?

Yeah, sure, teach. I understand real good. He turned and stepped back out into the hall, suddenly sorry he’d ever put a goddamned hand on her. If Lennie found out, there’d be hell to pay. He was death on treating women bad. Wouldn’t put up with it from any of the gang and especially not from him. If there was one thing Lennie had tried to pound into him, it was respect for the fairer sex—and respect didn’t come easy for Frankie when his own sister was a damn hooker.

Shit . . . what a goddamned rotten day. He walked down the hall and into the boy’s lavatory just as the tardy bell rang. Get the hell out, he snapped at two younger boys primping in front of the mirror. They immediately scrambled out the door.

Frankie leaned up against the green wall and closed his eyes. He needed a smoke real bad, and his cigarettes were in his goddamned jacket.

Chapter 2

Frankie strolled into the cafeteria and wrinkled his nose at the heavy smell of burnt macaroni and cheese. His eyes darted over the crowded rows of tables. Mike and Rocky were at their regular spot in the far corner. He dug his hand into his pocket as he approached them. Came up with just thirty-five cents. Time for another heist.

You guys seen Liz? He slid onto a metal chair next to Rocky. Hadn’t seen his girl all morning. Usually saw her second period when she picked up the attendance—but he hadn’t gone to History.

Both boys looked up from devouring the semi- burnt casserole and shook their heads.

Ain’t gonna eat? Mike asked in between mouthfuls.

Frankie shook his head. Not hungry. He leaned forward and lowered his voice. We’re working tonight.

Aw, c’mon. Rocky frowned, throwing his fork down. It’s Friday. There’s a party after the meeting.

So, I’m not goin’, Frankie muttered.

Yeah? Well, we are. Mike pushed his empty plate away. You gotta at least show.

Not goin’, Frankie repeated. He blinked. His head suddenly hurt. The meeting. The goddamned meeting. The mere thought made his stomach churn. Lennie and his merger with the Royals, a punk neighborhood gang whose territory edged Regent turf for only a block. Frankie didn’t understand. Why? Why even bother with them? The Royals weren’t much of a threat.

The merger idea scared him somehow, but he wasn’t sure why. Felt like he was about to lose something, something important. Something more important than one lousy block.

You gotta go, Mike persisted. You’re war lord.

Not goin’, Frankie repeated. Sometimes I think Lennie’s flippin’ out, you know? We don’t need no merge with those damn punks.

Rocky looked up. Lennie’s still prez, man. He calls the shots.

Yeah? An’ who calls the shots after the merger, huh? Frankie snapped. Lennie or Rick Marcus? Tell me, who’s gonna be boss man? We gonna have a goddamned Royal running things?

Rocky shrugged, leaned back in his chair. They’re just a bunch of punks. Lennie’ll still be boss.

Sure, Mike nodded. Lennie. No two ways about it.

And war lord? Frankie asked coldly.

Shit, Frankie, Rocky grinned. You’ll always be war lord, man. Ain’t nobody gonna take that away from you. That’d be crazy.

Frankie straightened in his chair a little. Rocky was right. Nobody, nobody was gonna take that away from him. Anyway, like I said, we’re working tonight.

Frankie. Rocky leaned forward, his voice lowered. If Lennie ever finds out it’s us knocking off those pawn shops, he’s gonna kill us.

Frankie smiled. Three heists in five weeks. Easy money. What Lennie didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. He ain’t gonna find out. He glanced over at the main door. His smile disappeared. Liz walked into the cafeteria and she was with Marsha. Wonder what that lyin’ bitch is tellin’ her?

Mike glanced over his shoulder. "Rumors going around you got fresh with Marshmallow in the hall."

Yeah?

Well, did ya? Rocky grinned.

No way, Frankie frowned. Little tramp likes nothin’ better’n causing trouble for me.

Sure, Rocky nodded. ’Cause she’s still hot for you, man, an’ you gave her the brush. She ain’t gonna forget that.

Liz separated from Marsha and headed towards Frankie. Long blond hair swung loose in the always-perfect pageboy. Her powder-blue skirt and sweater fit just snug enough. The most beautiful girl in school, and she was all his.

His eyes searched her usually sunny face. What’s the matter, doll? He patted the empty chair beside him. What’d she tell you?

Liz slipped into the chair. Nothing.

C’mon. What’d she tell you? Frankie persisted. His heart pounded. Next to the gang, Liz was the best thing that had ever happened to him. He wouldn’t let anything come between them, especially a smart-ass like Marsha.

Her