The Wanderers (16 page)

***

Cars driving through the slush made a hushing sound as they came down the hill, and the reflections of their lights traveled across the walls and ceiling of Perry's bedroom. He lay in bed, hands clasped behind his head, watching the shifting beam-shadows illuminate his closet door, his record player, move across and up and disappear as the cars passed his building. He couldn't sleep—he thought about Sloopy. He thought about Terror. He thought about Debbie, the orange-haired girl whose bony cunt was thrust up against his cock only hours ago. He got a hard-on, started to jerk off, but his mind wandered. He thought of the Baldies, and his cock drooped over his fist like a dead flower. He chewed his nails thoughtfully. He thought about Terror. He could take on most of the Baldies, but not Terror, and Terror would come after him. If Joey DiMassi was around Perry would be safe. Joey was the only guy who could control Terror. And Joey was a good guy—he would understand what happened and call Terror off. Maybe Joey would decide that Perry would have to fight Sloopy. That would be O.K. Perry wouldn't beat him too bad then he would offer to help him up, extend his hand—bygones be bygones and all that bullshit. Maybe the Baldies would like his style and offer him membership. He would turn it down of course but would be grateful, swear undying friendship to Joey Terror would growl but admire Perry's class. Maybe offer him a belt of Tango. Yeah He thought of Debbie's tits and started jerking off again. But what Sloopy went right to Terror without telling Joey? Terror knew Joey would ston him so he'd keep it between him and Sloopy come around to Big Playground and open Perry's skull on a pole like Perry's mother would split a peach. His cock fainted.

The Ducky Boy who poked Sloopy off his perch was the only one to see him fall. The others had their backs to the fence. When Sloopy's head hit the ground with a sickening THOCK they turned around and stared at his still form. Like a battalion of paratroopers, they slowly climbed the fence and dropped to the other side. They stood over his body, gently poking and prodding him with walking sticks, rolling him onto his back.

Bobby lightly drew a walking stick across Sloopy's cheek leaving a pencil line of blood. The Ducky Boys looked at each other for a long minute, then Bobby leaned down and raised Sloopy to a sitting position. Bobby removed Sloopy's stained jacket and shirt and gently laid him back on the ground, naked to the waist. Then they reclimbed the fence, the Fordham Baldies' jacket hanging from Bobby Cuddahy's belt like a scalp.

***

The news of Hang On Sloopy's death sent shock waves through the playgrounds, candy stores, and deserted lots of the North Bronx. Everyone became a philosopher. Some guys talked in whispers for the first time in their lives. The
Daily News
gave it three inches:

FOUND FROZEN IN BRONX

The seminude, razor-slashed, and battered body of a 19-year-old man identified as James Sloop of 2332 Valentine Avenue was found this morning in a playground at 203rd Street and Webster Avenue in the Bronx. He had apparently frozen to death during the night. Police are investigating the possibility of foul play.

"It was fate," said Eugene.

"What's it all mean?" asked Richie, shaking his head. "You know, we're like specks of dust in a vacuum cleaner. It's like ... like everything you do, everything you feel is like..."

"Like for shit, man. You could go just like that." Joey snapped his fingers.

"Just like Sloop," said Perry morosely.

"I mean like why go to fuckin' school? You spend eight hours on math homework and walkin' to class some boogie knifes you in the heart, and it's all over," said Richie.

"Yeah, homework's for shit," said Buddy.

"Sloopy was an O.K. guy," said Eugene.

"Hang On Sloopy," said Perry vacantly.

"I didn't even know his name was James until I read it in the paper."

"Your name's Mario ain't it, Buddy?"

"What's Turkey's real name?"

"Ira."

"Ira?"

"Yeah."

"What an asshole."

"Ah, he's O.K."

Eugene lit a cigarette.

"Gimme a light," said Joey, steering Eugene's hand.

"Me too," said Buddy.

"Hey, that's three on a match."

"So?"

"So it's bad luck."

"Wit' all this bullshit goin' on I gotta worry about bad luck?" Buddy asked.

"Din't you ever hear about the three soldiers?"

"You gonna tell us a story?"

Richie ignored Eugene. "It was night, right? An' these guys were in the trenches. I dunno, I guess in Germany. Anyways, one guy lights his cigarette an' a sniper sees the tight, right? Then the guy gives a light to his buddy so the sniper got time to aim. Then he gives a light to the third guy and—pschoo!" Richie sighted down an imaginary gun barrel and shot at Eugene.

"Was they Americans or Krauts?"

"How the fuck should I know?"

"Let's change the subject," said Perry.

"Let's get a Coke," said Richie.

"Let's do something," said Eugene.

The Wanderers dawdled along White Plains Road looking for something to do. They stopped in Pizza World Pizzeria and bought Cokes. Then they walked to the empty Safeway parking lot across the street. The towering fluorescent lights were on, and if there'd been no ice and snow they would have played touch football. No one drank his Coke—it was too cold to enjoy soda.

"Anybody wanna buy my Coke?" Richie offered.

"How much?"

"A quarter."

"Fuck you, they're fifteen."

"O.K. Fifteen."

"Nah."

Eugene put his thumb on the top of his bottle, shook up the contents, and sprayed Richie. Laughing, they ran and slid on the ice. Richie got pissed and didn't bother to shake his soda up, he just threw the bottle at Eugene, hitting him square in the head, knocking him out cold. They stopped running. Eugene lay on his face in the snow.

"You're a fuckin' asshole!" Perry yelled at Richie.

"I didn't mean it, I swear!" They kneeled around Eugene. In a moment he came to. Moaning, he rolled over on his back and stared at the faces and the towering lights. "I'm sorry, Eugene, you O.K.?" Eugene stared at Richie like he wasn't sure who he was. "Help 'im up." They lifted Eugene by the armpits, and he stood like a drunk on wobbly legs.

"You O.K.?"

Eugene looked puzzled.

"Here." Richie gave Eugene the Coke bottle, which didn't break when he threw it. "Here, gimme five to run and you can throw it at me, O.K.?"

Eugene stared at the bottle placed in his hand and dropped it on the ground. He looked from face to face and rubbed the back of his head. "I wanna go home." A worried look passed around the Wanderers. Eugene started to walk out of the parking lot. The guys crowded around him.

"You O.K.?"

"You awright?"

"Yeah ... yeah." His voice, little more than a whisper and very sleepy, sounded as if he'd just been roused from bed.

"Let's walk him home," said Richie, feeling guilty and anxious about Eugene's lack of anger and desire for revenge.

"Nah, nan, it's O.K. Just ... just." Eugene waved his hand weakly as if to dismiss everything and walked away.

They watched him go down Burke Avenue. He didn't seem to wobble anymore.

"That was really stupid, Richie."

"Well, shit, he started."

"Yeah, well, you didn't have to throw the fuckin' bottle at 'im."

"I said I was sorry."

"What if he got a brain tumor now?"

"What?" Richie got a cold flash in his gut. "You can't get no brain tumor."

Perry continued in righteous anger. "Oh, yeah? Well if he got a brain tumor what are you gonna say to his parents? 'Well, he started'?"

Richie envisioned the funeral—Eugene's father maddened by grief charging blindly across the grave to kill him. Richie started to cry.

***

Eugene was O.K. He wasn't out for more than a few seconds. He knew he was O.K. Physically. But something had happened to him when he was coming to, when he didn't know if he was dreaming or awake, when he saw not the Wanderers but a painting of the Wanderers, when above their unreal faces he saw the giant lights of the parking lot—at that moment he'd realized that some day, like Sloopy, he, Eugene Caputo, was going to die. And it scared him shitless. It wasn't pain that made him wobbly-legged, but terror.

His reflex protective impulse was to watch TV. And he watched TV for hours and hours with a savage concentration until his neck muscles felt like pincushions. When only test patterns were on he turned off the TV and turned on the radio. When the radio station signed off, he turned on his record player, dressed up in his sharpest clothes, and practiced dancing as if as long as Kookie Byrnes or Cousin Brucie or Mad Daddy or Babalu or Murray the K or Dion or Frankie Valli could be heard, as long as there was some kind of hip ditty bop noise, as long as there was boss action, as long as there was something to remind him of the nowness and coolness of being seventeen and hip, he was safe. At six in the morning he collapsed, trembling with exhaustion. It was no use. He couldn't dance it out of his system. He couldn't stick two fingers down his throat and puke it up like too much Tango. Death was for keeps. He fell asleep and dreamed he was a rock-and-roll star.

J
OEY
SAT
in the living room watching cartoons. His school-books were sprawled over the big marble coffee table. He heard the elevator door open in the hallway, and his gut tightened instinctively. Outside the door, a splash of dropped keys and change. A muttered curse. Joey turned off the television. The door swung open, knocking over Joey's bicycle parked in the foyer. Emilio came crashing down on top of the crazily spinning wheels Staggering to his feet he picked up the bicycle and flung it the length of the apartment. He turned his eves on his son who stood frozen in the center of the living room.

"I tol' you to get rid of that goddamn thing!"

Joey stared at his father, the former Mr. New York City, the anchor tattoos, the thick old Italian-style mustache, the hawk nose, the burning eyes ignited by liquor and hatred for his weakling son. Joey took a deep breath and started the long walk past Emilio to his room.

"Whereya goin'?" Emilio demanded.

"I'm gonna pick up the bike," muttered Joey.

"What?" Emilio cupped an ear and squinted, standing dangerously close to Joey. "Talk like a man."

Joey didn't know whether to leave himself exposed or cover his front for an attack. If he put up his hands, he'd be asking for trouble. If he stood defenseless, his father could deck him in a second. But whatever he did, he couldn't walk past his father without answering—that would be suicide. "I'm gonna pick up the bike."

"What? I gotta fairy bad hearing problem." He brought his ear close to Joey's mouth.

"I'm gonna pick up the fuckin' bike!" Joey screamed. He had a split second to curse himself for losing his temper before a blur of flesh zoomed in on the tip of his nose, sending him sprawling, blood cascading from both nostrils. That was Emilio's favorite shot—the flat of his palm square in the nose.

"Jesus Christ." He looked down at his son. "You bleed just like a goddamn girl!" He walked down the foyer into his bedroom, giving Joey's bike a kick for good measure. "If I see this here when I get up," he said, pointing to the bike, "I'm gonna wrap it around your head."

Joey played dead until the bedroom door slammed. He went into the bathroom, took two Q-Tips from the medicine cabinet, ran them under cold water, and plugged one in each nostril until the bleeding stopped.

Joey rode the seven blocks to Eugene's house. "Hey, man."

"Hey, Joey. Hey, what's on your shirt?"

"Ah, I dripped some chocolate ices."

"What's up?"

"Ah, lissen, you think I could leave my bike in your basement a couple of days?"

"Sure, hey, your nose is bleedin'."

Joey wiped his nose with the back of his hand. He never carried a handkerchief.

After school the next day Joey invited the guys to his house for a taste of his old man's homemade wine. "This is good shit. He made it from apricots." Joey offered a glass to Eugene. Everyone else helped themselves.

"Feh!" Richie swallowed with difficulty. The others also had trouble drinking the bitter brew.

"It gets better the more you drink," said Joey, on his third.

After a while everyone was plowed.

"Hey, man," Buddy grinned, "where's Mr. America?"

"He's sleepin', the fuckin' musclehead," Joey sneered.

"Aw, he ain't bad," said Perry.

"Aw, he ain't bad," mimicked Joey. "I'd like to cut his balls off and jam 'em down his throat."

"Hey, don't say that, man, he's your father," said Perry.

"Yeah? You just say that cause your old man's dead, Perry." Everyone stiffened. No one ever said anything to Perry about not having a father. Joey was really drunk. "I'd trade places with you any day a the week, Perry," Joey said. Perry's neck veins bulged. "Any day a the week, man," Joey repeated.

"Hey, Joey." Richie glared at him. "Whyncha shut up."

There was a taut silence for ten minutes. What could have been a shit-faced blast turned into a wake.

"My old man ain't any better," said Eugene. "He thinks he's like Marlon Brando. Spends whole fuckin' days in the bathroom combin' his hair. He fucks more pussy than you ever kissed."

"Gowan," said Buddy, "you're full a shit."

"Yeah? You shoulda heard the fight las' night, man. My ol' lady was gonna kick 'im outta the house. Dinky was scared shitless. It ain't right for parents to fight in fronna a eight-year-old girl. I had to take her for a comic book just to get 'er outta there. Paid for it wit' my own money. I don't want my sister windin' up wit' no ulcer, man."

The Wanderers sat in shocked silence.

"My mom's O.K.," said Perry. They all turned to him, watching his face. Because of what Joey said, the guys now looked at Perry as if he were naked. No one ever had the nerve to ask Perry about his father's death. Perry was the biggest Wanderer, standing over six feet, weighing over two hundred pounds. Perry looked around, confused by the abrupt silence and the weird looks the Wanderers were giving him. He didn't know that each of them was waiting for him to start talking about how his old man died. Each of them imagined a different death—guns, cancer, explosions, war, nothing as mundane as the heart attack that did in his father when Perry was twelve. "My mom's O.K.," repeated Perry. "The real douchebag is Raymond." He stared at their faces. They wanted more. He continued unsteadily. "Ever since he married that Jewish cunt and moved out to the Island he's been breakin' my mom's heart." Everybody knew Raymond Jr., Perry's older brother. Raymond was the projects' celebrity because he was almost a millionaire and not even thirty years old. "My mom drags me out to the fuckin' Island every month to see Raymond's kids. We always come back on that fuckin' train an' Mom's always cryin' 'cause that stupid blond twat thinks Mom's some kinda Mustache Pete and'll contaminate her kids." He took another gulp of wine. "Raymond's a fuckin' jellyfish. I don't care how much dough he got."