The Wanderers (6 page)

They walked six blocks to a quiet residential street of old two-story wooden homes. Lenny ushered Richie onto the porch of a brown and yellow house and opened the door. They climbed a narrow, wooden stairway. Richie felt like he'd just sniffed glue. He held onto the banister for support. When they reached the landing they were faced with six doors.

"Rhonda?" Lenny yelled, peeking into a few rooms.

"Here, Lenny," said a voice from the room at the far end.

He put his hand on Richie's shoulder.

"O.K. I'm leavin'—the kid's here," he shouted.

"O.K., send 'im in."

"See you later, champ," Lenny winked.

"Hey! Take my books?" He looked at Lenny with pleading eyes.

"Sure." He took the books, winked again, and left. Richie knocked on the door.

"C'mon in." Rhonda lay on an unmade bed in her underwear reading a copy of
Cosmopolitan.
She looked up. "Hello," she smiled, "I'm Rhonda."

Richie felt like apologizing.

She wheeled her legs off the bed and sat up, patting the sheet next to her. "Have a seat."

Richie sat.

She unzipped his ski jacket and began to undress him, all the time talking in a smooth, calm voice. "What's your name?"

"Gregory."

"Do you have a girl?"

"Yes."

"What's her name?"

"Mary."

"Is she pretty?"

"No."

"Do you like school?"

"Yes."

"What do you wanna be?"

"A frogman."

She put her hand in his underwear and played with his prick. He looked at her for the first time. She was about thirty, blond, with nice tits. She reminded him of a nurse. "Help me take my bra off?" She turned her back, looking over her shoulder at him. He unhooked her brassiere and felt the warmth of her back through his fingers. He hoped she wouldn't ask him to take off her panties. She stood up, slipped them off, and faced him. He stood up. She pulled down his shorts.

"Do you want me on top? Or do you want to be on top?" she asked.

"Huh? What? I dunno. Whatever you think is best."

"We'll do you on top."

She lay back, spread her legs, and brought her knees up to her chest. "Allaboard!"

Lenny walked back wondering if he'd done the right thing. Shit, the kid's old enough. I got it when I was twelve. It didn't hurt me none. Rhonda's a good kid, shell take care of 'im. He reached his store at four o'clock. The sign read "will be back at 4:30." He shrugged and walked two blocks to Manny's. The bar was deserted.

"How you doin', Lenny?"

"Awright. Gimme a Jack Darnels, John." The bartender poured a jigger over ice. "Hey, John, how old was you when you got laid?"

"Thirty-six."

"No, c'mon, I'm serious."

"You lookin' for some action?" John's voice went down a few octaves as he placed the drink in front of Lenny.

"Nah, nah. You know those kids always hangin' aroun' my place? I just brought one a 'em over to some hooker I know on Colden Avenue."

"First time?"

"Yeah. The kid's sixteen. That's old enough, ain't it? I mean shit, I was twelve when I got my first piece."

"I was twenty-one," said John. "In Japan, I was in the occupation troops, I'll never forget. Cigarettes use' to be six-fifty a pack in Tokyo. We use to get 'em for a dime in the PX. You'd go over to Madame Soo's or the Blue Moon, and you could get a girl for five bucks." He laughed. "We use' to give the madame a pack of butts and we'd get a girl and a dollar fifty change."

"You was twenty-one?"

"Yeah. A beautiful girl named Sooky."

"When I was twenty-one I had the clap twice awready." He finished his shot and motioned for another. "You think sixteen's too young?"

"Who's the kid?"

"Richie Gennaro."

"I know his old man. He comes in here every once inna while."

"What's his old man like?"

John shrugged. "Nice guy. Drinks his drink and watches the fights."

"Hey, don't tell 'im, awright?"

"I'm gonna tell 'im?"

Lenny threw a dollar-fifty on the counter. "Take care."

John gave a quick wave as the cash register kachangged.

Lenny went back to his store, knocked off two "sale" signs, and started to lock up. As he turned off the lights, the sleigh bells on his door jangled. Richie stood in the doorway.

"How'd it go?" Lenny asked softly.

"Awright ... awright." In the semidarkness Richie walked to the workbench. "Lenny?"

Lenny's heart was pounding in his ears. "Can I have my books back?"

"Sure, kid." Richie took the books and headed for the door. "Hey, Richie?"

Richie didn't turn around, but he stopped, one hand on the doorknob. "Didja like it?"

"It was fine."

"You ain't a virgin no more. I don' hafta hear none a your bullshit no more." Lenny laughed weakly.

"Yeah." Richie walked out the door.

J
OEY
C
APRA
was a zip. Short, wiry, always moving, blinking, smoking, chewing. A hook nose and bad posture made him look like a comma. He never idled—he was always in gear, springing up and down on the balls of his feet even when standing in one spot. Any second like a road runner he was off, had a need to GO and FLY. Pure raw nervous energy; a precision honing job done by his father, Emilio Capra, Mister New York City—1940, who over the years would suddenly lash out with a punch, a kick, a slap, a word that would make Joey vibrate for a week. And Joey learned to duck, bob, weave, twirl, and dance to avoid pain. Now he was like a deer—trip wire reflexes to the slightest sound, sensitive to the smallest change in atmosphere, ready to zoom off, jump up, or leap out. In short he was a nervous wreck and one hell of a broken-field runner. The best hustler in the league, the league being a six-team North Bronx competition between the Stingers, Paragons, Velvet Sharks, Imperials, Red Devils, and Del-Bombers, no sponsor or officials. The teams were made up of different gangs and their nongang associates. The Wanderers were the Stingers with Buddy Eugene Richie Perry Joey and some part-time guys, George and Vincent Tasso, 'Lenny Mitchell Jo-Jo Kelsey Ralph Arkadian Lenny's younger brother Ed Weiss Ray Rodriguez Peter Rabbit and others Every Saturday three games were played in various parks in the Bronx—Bronx Park, Van Cortland, Macoombs—each team bringing a caravan of nonplaying friends, fathers, girl friends, and assorted neighbors.

And Joey Capra was everybody's choice for all-league halfback. A scrambling, hustling zip who could squirt through defensive lines like Jell-O between clapped hands.

Except for his thick brush mustache, Emilio Capra looked just like Kirk Douglas. Arrow features, obsidian flecks for eyes, a white line for a mouth. Rich black hair dashed back in waves from his forehead. Neck, arms, legs, torso bulging like a weightlifter gone berserk. Joey was skinny—muscles looking like something trapped between skin and bone. The same face of a hawk but without the glinting power behind the corners of the mouth and the eyes. Father and son played a perpetual game of tag When Emilio was home Joey never sat he crouched; he never walked, he trotted. Always locked his door, slept with one eye and both windows open. Emilio played frog to Joey's fly Emilio would be immobile following Joey only with his eves then suddenly lash out with a quick left, a quick right. Pretend to read a newspaper, and when Joey tried to sneak past, Emilio would snake out a foot—Joey would start to fall but regain his balance and dance triumphant into his bedroom. Emilio would wait for next time.

***

Perry was fullback—slow but unstoppable. A Mack truck rolling downhill. He was best friends with Joey like Little John and Robin Hood. It was envy at first sight—Perry wanting Joey's lithe speed, Joey wanting Perry's bulk and power.

"You wanna have a catch?" Perry and Joey were walking home from the el station on a nice enough November Friday afternoon.

"Awright, yeah." They deposited their schoolbooks and made sandwiches at Perry's house.

"I ain't diggin' the idea of playin' the Del-Bombers tomorrow." Perry tore off half a ham and ketchup sandwich.

"Maybe they ain't diggin' playin' us," Joey said. The Del-Bombers were an all-colored team from the North Bronx near Mount Vernon.

"How'd you like Terry Pitt on top a you in a pileup?" asked Perry.

"Pitt's a pile of shit. He couldn't catch me with a dragnet." Joey was a cocky bastard.

"Don't be too sure."

"Hey! What is this? We're gonna kick their asses." Joey patted Perry on the knee reassuringly. "C'mon, man, don' be such a faggot."

"You wish."

"I know."

"You blow."

"You wish."

They got the football from Perry's room and headed toward the elevator. Perry wore ankle-high, dagger-toed, peau de soie shoes with Cuban heels and heavy taps that made him clop down the hall like a Clydesdale.

"Whyncha put on sneakers?"

Perry started back to change, but the elevator came. "Ah, fuck it."

As they walked to Big Playground they flipped the ball between them. Perry scooting ahead of Joey, Joey scooting ahead of Perry. They played in the basketball courts, which were wide, long, and empty.

"Long bomb!" said Perry, scrambling like a quarterback. Joey streaked across the concrete, catching Perry's pass Willie Mays-style.

"Tittle to Shofner. T.D.!" shouted Perry, snagging Joey's pass. For thirty minutes they ran at oblique angles to each other catching good and bad passes, announcing the names of the great and near-great quarterbacks, ends, halfbacks, and linebackers.

"Hold on!" yelled Joey, trotting to the bench. "Rest time. Don't wanna get knocked out."

"C'mon," said Perry. "One more long bomb!"

"Forget it."

"C'mon..." He flipped the ball to Joey. "Dome. Long bomb." Perry ran as fast as he could looking over his shoulder for Joey's pass. Joey threw a high spiral. Perry stretched his arms—mouth and eyes open for a great catch—Bart Starr to Mary Fleming, Unitas to Berry. His slick shoes slid across the cold ground, the taps on concrete sounding like roller skates, and his legs slipped from under him. Skidding, he crashed heavily into the mesh playground fence, the football bitting the same spot on the fence a second later. Perry rolled on the ground screaming. Joey ran over. "Oh God, it's broke, oh God, oh Jesus, oh God." Tears splashed his face, running into his ears. His teeth chattered in shock as he held up his right arm his hand hanging too loosely "Oh Jesus oh Jesus, owww."

"Sssh." Joey stared at Perry's broken wrist in horror. "Walk on it."

"Oh, it hurts, Joey, it hurts, it hurts."

"Sssh." Joey helped Perry to his feet. They walked through a six-foot-high triangular hole somebody had clipped in the mesh fence and hailed a cab for Jacobi Hospital.

"EEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!" Perry's mother tore out a healthy fistful of her hair when her son and Joey walked into the kitchen two hours later—Perry's hand encased fingertips to elbow in plaster of paris. After two Nembutals Perry was serene and barely heard his mother shrieking. Joey was feeling no pain either because he'd also taken Nembutal from the packet the doctor at Jacobi gave Perry. Perry's mother started working up her panic an hour earlier when Perry hadn't shown up for dinner. She'd called his friends' houses, then the police, and she was just about to call the morgues when they waltzed in on a cloud of tranquilizers. They watched benignly as she ran in small circles around her son, staring in horror at the cast.

"Relax, Ma, it's only a busted wrist, I don't got cancer."

She continued to circle around him, eyes now toward the ceiling, clapping her hands slowly, calling on divine help. "Help me, Saint Ant'ny. Saint Ant'ny, help me, I'm gonna die, I'M GONNA DIE, EEE!!!"

Joey giggled.

"Ma."

"It's only a broken wrist," she informed the refrigerator. "Ma."

"Don' worry, it's only a broken wrist," she reassured the cold, greasy hamburgers—Perry's dinner.

"Ma."

"It's only a..."

"MA!" Perry shouted.

She jerked erect as if she'd been slapped.

"Ma, it's only a broken wrist. I went to Jacobi wit' Joey an' the doctor said it would be O.K. in a couple of weeks." He dug his good hand into his tight black dungarees and pulled out a Nembutal. "Here. The doctor said you should take this pill or my wrist'll get worse."

***

Joey sat down to dinner. His mother brought wine to the table for Emilio, sat down herself, and waited for her husband to start eating. Emilio was in a decent mood tonight because he'd just gotten paid and his two-week vacation started on Monday. Joey and his mother waited until Emilio cut a piece of steak, chewed and swallowed, and started on a second piece before they began to eat.

"Was a fire today on Bathgate." He downed half a glass of wine. "Carried out two kids." He tore off a piece of bread from a long loaf. "They was cooked more well done than this." He tapped the steak with his fork. Then he finished the wine in his glass. Joey and his mother were silent. They often had to listen to Emilio's horror stories at dinner. He was a fireman, and he would always compare somebody's burned body to something on his plate "Hey." He stared at Joey. "You playin' football tomorrah?"

"Yeah. Joey didn't look up.

"What?" He put his silverware down and stared at his son.

"Yes." Joey made the "s" hiss. Emilio grabbed his son's chin and jerked it up, his fingers digging deep into Joey's cheeks and jaw. "Yes. I am playing football tomorrow." Joey was scared because he wasn't sure what his father wanted.

Emilio dug his fingers deeper and pointed at Joey's nose. "You look at me when you talk."

Joey tried to meet his father's burning stare, but the pain was distracting.

Emilio turned his attention to his dinner. Joey's mother had learned never to interfere. "Whadya play, water boy?" Emilio laughed at his own wit.

Joey had no trouble staring at his father this time. "I'm halfback."

"Who you play ... cripples?" He laughed loudly, slapping the table. "Cripples," he chuckled, returning to his meal. Joey controlled himself, although he'd lost his appetite.