Thrill Kids (12 page)

“Psssst!” Manny called to the two. “Pssst!”

“You a teapot or something crazy, man? You gotta hiss?”

“Look down there,” Manny said. “Guy’s asleep down there.’’

Bardo’s eyes brightened. “Good work!” he said enthusiastically. “Good work, Pollack!” Then he turned and started down the steps, in the sleeping man’s direction. “Come on,” he said.

Flip snapped his knife’s blade in and out as he went, and Manny said to Flip, “I almost didn’t see him there.”

“You’re getting a big head tonight, man,” Flip grumbled. “Pretty soon the dunce cap won’t fit it any more.”

Manny shut up then; angry, his feelings hurt too. Flip was needling him too much. Why?

The three approached the man quietly, walking wordlessly across the parched grass into the small thicket where he lay. His shoes were off, one lying by the tall elm tree there, the other under a bush. He wore no socks. He slept face down, his mouth open, his head cradled in his arms. His shirt was an old faded blue work shirt, his pants ragged denims. He slept deeply, wheezing slightly.

“Let’s wake him up,” Flip said. He started to kneel near the man and shake him.

“Wait a second,” Bardo told him. “I know a better way.” He reached into his pocket and drew out a pack of cigarettes, tapping one out and lighting it.

“You smoke, huh, Bardo?” Manny said. He put his box down and looked at Bardo as he lit the cigarette. “I didn’t know that.”

Flip said, “Man, like, what’d you think?”

“No, I don’t smoke, mister,” Bardo said coolly. “It’s a filthy habit.” He sucked on the cigarette to get it going. “Mr. McCoy left this little memento behind on our hall table. I thought it might very well be of some use.”

“He was crazy!” Flip said. “I liked him.”

Bardo looked at Heine with a cocked eyebrow. “That’s very touching, Herr Heine,” he said. “Very touching indeed.”

“I wish you’d lay off the Herr,” Flip said, “You know, man?”

Manny laughed suddenly. “Yeah, because he doesn’t have any. Huh, Flip?”

“A clever play on words, Pollack,” Bardo said. “Now let’s attend to business.” As he knelt down in the grass with the lighted cigarette, Heine stood rocklike, scowling at Pollack, making his knife blade pop in and out. Manny felt Flip’s eyes fixed on him. He knew Flip was sore at him.

“Watch this,” Bardo said.

He took the lighted cigarette and brought it slowly up to the sleeping man’s bare foot; then he held it to the sole, and it burned the flesh a second.

“Jesus!” The man jerked his foot away. He exclaimed, “Jesus, what the — ” He blinked his eyes and raised himself on his elbows. He said, “What’s going on?”

He was about fifty, a medium-sized man with straggly white hair. In the darkness his face was not too clear, but his expression of astonishment was. His eyes were screwed up in a squint, his lips curled to one side and open. His voice was husky with sleep.

“Pop to!” Bardo snapped. “Pop to, mister! On your feet!”

“Huh?” the man just blinked like a lazy mud turtle on a rock in the sun. “Huh?”

Flip kicked him in the side. “Get up, man!” he said.

Manny said, “He smells like he’s been drinking, too.”

“He smells foul!” Bardo said, “Now, mister, I tell you to pop,” — he kicked him once in the gut — “to!” He kicked him in the hip.

The man groaned. “Whata you want? Ooooh! God!” He tried to get up, but he could not. He was very drunk, and now he was dazed, unable to comprehend what was happening to him.

Bardo said, “Get him on his feet, Heine. Help him, Pollack.”

The two boys raised the man up. He was only a little taller than Bardo. “Drunk!” Bardo spat the word out. He went to the man and slapped him hard across the face; three times, four, five. “Drunk!”

The man began to sober up some. He shook his head. “Where am I?”

“You’re nowhere, man.”

“You’re in Central Park,” Manny said.

“Who are you? What the hell’s going on?” The man yanked himself free, stumbled, but stood, and Flip took his arm again.

Bardo was looking around behind him and to the right and left of him. He said, “We’ve got a good safe place.”

The man began to yell. “Help! Hel — ”

Bardo put a fist in his stomach and he toppled back on the ground. Bardo straddled him, sitting on his stomach. Flip knelt down with his knife pointed.

“We don’t want any noise, mister,” Bardo said. “We don’t like noise.”

“What do you want from me?” the man said.

“Man, like, we’re going to give you a little instruction. Yeah.”

“A lesson,” Bardo said. “A lesson you’ll never forget.”

“Come on, boys,” the man said. “I’m old enough to be your father. Have a heart, boys.”

Flip took a handful of dried grass and dirt from the ground, cupped it in his hand, and held it to the old man’s mouth. “Have some dinner, Pop,” he said. “Specially prepared. Specialty of the house.” He brought the knife in nearer to the man’s face. “Eat it, Pop!” he said. “Eat your dinner!” and he shoved it in the man’s mouth. The man spat it out.

Bardo said, “He — told — you — to — eat — that — mister!” Bardo’s eyes glistened. “Roll him over on his stomach. Come on, Pollack. Don’t just stand there staring like a dummy.”

“I’m
not!”
Manny said. He bent over and, with Flip, rolled the man over.

“Please,” the man said, “I’m not well. I’m not at all well, boys.”

“Shut your yap,” Flip said. He pulled the old man’s hair. “Shut your yap or we’ll burn this here off your head, Pop!”

“What are you going to do now?” Manny asked.

“Get his pants down, Pollack.”

“Why?”

“Pollack, do as Bardo Raleigh tells you.” Manny put his hands under the man and grappled with the belt. Flip held the knife to his ear. “One word out of you, Pop,” he said, “you’ll eat your ear for breakfast.” “Boys, have some mercy,” the man said.

“I’m warning you, Pop.”

Manny pulled the man’s pants below his knees. Flip sat on the man’s back, his hands around his throat, the knife stuck in his belt. “All I got to do is squeeze, Pop, if you decide to sound off.”

“All right, Pollack,” Bardo said. “Find me a good strong stick. A big one. A thick piece of wood. Meanwhile, the three stars of Orion’s belt.” He knelt between the man’s legs, taking another cigarette from his pocket and lighting it. “Heine, you holding him?”

“Yeah, man!”

“Heine, I want you to sing along with me now. You hear? Sing soft, but don’t let any other noise from here drown us out!”

“Got it!” Heine said.

“Hold him good, Heine…. O.K. Mine eyes have seen the vagrants on the benches in the park …"

As they sang, and the old man struggled to be free and wiggled with pain, calling out once, “Help!” Bardo burned three marks in a row on his rump.

“Cut!” he said. “That’s enough singing until Pollack gets back.”

The old man was crying now, sniffling and moaning.

The figure of a man in the distance, coming around the reservoir, caught Raleigh’s eye. “Get his pants up, Heine. Fast!” he said. “Get him on his feet, and back farther in the bushes. Do you see?”

“Yeah,” Heine said. He did as he was told; and as the two dragged him back into the bushes and held him, Manny came with the stick.

“I couldn’t find one much better,” he said.

“Get in here, Pollack,” Bardo said, “and never mind.”

The trio crouched there holding the man down, waiting until the passer-by went on far beyond them.

The old man sobbed to himself. Flip slapped him and said, “Shut up.”

Manny said, “Maybe we ought to let him go.”

“Not until he’s had his lesson, mister.”

“He’s crying,” Manny said.

Flip said, “Pollack, you are beginning to get me very rifty, man. Like, I really am getting very rifty at you!”

“Well, he’s awful old,” Manny said.

“Mister, he’s no good. He’s a bum!” Bardo pounded the man’s back. “A bum!”

“You gonna use the stick, or can I?” Flip said.

“You can, Heine. Everybody better sing. Come on — Glory, glory, hallelujah! Glory, glory — “

Heine raised the stick and swatted it across the old man.

“He ought to be bare-assed,” he said. “Like he was before. He could feel it more.”

“Christ!” the man yelled.

“Sing,” Raleigh said. “Sing!” And then he said suddenly, “Stop! Listen!” They heard the crunch of footsteps on the cinder bridle path. “Quiet,” Bardo said. “Don’t make a move”; and the old man yelled, “Help!”

Flip drove the knife part way into his shoulders. The old man made a throaty gagging noise, and Manny said, “Hey, Flip!”

“Shut up, all of you!” Bardo commanded.

Then on the path in front of them they saw John Wylie.

“Hey, it’s Wyle!” Flip said. “Wyle, c’mere.” Flip yanked and got the knife out. He said, “I just
did
it. I didn’t mean to. It didn’t hurt him much.”

“He asked for it,” Bardo said.

“Hey, Wyle,” Manny said. “Flip just knifed a guy.” Johnny Wylie walked over to where the man lay, with Flip on top of him. “Hi!” Flip said. “What’d you do, Flip?”

“I just nicked him, ‘s all. Just a little nick. Pollack makes out like I was killing the old fool.”

“He’s bleeding,” Johnny said.

“He’s all right!” Bardo asserted. “He’s all right!”

“Help me,” the old man moaned. “Help me.”

Angrily Raleigh kicked him in the face. He kicked him again and again, so hard that the crack of his shoe across the skin and bone sounded unbelievably loud. Manny sucked in his breath and Johnny flinched.

Flip said,
“Grüss Gott!”

Bardo looked at the three of them. “What’s the matter?” he said. “Haven’t you even seen a man discipline a man? Haven’t you?” he shouted.

The old man did not move much now; only once or twice. Blood poured from his face; his features were blurred with it.

“He needs help,” Johnny said dazedly. “Somebody ought to go for — “

“We could call an ambulance,” Manny said.

“You gentlemen are exceedingly clever, both of you,” Bardo said. “Go for
help!
Call an
ambulance!
He’s scum — pure scum!”

“Yeah, like, he was loaded, Johnny. You know? Drunk? Lying around.”

“He was sleeping on the grass,” Manny said.

“He looks like he’s going to die. My God, he does!” John Wylie said. “I’m going for help.”

“Remember, mister,” Raleigh said to him, “you’re involved in this too. Remember that before you call for help!”

“I am like hell involved!” “You came to join us, didn’t you, mister?” “I knew you were around here someplace. Then I heard you singing. I didn’t know what you were doing.” “You were with us last week, mister.” “Look,” Johnny said. “I’m going for help.” Flip said, “Wyle?” “What?”

“You’re not going to the police, Wyle?”

“Naw. Naw — I’ll get a priest. I’ll get Father Farrell.” Johnny looked at the trio, frowning. He said, “Father Farrell’s O.K. I mean, he won’t have to know how it happened. Why don’t you guys just clear out? If there’s any trouble — ” Johnny stopped in the middle of the sentence, his eyes falling again to the old man on the ground. “I’m getting out of here!” Johnny said.

Raleigh and Heine and Pollack stood staring at the old man.

Bardo Raleigh said, “Now we are all murderers.”
“Grüss Gott!”
Flip said.
“Grüss Gott!”
“Is he dead?” Manny said. “Are you sure?” “On the double,” Raleigh barked. “Let’s
go!”
Then the three boys ran.

T
HE FOUR POLICEMEN
stood over the body with flashlights in their hands while Father Farrell knelt and prayed. John Wylie stood to one side, his head bowed.

“Misereatur vestri omnipotens Deus, et dimissis peccatis vestris, preducat vos ad vitam aeternam.
Amen.”

The priest rose. “May God grant him eternal rest,” he said.

“We’d appreciate it, Father, if you’d come along with us,” a policeman said. “You and the boy.”

John Wylie said, “I don’t know anything about it. Honest.”

“How come a kid like you wanders around here this time of night?” the policeman said. “I don’t know. I was just — walking.” Father Farrell put his arm around Wylie. “We’ll go along with them, Johnny, and try to help them if we can.” “I can’t help them, Father. I can’t.” Another policeman said, “Ever see this, sonny?” In his hand he held Flip’s switchblade knife. There was blood on it; it was lying on top of the policeman’s white handkerchief. Johnny winced. “Well?”

“No,” Johnny said.

“What were you doing back in these bushes?” another policeman asked.

Johnny said, “I don’t remember. I don’t know.” “You come along with us,” the policeman said. He turned to the three men with him. “O’Connor and I’ll go with the kid and Father Farrell. You stay here.”

“Right.”

“Looks fishy to me.” “Right.”

“Check the ground, back in behind the shrubbery.”

The policeman said, “Shall we go now, Father?”

“Come along, Johnny,” the priest said, with his arm still around the boy. “Everything will be all right.”

“Please don’t call my family,” Johnny said. “Please.”

The policeman didn’t answer; they walked ahead of Johnny and the priest. Just as they were rounding the curve in the cinder path, they saw a second boy running toward them. He was breathless, and when they grabbed him he said, “No, please. Please. First just let me look on the ground.”

Johnny said, “Manny!”

“Sincere,” Manny said. “I forgot about him. I left him here.”

“You were here, kid?” the policeman asked. Manny said, “He’s in a box. Just let me look.” “You come with us,” the policeman said. He held Pollack’s wrists.

“Please,” Manny said, “let me get the box first. It’s around here someplace.” “Yeah? What’s in it?” “My snake,” Manny said.

Johnny shook his head. “Manny,” he said. “Manny … oh, God!”

“If anyone finds your snake they’ll bring him along,” the policeman said. “Don’t worry about that. Come on. Both of you kids have got some explaining to do.”

Manny tried to twist free. “Let me get my snake first!” he shouted.

“Do you know the boy, Johnny?” Father Farrell asked Wylie.

“Yes, Father,” Johnny said quietly. The two policemen held Emanuel Pollack. “All right,” one said, “come on! Move!” “Please?” Manny begged. “Move!”

Crying then, Emanuel Pollack was led along by the two policemen. Following behind, the priest and Johnny Wylie walked slowly.

“You’d better tell them all you know, Johnny,” Father Farrell whispered in the darkness.

And so on August 10, 1953, the
New York Daily Record
spread this story across its front page:

FOUR BOYS ADMIT SLAYING
JUST FOR FUN

Four teen-agers who stormed through upper Central Park, killing and attacking for pleasure, confessed last night to the wanton murder of one man, the sadistic undressing of a young girl, and the savage beating of the girl’s boy friend.

The leader of the Murder for Fun gang exulted that they called themselves “The Defenders,” and that their purpose was to rid the parks of bums and vagrants. Words to a song proclaiming this sentiment were found in his pocket.

“Bardo Raleigh has an infinite hatred and loathing for bums and filthy vagrants,” the leader of the four, Bardo Raleigh, 17, was quoted as saying.

A youth with an exceptionally high I.Q. and a recent graduate of Sandside Military Academy in Sandside, Georgia, Raleigh bossed the operations while Hans Heine, 16, a junior at Eastern High School, did the dirty work, police said.

“Last night was Raleigh’s revenge,” Raleigh reportedly said. He was referring, police said, to the beating and stabbing of 57-year-old Milton Litt, homeless, who died of cerebral hemorrhage and/or a heart attack.

“Robbery was not the motive for this crime,” New York Attorney Robert Evans said. “I can’t fathom what would make boys do this sinister and horrible thing.”

Raleigh and Heine, together with John Wylie, 15, and snake-lover Emanuel Pollack, 16, started their club with their first crime spree August 2, Evans said. On that date the four attacked Carlos Rodriguez and Linda Torres on a Central Park pathway, forcing Miss Torres to disrobe and beating Rodriguez….

Last night the four again invaded Central Park, searching for a likely victim. The homeless Milton Litt, asleep on the grass with his shoes off, became their prey….

After the attack, Litt was left to die while Wylie, “baby” of the quartet, went conscience-stricken to a priest for help.

Emanuel Pollack, son of a Manhattan jeweler and younger brother of a dead Korean war hero, was described by police as being more concerned over the welfare of a pet snake he had left at the scene of the crime than he was over the condition of his victim. It was his sudden appearance, while police, Wylie, and Father Thomas Farrell returned to the spot where Litt lay dead, that forced Wylie to admit his link with the crime, and subsequently forced a confession from Pollack. The young killer had come back to get his snake.

Acting on information gained from these two members of the kill-for-thrill club, Detective Lawrence Little-field went to find Raleigh and Heine. Heine was picked up on Fifth Avenue between 80th and 81st Streets, curled up on a bench asleep. An envelope filled with marijuana was found in his pocket. Raleigh was arrested at his home.

Raleigh, Heine, and Pollack were charged with homicide, and Wylie was charged with juvenile delinquency growing out of homicide….