Chapter 7
Below the lanes of the interstate bridge, aswarm even at this hour of the night with headlights and taillights in senseless profusion, stretched a mile and a half of smoldering wasteland.
It was to this waste beneath the great bridge that legions of city dump trucks brought the affluvium of humanity twelve hours a day. To be burned in great heaps that glower orange even after dark. Or to be plowed under by the bulldozers locked up now in a wire compound just off the asphalt ramp leading down from the end of Hamilton Street.
On this burning, smoky waste could be found practically any discarded article: books and old combs, complete suits of men's clothing and discarded furniture, orange peels and contraceptives, torn tote tickets and used sanitary napkins, the whole disgusting dung of man's daily life. Because of the noxious smell, all but the highly-paid sanitary department employees avoided the wastestrewn shore, including Captain Wadsewski's precinct detectives on the hunt for an escaped correction farm inmate.
Which is precisely the reason Whitey Noonan played cat-and-mouse under the concrete pillars of the great bridge until the detectives had made their one and only brief visit to the dump, then driven away holding their noses.
Whitey Noonan hid out among the bridge pillars during the day when the dozers clanked over the dump. He returned at night-at night he came alive-to a small watchman's shack at the end of the dump beneath the bridge. The city could not pay a watchman enough money to stay long on the job in this sinkhole. Watchmen came and went. Right now none was on duty. Nor had any been for three days. Whitey and the Cobras could therefore live it up safely in the shack.
J. B., the scrawny kid with glasses, threw some old papers into the shack's iron stove.
"Lay off, you mother-fryer. Hot enough in here now," Whitey spoke laconically, reclining on the watchman's cot which he had appropriated for his own. Naked save for a pair of jeans, he tilted up a gallon jug of muscatel that was by now half empty. Wine dribbled down his thin, muscular chest. He ignored it, snapping his fingers.
"Who got a reef?"
Viper shuffled forward between the other gang members lying in assorted semi-drunken poses on the dirt floor. Their faces shone white and unhealthy in the light of two portable battery lanterns Viper had thoughtfully lifted from the variety store on Hamilton. Whitey scratched himself as Viper passed the reef and lit it for the leader.
Whitey lay back, smoking reflectively.
"I can't stand this mother-frying hole."
"It ought to be safe to go out in a day or so, Whitey," offered J. B.
"Yeah," another of the kids said. "I ain't seen Kreeg around much lately."
"Someday I'm going to wrap that cop's ding-dong around his neck," said Whitey.
Amused guffaws greeted his remark. Whitey looked pleased. Then he scowled at J. B. Behind his big glasses, the kid was nervous, apprehensive. Whitey raised himself on an elbow, anger darkening his spoiled features.
"What's the matter with you, worm? Don't you think it's funny, huhh?"
J. B. cocked his head.
"I'm listening, Whitey."
"You better be listening!"
Whitey leaped up, dragging out his knife.
"Sometimes, Jack in the Box, I think you're too frying yellow to belong-"
"Shut up for Christ's sake!" whined J. B. "I hear somebody in the dump."
Whitey blinked drunkenly as the words registered. Galvanized into action, he aimed a cruel kick at the groin of one of the reclining Cobras.
"On your feet crap-heads. Din't you hear J. B.?"
At once the half dozen gang kids came alive. In a twinkling weapons appeared out of nowhere-switch knives, a zip gun, a length of tire chain. Viper quickly extinguished both battery lanterns.
Whitey took his switch in his fist and strode to the shack door, inching it open. Limned against one of the smoldering orange rubbish fires, a figure walked unsteadily toward the shack. Whitey's eyebrows puckered.
"Could it be a fuzz this time of night? They don't usually-"
Behind him, Viper sniggered.
"Relax. Cops don't have boobs."
"Sha' you say?"
Whitey looked again. As the figure approached, stepping with false daintiness over a pile of moldering cabbage acrawl with maggots, Whitey chuckled deep in his throat. He retracted the blade of his switch and stepped outside.
"Hlyah, Kid. Kind of off the track down here, ain't you?"
"That any way to talk when I come to see you about something important?"
"Yeah? Well, I'll forgive you this time, even though I did tell you to keep clear of the place until things cooled. Come on in, Mae. Like we got a jug."
Giggling, Mae Lazar slipped past him. Her sweater brushed his naked arm so that he could feel the end of her nipple against his flesh. As she switched by, Whitey reached down and delivered a lewd caress. Mae backed up suddenly, wiggling for all she was worth.
"Hey, Hey, man, that's wonderful. Like kiss me quick, somebody."
Several of the gang boys laughed coarsely. Whitey goosed Mae's tight-clad buttocks so that she leaped into the shack, straight into the arms of Viper, who gave her a long kiss. Two of the boys watched interestedly as Mae rubbed her breasts against Viper. Whitey kicked the door shut. Someone relit the battery lanterns. Feigning anger, Whitey pulled the couple apart.
"None o' that, none o' that until Whitey gets his. Gona come across, Mae?"
"Well for Christ's sake, not without a drink!"
Mae giggled and snatched up the jug of muscatel. She tilted it back, clasping her moist red lips around the mouth, drinking with a sucking gurgle. J. B., seated on his haunches in a corner, morosely puffed on a reef.
Whitey had half a mind to reprimand J. B. for never taking part in gang activities. But then J. B. seldom did. J. B. was a loner, with funny ideas that Whitey had to slap out of his head once in a while. Still J. B. was smarter than the rest of them. J. B. had graduated from high school and had been valuable in the past mapping strategy for rumbles. Whitey idly decided to let him alone.
He took the jug from Mae's hands and bent to kiss her. Mae opened her mouth all the way again and they tasted tongues for a while. Then Whitey inserted his hand under Mae's sweater. He was excited by the delicious little pucker of her nipples just beginning to show through the fabric. Suddenly Whitey noticed Mae's cheek. It was badly scratched.
"What happened?" he wanted to know, helping himself to wine. "That fryin' Kreeg?"
Mae shook her head, eyes hard.
"Not Kreeg, Whitey. Rita."
Whitey looked angry. "Listen! She's a nice kitten. You shut up about her!"
Mae stuck out her tongue....
"Okay, big man. But what would you say if I told you she was putting out for another guy?"
Whitey pulled out his switch, flicked the point into the open.
"I'll cut you to ribbons for telling a lie like that, Mae."
"I'm not lying!" screeched the voluptuous little redhead, writhing away. "She went to Peabody House tonight. When she came out she was all flushed and hot. Don't you think I can tell when a girl's just been with a man, for Cripesake?" she finished defiantly.
Whitey looked puzzled.
"Peabody House? Ain't the joint closed?"
"They got a new director. A big fryer too. A stud."
Viper nodded laconically.
"Fontaine. Brick Fontaine."
Astonishment showed on Whitey's face.
"The back for the Stags? No crap?"
"No crap," Viper returned. "It was in the papers while you was-uh-out of town."
Shaking his head, Whitey murmured, "And I thought he played pretty good ball. I never figured him for a Christer."
"He's not," Mae said, helping herself to an additional jolt of the fast-dwindling muscatel. "I tell you he made it with Rita tonight! Of course," she added with prissy contempt, "not that it's very hard. Anybody can do it, anybody at all."
"Shut your frying mouth!" Whitey exploded.
Mae jeered: "You just go see if I'm right!"
"By God I will!"
Whitey snatched up his sweaty t-shirt, slipped it over his head.
"Viper, you and J. B. and Spivvy come on with me." Mae blocked his march to the door. "Hey, wait! What about me? I came all the way down here to do you a favor, Whitey. I thought you guys'd be nice to me. Like man, I kinda haven't had any kicks in a couple of days."
Through the haze of wine Whitey surveyed her-the plump wiggling buttocks; the tight sweater with the surprisingly-developed breasts thrusting their nubs against the fabric. He laughed, rather harshly.
"Sure, doll. Sure, I guess we can take care of your little problem. How about that, guys? Think we can take care of Mae?"
The boys, except for the morose J. B., muttered that they guessed they could.
Chuckling, Whitey began to snap his fingers in rhythm. "Rita can wait. I don't blame her much for passing it around. But she knows what I do to guys she messes with. I don't run the Cobras because I let everybody grab my girl any time they want."
Whitey swallowed more muscatel, draining the jug and tossing it into the dirt.
"Tomorrow's time enough. Right now Mae's here. I can see Mae's ready."
Snapping his fingers faster, Whitey nodded to Viper, who at once took up the snapping rhythm. Soon all the boys were snapping their fingers in unison.
Rolling her eyes around in feigned excitement, Mae began to bump and grind.
Viper dragged a wooden table into the center of the shack. He set both the battery lanterns to illuminate the table's surface. Then he jabbed his thumb at Mae's twitching buttocks. "If you gonna put on a show, doll, get up there and do it right."
Giggling, Mae accepted a hand up. She kicked off her sneaks and stared down at the boys circled around her, all snapping their fingers. Mae slid her palms down her thighs, lewdly.
In a bad imitation of a stripper she thrust her left hand to the nape of her neck, pushed her red hair to the top of her head and took a wide stance. She ran her hands up and down the inner sides of her thighs. She began to mew and moan. Whitey stared at her grinding hips. Sweat popped on his upper lip. He snapped his fingers faster.
"Pick up the beat!" he said hoarsely. "Come on Mae, go, go!"
"Yeah!" Viper was bug-eyed. "Sock it! Let it go! Get wild!"
With a squeal Mae ripped her sweater over her head. She unhooked her bra and flung it in Whitey's face. He clenched it in his fist, watching the writhing body in the twin lantern beams.
Her breasts bobbed and shook and jiggled as she gyrated. She squeezed them between her fingers, now revealing the tender-firm pink nipples, now concealing them.
She lowered one hand to the zipper of her toreadors.
She zipped it up and down in rhythm to the snapping fingers. She licked her lips, her smile gone as excitement claimed her.
A silver bead of sweat ran down to her right nipple and glistened on the red surface. Mae's hips wrenched back and forth, back and forth as she worked the toreadors down over her hips.
Finally she discarded them, leaving only her wispy panties.
Bending backward like a stripper, Mae ground her hips around and around, feet braced wide apart, running her fingers through her hair and moaning. Even J. B. had perked up, was watching the proceedings with nervous, unhealthy enjoyment.
Mae moved her hands faster and faster, socked her hips back and forth, almost slamming them into Whitey's face with each forward snap. One of the boys cursed excitedly as Mae slid her fingernails under her panties and slipped them off.
Viper caught them when she threw them. She bent her knees more and more, rotating her hips. Then she pirouetted suddenly, showing them her buttocks, shaking-white.
The buttocks moved in circles as she ground ferociously, both hands raking her red hair. The finger-snapping beat increased tempo again. Mae faced the boys again, biting her lips, eyes round as she squeezed her big breasts in her hands, stimulating them so the nipples stood up firm.
Her muscular legs twitched and writhed, her white hips going in a dizzy circle, around and around and around, back and forth, back and forth-
"Jeez!"
Whitey Noonan reached for his belt. "Jeez, Mae-!"
All of a sudden Mae missed a step, pitching forward from the table. She was caught just in time by Viper and an astonished J. B. They couldn't hold her. She fell to the dirt floor, moaning and rolling onto her back, glassy-eyed. She spread her arms, shrieked: "Goddam it-somebody!"
Whitey ripped off his jeans and threw them at Viper. "Mae, Mae doll! This is Whitey's going to grab you. Right now-"
"That's it! Come on-make the scene!" Over his shoulder Whitey hissed: "Pick up the beat!" Faster snapped the fingers. Mae squealed.
She kicked her legs high into the beam of the battery lanterns.
Whitey groaned, he and Mae rolled from side to side. Mae howled with depraved ardor:
"Come on, man! Make the scene!...."
Even J. B. was on his feet. His round kid's eyes were horrified behind the big spectacles. But he was unable to keep from watching.
Whitey stumbled across the shack, wiping sweat from his body with his t-shirt.
Mae cried out for more.
One after another, all except J. B., the others had their turn with her.
Toward sunset next day, a reddish sunset that brought with it a chilly autumn nip, Simon Danilov opened the rear door of his storeroom.
His arms were laden with orange crates which he intended to deposit in a rubbish pile down the alley. The crates suddenly ended up in a heap at his feet. Danilov himself was backed against the wall, lips twitching with fright.
Like shades, specters, half a dozen punks had slithered out of the murk of the twilight alley. The biggest, the white-faced blond Danilov knew as Noonan, jammed a knee in Danilov's groin. A ferociously long sharp steel blade caught red fire from the distant setting sun.
Danilov closed his eyes. He prayed in the tongue of the old country as the knife-tip pricked his throat.
"Where is she, jerk?" Whithey asked. "Where's the kid?"
"Rita? I dunno, I dunno. You fellas leave me alone, I ain't done nothing."
"Just hid your little kitten, that's all, man."
Whitey seized the back of Danilov's head, gave it a snap that drove the switch point deep enough into the the flesh to draw blood.
"Hear me good, you old jerk? I want to find Rita. Where did she go?"
"God as my witness!" Danilov whined fearfully. "I couldn't say! I woke up this morning-no Rita. She's run off. That's the truth. We had a fight last night. A bad mix-up."
Now Danilov was eager to save his own hide. His rheum-choked eyes shone with fright.
"I beat her. I beat her a lot. This morning she was gone, no note, no nothing. Listen, Mr. Noonan-"
Viper shuffled forward, rattling a length of tire chain.
"Whitey, I think he's levelling."
For a long moment, puzzled and frustrated, Whitey stared into the suety face. Disgustedly he retracted the knife blade.
"Yeah, I think so too. If you tell Wadsewski about us coming to see you, Danilov, you'll end up little hunks of meat in the garbage can, understand?"
Danilov shook his head to show he did. Whitey lit a smoke and stared into the sunset. "Where the hell'd she go, I wonder? Damn it. I want to teach that broad a lesson."
A shrill whistle from the cross-alley diverted him. One of the Cobras ran up excitedly:
"Kreeg and a beat cop just went by on Hamilton!"
"Scatter!" Whitey shouted, running. "We'll find her later!"
A moment after that, Simon Danilov rubbed his throat and wondered if it had been a nightmare. The Cobras had melted away. Only a little blood on his palm showed that the vicious boys were not figments of his mind.
With uncertain step and trembling hand Danilov picked up the shattered remains of the orange crates. He shivered. The sunset was blood-red, chilly.
He too wondered what had happened to his daughter. She had disappeared. Run off, most probably.
Danilov felt a new convulsion of fright twitch his backbone. He wasn't certain he wanted to find Rita now. Especially not with that vicious boy Noonan hunting her.
No, thought Simon Danilov, picking up splintered orange crate wood, better Rita should fend for herself with that rat pack on her heels.
What did he owe her?
Nothing.
She only brought him misery, heartache, evil thoughts God would one day punish him for harboring.
Wherever his whore daughter had run, she could take care of herself.
She'd get no help from him.