Brett Halliday - Mike Shayne's Torrid Twelve

Flatbush Avenue in this section is a heavily traveled street dotted with taverns and small stores. Rick and Junior glanced into each place they passed. Neither was consciously looking for anything in particular. They were merely exploring. But subconsciously they were searching for companions their own age. They found them near Atlantic Avenue, in a combination soda fountain and candy shop named the Cardinal Shop. The place was crowded with teen-agers.

In tacit accord they entered the shop and stood looking around. There were no vacant seats at the soda fountain and no unoccupied booths.

The customers ranged in age from about fifteen to eighteen, and there seemed to be twice as many boys as girls. For the most part the boys wore well-pressed slacks and either sweaters or jackets, with an occasional sport coat and open-necked sport shirt. The girls all wore skirts and loose sweaters, flat-heeled pumps and bobby socks. The dress was a little more casual than Rick and Junior had been accustomed to in Philadelphia, but they instinctively recognized the group as kindred souls. This was the high school “popularity” crowd.

Rick and Junior felt a little overdressed in their neat suits, white shirts and neckties.

A few couples were dancing to a juke box playing rock-and-roll. The remainder sipped soft drinks, carried on noisy conversation punctuated by much laughter, or wandered about the place from table to table. Everyone seemed to know everyone else there.

It seemed such a happy scene that Rick and Junior grinned with spontaneous pleasure. Then their grins gradually faded as the other customers began to notice them.

It started at the soda fountain. A youngster of about sixteen glanced their way, elevated his eyebrows and said something to the boy next to him. He in turn stared at Rick and Junior, then passed the word on. Within a fraction of a minute everyone at the counter had swung round to gaze at them silently.

The reaction spread from the counter to the booths. All conversation stopped. The dancers halted, and they too joined in staring at the newcomers. One of the boys who had been dancing went over to the juke box and shut it off by pulling out the cord.

Junior glanced around uneasily. Rick’s face began to redden with a mixture of embarrassment and anger. A blond boy of about Rick’s size, but probably a year or so older, lazily rose from a booth and moved toward them. He didn’t exactly swagger, but there was the confidence of authority in his movements.

The thin, bald-headed man who was tending the fountain, and who apparently was the proprietor, scurried from behind the counter to head off the blond boy.

Raising placating palms, he said, “No trouble now, Max. Not in here.”

Max paused long enough to give the bald-headed man a reassuring grin. “We ever give you trouble, Pop? If anything builds, we’ll take it outside.”

Junior whispered, “We better get out of here, Rick.”

Rick’s gaze jerked to him. He didn’t say anything. He merely stared at Junior until the latter uneasily averted his eyes.

Then Rick faced the blond boy again, gazing at him in challenge.

The blond Max brushed past Pop and unhurriedly closed the rest of the gap between himself and the newcomers. Other boys drifted behind him from the counter and from the booths, until more than a dozen formed a semicircle around Rick and Junior. None of them said anything. They merely waited for Max to speak.

Dismissing Junior with one contemptuous glance, Max ran his eyes estimatingly over Rick.

“You guys are a little off your turf, aren’t you?” he inquired.

Rick gaped at him steadily as he thought the question over. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked finally.

“You’re no citizens. What makes you brave enough to come this side of Atlantic?”

Again Rick struggled for the blond boy’s meaning. Eventually he said, “You think we’re from overseas? Foreigners, or something?”

A feminine titter from a rear booth broke the silence hovering over the room. It rippled from youngster to youngster like a wave, then died away. None of the boys in a semicircle around Rick and Junior so much as smiled. The blond Max said without expression, “A comedian, huh?”

Rick said hotly, “I just don’t know what you’re talking about. What you mean, this side of the Atlantic? We were born here.”

Max’s eyes narrowed. But not menacingly. A look of comprehension began to grow in them. “Atlantic Avenue,” he said. “Aren’t you Purple Pelicans?”

Rick’s anger began to fade as his puzzlement increased. He said, “You’re talking Greek, fellow. I never heard of Atlantic Avenue. And what’s a Purple Pelican?”

Max’s expression underwent a subtle change. He was still authoritative, but the threat disappeared from his manner. In a merely condescending tone, he said, “Where you live, man?”

Rick considered whether to answer or tell him it was none of his business. Finally he said with a touch of belligerence, “Sterling Place.”

Max hiked an eyebrow, then turned to give Junior an inquiring look.

Junior licked his lips. “Underhill Avenue,” he managed.

Max said, “How come you’re strangers, then?”

“Because we just moved in today,” Rick snapped. He added in a more temperate tone, “From Philadelphia.”

Max ran his eyes over the semicircle of faces around him. He said indulgently, “Why push it? They didn’t know.”

“Didn’t know what?” Rick inquired.

“You’re living on Prospectors’ turf now,” Max explained. “It’s a club. The Cardinal Shop’s our personal, private spot. Non-citizens don’t come in without an ask.”

“Who’s a non-citizen?”

“You don’t read the lingo too good, do you, man?” Max said. “A citizen’s a club member. Don’t they have clubs down Philadelphia way?”

“We belong to a fraternity,” Rick told him. He pulled aside his coat to show the pin on the breast pocket of his shirt. “Iota Omega Upsilon. The I.O.U.s.”

A tall, lean boy of about eighteen in the semicircle snickered. “Fraternity boys. Pour me a cup of tea, Mother.”

Some of the others grinned. Their grins faded to expectant expressions when Rick stared unblinkingly at the lean boy. The boy gazed back at him with equal steadiness.

A feminine voice broke the silence. “Why don’t you invite them to stick around, Max?”

Everyone glanced around at the red-haired girl who had come up behind the group. She was about Rick’s age, slim and ripe-looking, with green eyes and delicate features. She was regarding Rick with unconcealed interest.

The lean boy growled, “You keep out of this, Pat.”

“Why?” the redhead inquired. “You don’t own this place.” Moving into the group, she looked up at Max. “They look like nice boys, Max. Ask them to stay.”

Max glanced from her to the lean boy. He seemed to be amused. “Got any objections, Artie?”

Artie moved forward to glare down at the redheaded Pat. “Butt out and go back to your booth,” he ordered her. “This is man business.”

Elevating her chin, Pat said, “You don’t own me either, mister. I was talking to Max.” She glanced back at the blond leader.

Max shrugged. “It’s all right with me if they want to stay. You’re on your own, Artie.”

He looked from Artie to Rick, and his amusement seemed to grow. The air of expectancy increased in the rest of the crowd.

Artie swung to confront Rick. “You better blow,” he said stiffly. He jerked a thumb at Pat. “This is my witch.”

“Was, you mean,” Pat said loudly. “I told you nobody orders me around.”

After glaring at her for a moment, Artie said to Rick, “You heard me, stud. You gonna take off?”