Brett Halliday - Mike Shayne's Torrid Twelve

Rick ran his eyes over the circle of faces, let his gaze settle on Max. He wasn’t quite certain of what was expected of him. If Artie was pushing for a fight, Rick was willing to accept the challenge. But not if the entire group meant to pitch in on Artie’s side. In that case, he and Junior would be lucky to get out of the place alive.

Reading his thought, Max said amicably, “Nobody’ll gang up on you, man. It’s strictly between you and Artie.”

That was enough assurance for Rick. Facing Artie, he said belligerently, “You want me to leave, fellow, you put me out.”

Abruptly Artie did an about-face and marched toward the rear of the shop. Customers spread to make a path for him. Rick gazed after his retreating back in surprise.

Max grinned at the expression on Rick’s face. “He’s not walking away from you,” he said. “We don’t fight in here. He’s just heading out back.”

Even as Max spoke, Artie jerked open a back door and stalked outside. After a momentary hesitation, Rick followed. Junior and the rest of the crowd trailed after him. From the corner of his eye Rick saw the bald proprietor standing behind the counter wringing his hands. But the man made no move to stop what was going on.

The rear door led into a back yard enclosed by a high board fence. A street light in the alley cast a murky glow over it. Artie stood in the center of the yard, stripping off his cloth jacket.

Rick came to a halt three feet from the other boy. The crowd formed a circle around them. Artie tossed his jacket to one of the boys in the surrounding ring. Rick slipped out of his coat, located Junior’s pale face in the crowd and tossed the coat to him. He rolled his sleeves to his elbows.

Max stepped forward as referee. He said to Artie, “Fair fight?”

Artie gave a stiff nod and Rick asked. “What does that mean?”

“Like in the ring,” Max explained. “No knives or knucks, kicking or gouging.”

Rick said, “That’s the only way I ever fight.”

“You’re lucky Artie wants it fair, then,” Max told him dryly. “He’s pretty good with his feet and thumbs.” He held out a hand palm up to Artie. “Give, man.”

Reaching into his pants pocket, Artie brought out a switchblade knife and laid it on the extended palm. Rick’s gaze followed it fascinatedly as it disappeared into Max’s pocket. He wondered what he would have done if Artie hadn’t agreed to make it a fair fight. The thought made his stomach lurch.

Max backed into the crowd. “Whenever you’re ready,” he said.

Rick conquered the queasy feeling in his stomach and examined his opponent with a practiced eye. Artie was as tall as he was, and looked bone hard. He probably weighed only about one sixty-five, though, which gave Rick a fifteen-pound weight advantage.

Under ordinary circumstances Artie’s age might have been a psychological advantage, for at sixteen boys tend to regard eighteen-year-olds as grown men. But Rick’s high school boxing instruction, rudimentary as it was, tended to put him at ease when facing boys of any size or age. He’d put enough older boys on the floor of the school gym not to be impressed by his elders.

Artie moved forward in a boxer’s stance and feinted with a left. Ignoring it, Rick expertly caught the following right on his left forearm and countered with a solid hook to the jaw. Artie took two backward steps and sat heavily.

A mixed murmur of admiration for Rick and groans for Artie came from the crowd.

Scrambling to his feet, Artie made an enraged rush at Rick, swinging a roundhouse right as he came in. Rick stepped inside of it and landed a crashing one-two to Artie’s jaw.

Artie sat again. This time he remained seated, dazedly blinking his eyes.

Again there was a murmur from the crowd. Several boys and girls shouted encouragement to Artie to get up. When it seemed apparent after some moments that Artie either was incapable, or unwilling to get to his feet, Max stepped forward and gave Rick’s shoulder a congratulatory slap.

“You know how to handle your dukes, man,” he said. “Shortest fight we’ve had around here yet.”

Then the crowd was milling around Rick, patting his back and offering congratulations. Someone helped Artie to his feet and thrust him forward. Sullenly the older boy offered his hand to Rick in token of admitted defeat, Rick shook it gladly, suddenly so exhilarated by the adulation he was receiving that he actually felt affection for his recent opponent.

Then he was moving back into the Cardinal Shop surrounded by the admiring throng. To his surprise he found the redheaded Pat clinging to his arm. She was carrying his coat.

The rest of the evening was as pleasant a one as Rick had enjoyed in some time. Social acceptance is important at any age. At sixteen it’s crucial. And Rick found himself accepted as an equal by the entire group. Junior Carr found acceptance too, simply because he was with Rick.

The boys and girls were all from families of about the same economic level as Rick’s and Junior’s. The redheaded Pat’s father was the pharmacist manager of a chain drug store. Artie, whose last name Rick discovered was Snowden, was the son of a subway guard. Max’s surname was Jelonek, and his father was a liquor salesman.

Rick found that it was accepted by everyone present, including the defeated Artie, that Pat was his girl for the evening. They sat in a booth across from Junior and a good-looking Italian boy of about fifteen named Salvatore Bullo, who went by the name of Duty.

Pat’s full name was Patricia Quincy and she, like Rick and Junior, was a high school sophomore.

Pat explained that every boy present was a member of the Prospectors, which got its name from Prospect Park, the approximate geographical center of the area the Prospectors claimed as its own turf. There were a lot of other members who weren’t present, she added. Altogether the club had about a hundred and fifty members, plus a girl’s auxiliary of about a hundred. She said that Max Jelonek was the president.

“What is it? Just a social club?” Rick asked. “Sort of like an unchartered fraternity?”

“I guess you could call it that,” Pat said. “It’s the thing everybody who is anybody belongs to. A boy from around here who doesn’t get asked in is nowhere. The Prospectors run everything.”

“You mean in school?”

Duty Bullo laughed. “In school and out, man. You want to make the football team, you better be a Prospector first. You got a yen to work on the school paper, you don’t ask your school adviser. You ask Max. Outside of school you get the urge for some witch, she wouldn’t look at you unless you’re wearing the belt.”

“What belt?” Rick asked, looking puzzled.

Duty unzipped his jacket to display a brown elastic belt with a silver buckle bearing the raised symbol of a pickax. Rick and Junior examined it with suitable respect.

“How do you get in this club?” Junior asked.

“You don’t, unless you’re asked,” Duty told him. After a moment of general silence, he added generously, “Most all-right guys are eventually asked. You guys already got a good in. I mean Max letting you stick around tonight and all.”

Pat gave Rick’s arm a squeeze. “Don’t you worry,” she whispered in his ear. “They’ll ask you in.”

It was midnight when the group began to break up. Rick offered to walk Pat Quincy home, and got a surprised look in return. Apparently she had taken it for granted that he’d walk her home, and considered the offer superfluous.

Junior and Duty left with them. A moment after they got outside the Cardinal Shop, Max, Artie and another boy who went by the nickname of Eightball came out too. Max called to Rick and his companions to wait, as they were all going the same way.