Brett Halliday - Mike Shayne's Torrid Twelve

Junior said tentatively, “Wouldn’t they be sore if we didn’t join now, Rick? I don’t want these guys mad at me.”

Rick only looked at him.

Junior said in a defensive tone, “I don’t mean just because they might beat us up. But look how the Prospectors run everything. We’d be right out in the cold. Probably Pat would even drop you.”

Rick frowned at this. “Let’s go over and talk to her about it,” he suggested.

When they picked up Pat, Rick told her he had something to talk about, and suggested they all walk over to Prospect Park instead of going to the Cardinal Shop. They found a bench in the park, and after they were seated with Pat in the middle, she looked at Rick expectantly.

“It’s about the Prospectors,” Rick said. “My dad says it isn’t a club, it’s just a teen-age gang.”

Pat’s eyes widened. “You told your father about the Prospectors?” she asked in a shocked voice.

“Why not?” Rick inquired.

“None of the fellows tell their parents they belong, Rick. My folks would kill me if they knew I belonged to the auxiliary. You just don’t do that.”

Rick said glumly, “It is just a gang then, huh?”

“It’s a club. It’s not like those things you read about over in Harlem. Nobody in the Prospectors goes around stealing hubcaps or skin-popping. We’re a straight club.”

Rick was silent for a moment. Then he said, “Pop says Max Jelonek has a juvenile record a mile long.”

“Pickups on suspicion,” Pat said contemptuously. “The cops have got nothing better to do. He’s never taken a fall.”

Rick said, “The police don’t keep picking up innocent people on suspicion.”

“Oh, Max feels his oats once in a while. But it’s all in fun. He never does anything really bad, like stealing”

“Yeah,” Rick said dryly. “Just beats up strangers and busts up property. And sets up rumbles with the Purple Pelicans.”

Pat said petulantly, “You’re talking like a detached worker.”

“A what?”

“A street-gang worker. One of those busybodies who’s always coming around, trying to get the guys to organize ball teams and stuff. Look, Rick, you can’t fight City Hall. You’re either for the Prospectors or against them. And around here, if you’re against them, you’re dead.”

Junior said on a high note, “What do you mean, dead? Explain it, will you?”

Pat glanced at him. “Out of everything. Like Duty Bullo explained the other night. You wouldn’t have a friend in the world.”

“Oh,” Junior said with a touch of relief.

Pat said earnestly, “Believe me, Rick, you’ll get in trouble talking like that. You’re in now. The guys all like you, and you could be the most popular fellow in the club. But you sound off the way you’re talking now, and you’ll end up talking to yourself. Because you won’t have any friends to listen to you.”

“Including you, Pat?”

Pat stared at him a moment before answering. Then she squeezed his arm and said confidently, “You won’t be a schmoo. You won’t be silly enough to kick your chance of getting in. Not when you’re right on top of the heap.”

Rick let the subject drop. Later the three of them stopped by the Cardinal Shop for a time. But Rick didn’t enjoy himself. He kept thinking of what his father had told him.

He also kept remembering the conversation he’d had with his father just before they left Philadelphia, and his amused question, “What would I be doing with a bunch of squares?”

On Thursday football spring training started. Rick reported for practice and got a favorable reception from both the coach and members of the squad. The coach examined his sturdy frame with an approving eye and looked quite pleased when he learned Rick had been a first-string fullback in Philadelphia. He was greeted with equal enthusiasm by the regular squad members, all of whom turned out to be Prospectors.

Max Jelonek reported for practice too. Rick learned that the previous season Max had been a substitute quarterback on the first team.

There was no scrimmage this first day. The coach merely put them through some hardening exercises and had everyone hit the tackling dummy a few times. He sent them to the showers at four p.m. with the gruff announcement that real training would start the next day.

As they were dressing in the locker room, Max said, “Tonight’s meeting night, Rick.”

“Yeah,” Rick said.

He’d been thinking about the Prospectors almost constantly since his conversation with his father. He still hadn’t decided what to do. Trained to obedience, it was against everything he’d been taught since birth to go against his father’s express order. On the other hand, he’d never before been in a situation such as this, where obedience meant almost certain social ostracism.

He had thought of discussing the whole problem with his father, but had decided against it. He sensed that Big Sam’s reaction would be simply, “You don’t want to be accepted by kids like that anyway. Find some friends you can respect.”

Which, like most adult solutions to teen-age problems, would be meaningless advice. In the end, he had simply tabled the problem.

Rick stayed home that evening, Junior came over for a time and they did some homework together. They didn’t, as had become their custom, walk over to see Pat for a while.

Friday during the lunch period Rick finally had to face the problem of what to do about the Prospectors. Max called him and Junior aside.

“You’re in, studs,” he announced with a grin. “Unanimous votes for both of you.”

“Gee, that’s swell,” Junior said a little uncertainly, and looked at Rick.

Rick merely nodded.

“Your chore is a little tougher than I thought it would be,” Max said apologetically. “Sort of a sop to Artie. We let him pick it, and I guess he’s a little burned at you, Rick.”

Junior asked, “What is it?”

“Well, you’ve heard of the Purple Pelicans, haven’t you?”

Rick nodded and Junior said uneasily, “Sure. Over the other side of Atlantic Avenue.”

“Uh-huh. They meet on Monday nights. Got a basement clubroom they’ve fixed up. With a half dozen street-level windows.”

“So?” Rick asked.

Max grinned again. “The windows will probably be locked, but a hunk of brick can fix that. You studs are going to drop a couple of stink bombs in the middle of their meeting.”

Junior attempted an appreciative smile that came out more mechanical than enthusiastic. Rick remained silent and expressionless.

“Well, what you think, man?” Max asked Rick.

Rick said slowly, “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why do you want to bust up their meeting? What’s the purpose?”

Max frowned. “I told you the other night. To prove you’re worthy to be Prospectors.”

“What’s worthy about tossing stink bombs?” Rick inquired. “Any five-year-old kid can toss a stink bomb and run. Why not something that proves something? Like swimming the Hudson River?”

Max’s frown deepened. “We pick the chore, man. Not you candidates.”

“I don’t even know these Purple Pelicans,” Rick said with the beginning of anger. “They never did anything to me. An initiation stunt is one thing. We both had to pull stunts to get in Iota Omega. But we didn’t have to hurt anybody else. I’m not going to toss stink bombs at a bunch of strangers.”

“You are if you’re going to be a Prospector,” Max told him coldly.

Rick said flatly, “Then I’m not going to be a Prospector,” and walked away.

Junior didn’t follow him. A few yards away Rick glanced back over his shoulder. Junior gave him an embarrassed look and averted his eyes.