Peter Spiegelman - Black Maps

The shorter guy stopped looking at me and bent to his work again. The taller one answered in a clipped, midwestern voice.

“We’re up here working is all. Don’t know anybody up here. Saw some people down that way. They might know.” He pointed down the path, to where it forked off to the west, and went back to work also. I thanked them and headed west.

I followed the footpath as it curved through a wooded area and led up a rise. I heard whoops and shrieks as I neared the top. I looked down toward the East Meadow and the source of the noise.

“Shit,” I said to myself.

About fifty yards down the path, near a curving row of benches, four teenage boys were hassling a group of street people. The street people were huddled together on a bench. There were five of them, and they all looked older. The boys circled and swooped around them, yelling, posturing, gesturing obscenely, and punctuating all this with kicks and tugs at the plastic bags and paper sacks that the older folks clung to desperately. A shopping cart was tipped on its side nearby, its cargo of canfilled plastic bags strewn around the benches. The largest of the boys was taking experimental jabs at the head of one of the old men, working himself up to something more serious. One of the old women wore dirty, electric blue high-tops.

“Shit.” As a rule, I dislike teenage boys. It’s a mean-spirited view, I know, and probably an artifact of being a cop. But too often they seem to come in only a few varieties: combinations of sullen, whiny, hostile, self-destructive, and whacked-out, or the ever-popular “all of the above.” And too many of them are armed. Unfortunately, I was not.

It was best to do it quickly. I headed down the path. As I approached, I could see that all four of the kids were white. Two were blond, two were dark. The two blond kids were younger, sixteen or so; the other two might have been eighteen. But they were all good-sized. Three of them were just under six feet and meaty, though still a little gawky, as if not quite full grown. The fourth one had gotten there. He was about an inch taller than me and outweighed me by maybe twenty pounds. He looked heavy in the arms, shoulders, and chest.

They were an interesting brand of urban outlaw. Beneath their ’hood affectations-the baggy pants and skewed ball caps, the hand signals and the heavy street dialect-they were preppies. They were well scrubbed and well groomed, and their clothes were expensive and clean. They all wore button-down shirts. I caught a glimpse of a crested blazer under one parka, a school uniform, though I couldn’t make out which school. One of them had a plaited fabric Nantucket bracelet on his wrist; two others wore rep ties and expensive watches. They were ridiculous wannabes, but I was still wary of weapons.

They paused when they saw me coming. They expected me either to turn back or hurry by, pretending not to notice. I did neither. I came down the path at a slow walk, looking directly at them. They were puzzled, and the three smaller ones looked to the big kid for a lead they could follow. He was closest to me, on my right, as I walked along. The others were arrayed behind him near the benches.

“Hey, ese, what the fuck you looking at, motherfucker?” the big one said. I stopped and stared at him. He was pumped up from beating on old people, so he didn’t pause to think. He stepped toward me and started to raise his hands, maybe to push me, maybe just to get in my face. Whatever. I backhanded him across the mouth with my right hand, then pivoted and drove my left fist into his kidney as he staggered off the path. He went down on his knees, and I kicked him in the balls from behind. He went forward on his face with a hard thud. He made little rasping sounds and clawed at the dirt, but otherwise didn’t move much. It happened so quickly that the other three kids just stood there. But I didn’t. I stepped over the big one and came at them.

The two younger ones were smarter than they looked. They ran. It was the right move for them, and they were good at it-fast out of the blocks. The other one, a ferrety-looking kid with pale blue eyes, was stupid. He had a hunting knife with a six-inch blade in his hand, held low against his thigh, and though he had no idea what to do with it, he wanted to do something. I caught his wrist in my hand just as he began to raise the knife, and held it tight. Then I stepped in very close and put my thumb over his eye and pressed. Hard. He started to struggle and twist away and tried to hit me with his free hand, but I was too close and he didn’t know how to do it. I pressed harder still. He screamed and dropped the knife. I pushed him away, and as he staggered back I slapped him openhanded on the face and head a half-dozen times. Then I grabbed him by the collar and threw him down next to his pal.

“Nice and quiet, ladies, while I see some ID,” I said. The big one showed no ability to move much, but I kicked the ferrety kid lightly in his side and head to reinforce the message. I patted them down. I took wallets from both of them, and another knife from the ferrety kid. Nice. I stuck the weapons in my jacket.

I went through the wallets and between the two of them came up with five fake IDs, nearly three hundred dollars in cash, three condoms, four credit cards, and two cash cards. I also found a nickel bag of pot, two joints, and what might have been two tabs of blotter acid. Finally, I found some real ID-a driver’s license and a learner’s permit. I held on to the cash, the dope, the weapons, and the real IDs, and tossed the rest on the ground. Then I spoke to them.

“Let’s see, we’ve got Cross, age eighteen, and Simms, age seventeen. You must be the baddest boys on the Upper East Side.” Simms, the little ferrety one, tensed up like he was going to bolt, so I put my boot on the back of his head and pressed his face into the dirt a little. As much as I enjoyed terrorizing violent brats, I needed to end this before anyone else came down the path.

“You ladies know what a deep pocket is? Never heard the phrase? Well, it’s a technical term lawyers use for the parents of assholes like you. And it’s the place I’m going to take a big fucking pile of cash from, if you or your buddies come near these people again. On top of which, I’ll personally hold you down so these folks can take a straight razor to your balls-assuming you’ve got any. You hearing me, girls?” I got something that was halfway between a sob and a sullen grunt from Cross; from Simms I got nothing.

“Off to school, now,” I said, and gave each of them a sharp kick in the rear. They yelped and scrambled up, gathering their stuff. The older kid ran off, and when he’d gotten about twenty yards away, started shouting obscenities. Simms backed away from me slowly and spoke.

“Give me my money and the rest of my shit,” he said, sullenly.

“I don’t think so, homeboy. Now run along before you get hurt,” I said. His eye was red and bleary, and he looked at me with a seething hatred that he had trouble putting into words. Finally he settled for “Fuck your mother,” and turned and ran up the path. Such fine boys; their parents must be very proud.

During this time the street people had said not a word, and when I turned back to the benches, I saw why. They were gone. Or nearly gone. One woman remained. She’d righted the shopping cart and was collecting the cans scattered on the grass. Her blue high-tops flapped with every step she took. Sometimes it’s better to be lucky than good.

“Can I help you?” I asked.

“I’m not pressing charges against those bastards. I don’t want anything to do with ’em. I just hope they don’t come around again next week looking for payback.” She paused as she hoisted a large bag into the wagon. “I guess I should say thanks; so thanks. But you should’ve just shot ’em, the little pricks.” She was round, indeed-built like a beer keg, in fact, and it wasn’t all sweaters. Her crumpled, gnomish face was barely visible beneath a wild bush of gray hair. Her voice sounded much younger than she looked. She had some sort of accent, but I couldn’t place it.