Harlan Ellison - Web of the City

“Well, read this,” he said arrogantly, more to his side-boys than Rusty. “Check who just dropped in for a chat. Welcome, spick.”

Rusty felt the blood surging in him and he wanted to drive a fist straight into the bastard’s mouth. But that was what Candle wanted. That would be the clincher. They’d slice him up like fresh bacon, right there, and everyone would dummy up. No one wanted the Cougars pissed off at them.

“Candle. I wanna talk to you,” Rusty said softly.

The other grinned hugely, and he swung one foot up onto the chair, just touching the edge of Rusty’s pants, putting a bit of dirt there.

“What you got to say to me you can say out at the dumps, spick.”

“Look, don’t make it rougher than now,” Rusty cautioned him. “I wanna knock this off. I don’t feature the idea of a stand. I got enough trouble with the cops already. No sense my getting picked up and tossed in the farm.”

Candle reared back and laughed. Loud. His voice cut off all the chickie-chickie around the room, and everyone waited to find out what would happen. They knew Rusty was no chicken, they knew he had been rough as Prez of the Cougars and did not understand what had changed him. But they also knew Candle was a rough stud, and it would be top kicks to see these two go at each other.

“You don’t wanna stand, man? You don’t wanna come out and show all these kids you ain’t yellow?” His grin grew wider as he grabbed a cardboard pint carton of milk, ripped open across the top. “That sits fine with me, but I still got a beef with you.

“So,” he said, lifting the carton, “if you wanna bow out, that’s ace with me, and I’ll settle my beef like this!” He threw the milk at Rusty.

They laughed. The crowd burst into sound and Rusty stood there with the milk running down over his face, soaking quickly through his shirt and running through to his pants.

Before he could restrain himself he had lunged and had his hands around Candle’s throat. The Prez of the Cougars gave a violent gasp and brought his own hands up in an inward swinging movement, breaking Rusty’s grip. Then he choked out, “Grab—grab him!” and the side-boys had Rusty’s arms pinned.

Candle swung out of the chair and stood up. His face was a violent blued mask of hate. “Now you read this, man. I’m not gonna work you over like I should now. Mostly ’cause I want to have more time at you, without nobody holding you back, yellow-belly. So you be out at the dump and we’ll settle this down once and for all.”

Then he shoved Rusty in the stomach, not hard enough to knock him out, but hard enough to suck the energy from him. Then they walked away quickly, several of them sweeping full trays off the tables. Garbage lay everywhere in their path.

Rusty stood there for a few minutes, listening to the cackles and catcalls ringing around him.

He could not move.

There was no way free. He would fight and he would win. He would carve that sluggy sonofabitch from gut to kisser and leave him for the dump rats to chew on.

It was gonna be tough as banana peels.

Pancoast got to him just before four o’clock. He caught him on the street.

“Rusty, I heard what happened yesterday. You going out there?”

Rusty shifted from foot to foot. What could he say? He knew Pancoast was pulling for him, and he knew if he went out there and fought he was throwing it all away. He couldn’t yank loose now if he wanted to and yet he knew it was the worst thing he could do.

“I—I gotta, Mr. Pancoast. I got inta this and if I don’t finish it once and for all, they won’t never let me alone. One way or the other, I got to put a tail to this thing.”

Pancoast shook his head, grabbed the boy by the biceps. “Listen to me, Rusty. Listen to me now. You’ve been doing real well. You’ve been growing with every day. You go out there and come down to their level and you’ll be right back where you started two months ago when I fished you out of jail. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” Rusty said, not looking at him, “but it’s gotta be this way. Final.”

Pancoast dropped his grip. His voice got steely hard. “I’ll call the police, Rusty. I’ll come out there with them and stop it.”

“You come out there or you call the fuzz and I’ll cut you off even, myself.”

Pancoast had been around the kids long enough. He knew that “cutting off even” was tantamount to a threat of revenge. He said nothing, but his eyes were filled with hurt. His hands moved aimlessly at his sides. Then he turned and walked away.

Rusty was alone.

So damned, finally, horribly, all alone.

He walked down the street. After a while, he knew two Cougars followed him. He moved down the street and when Fish pulled alongside in his heap Rusty was not surprised.

“Hey, man. They give me the word to bring you out. You know, like they told me.” He was always alibiing, Rusty thought ruefully.

“Yeah. Yeah, I know. Just a job like.”

“So, like get in, huh, man?”

Rusty got into the car and Fish waited while Tiger and the Greek got in the back seat. No one said a word. The car pulled away from the curb, swung out into traffic heading uptown toward the dumps.

Rusty was scared and his mouth was dry.

But at least the knife in his shoe felt reassuring.

But not much.

As they passed the burning piles of garbage and refuse, the sky darkened appreciably. It was still early, not quite four-thirty yet, but the day seemed blacker than any Rusty could remember.

Fish tooled the beat-up Plymouth along the bumpy road, avoiding chuck holes and pits in the packed dirt. “One of these days, damn it, I’m gonna crack a parts shop and get me enough cams and crap to juice up this buggy.”

Rusty didn’t answer. He had more important things to worry about.

If he chickened here, he would not only have to ward off the antagonism of the neighborhood for the rest of his days; that was minor compared to what else would happen. Dolo would have to live him down, and that could mean any number of things in the streets. She might have to get more deeply involved with the Cougie Cats and their illegal activities. And then his ma. She would be bugged in the street. His old man…

That crumbum wouldn’t have to worry, but if he was here maybe he could have done something, maybe he could have helped. Rusty set those bitter thoughts aside. Pa Santoro was a wine-gut and there wasn’t no help coming from that angle.

The heap pulled around a bend and Rusty saw a dozen or so cars all drawn into a circle, their noses pointed into the center. The place was crawling with kids and a great cheer went up as they saw him through the window.

Rusty’s belly constricted. He didn’t want to fight Candle. He didn’t want to fight anybody. He wanted to go home and lie down and put on some records and lie very, very still. His belly ached.

Fish took off at top speed around the ring of cars, spraying dirt in a wide wedge as he rounded the circle on two wheels. It was all Rusty needed to finish the nerve-job on him. He leaned against the right side of the car and puked so hard he thought the tendons in his neck would split. Fish was spinning the wheel as Rusty came up with it, and his eyes bugged. “Hey! Man! What the hell ya doin’?”

He slammed his foot onto the brake pedal and the Plymouth ground to a skittering halt, the tires biting deep into the dirt of the dump grounds and spinning wildly.

The car stalled and Fish was out, around the other side, and opening the door in an instant. He grabbed Rusty by the jacket collar and hauled him bodily from the car.

The kids were running over from the circle, violence light on their faces. What was happening there? This was a real kick!