Harlan Ellison - Web of the City

“Now you maybe gonna talk ta me? Huh? You gonna answer straight like?”

Rusty gurgled and his eyes unfogged. The dim scene of the alley pasted itself back in his vision and he tried to speak. Words would not form. The fat man eased off a bit.

Rusty gagged and coughed. Then, “I heard the Cherokees was comin’ over for a rumble tonight. That’s all the message I got. I don’t get the wire no more. I’m outta the gang.”

The fat man’s line of conversation altered instantly. His interest was heightened by this new subject, as though he had forgotten the brewing of trouble in his alleys. “Yeah,” he wheezed, “I heard that. That cat Candle’s got your spot now, don’t he?”

Rusty nodded silently. What Greaseball did or did not know about the stand that afternoon was of no concern now.

“How come you ain’t the President no more?”

“I got too old for office.”

Another slap, not quite so hard. Fear still oozed between the fat man’s teeth.

“I wanted out, that’s all.”

“Then what you doin’ here tonight?”

“Lookin’ for my sister. I wanna get her home.”

The fat man let loose entirely. Rusty shrugged down the wrinkled sports jacket, adjusted the tie and shirt. The fat man gave him the nod. “Watch yaself.”

The entire incident was a mystery to Rusty. Why was the fat man so interested? Or was it just that he liked to know everything that went on, whether he could control it or not?

That was the answer and Rusty walked away as the fear submerged itself temporarily in Greaseball Bolley’s piggy eyes. He moved his body slightly, and felt the bulk of the ironwood chair leg pressed between his leg and the showcase. If there was going to be trouble tonight he was going to end it before the cops came in to do the job.

Rusty walked past the alleys and the empty racks and made fast for the back door leading to the rooms.

From inside he could hear the beat of music and the sound of girls’ laughter. It was as loud as usual and suddenly very necessary. Alone was bad tonight. Stay with the herd and beat the glooms, that was the angle. Cool it!

Margie was just inside the door, in the middle of a group of Cougie Cats—debs—regaling them with the saga of her conception, from start to schoolyard, blow by blow, detailed, painted with adolescent fantasies. Her eyebrows went up as she saw Rusty and the other girls turned too, surprise registering on their faces. This was the first drag Rusty had attended since he quit the gang. If the fuzz found him here, they knew, he would be breaking his custody and back to the can he’d go.

But it was too neat an evening for bombs so they all waved and gave him the eye and Cherry licked her lips hungrily, saying, “Come on back an’ see me later, big man.”

Rusty smiled vacantly and went deeper into the thick, blue cloud of smoke, catching the telltale muskiness of pot, trying to single out the slim shape of Dolo.

Greek emerged from the smog and stuck out his hand in a heavy salute. “Buddy!” he exclaimed. Greek was the big mouth of the club, and Rusty had great affection for him. The Greek didn’t know when to shut up and consequently his outgoing friendliness was a constant warmth in his vicinity. It was good to know a guy like that, every once in a while. An open stud was a relief from all the cool boys.

Greek was fleshy, but not soft. More like a black, curly-haired Buddha than anything else, but with a switchblade, he was nobody’s fool.

His face was cheek-marked from a rumble. Another stud had taken a raw potato studded with double-edged razor blades and twisted it on Greek’s kisser. It had left raw bloody strips of flesh and the healing had been slow and imperfect. His right cheek looked like a particularly violent case of strip-acne had hit and ravaged it.

“Man, fall down and have a puff with me!” Greek said.

Rusty clapped the big Greek on the shoulder, said, “Not stayin’ too long, Greek. Just fell down to find my kid sis—”

“Hey, man, y’know, like your sister’s gettin’ to be a real knockout. I was gonna try that myself, then I remembered what you told me when she joined up with the debs. That scared me off good.”

Rusty started to get mad, then realized he was being spooked and slugged the Greek playfully in the arm. He took the fleshy boy to one side and talked in close.

“Listen, man, I wanna ask you somethin’. See, uh, I’m uh, you know, not in so tight anymore and I don’t like to shove my nose in where it don’t go, but look, is there anyone who’s, uh, well, you know, like—uh—payin’ a lotta ’tention to Dolo? You know what I mean?”

Rusty was serious and he could only be serious with this boy, and both knew it. But Greek had a distaste for pigeons and he hesitated.

Rusty added hurriedly, “Look, don’t goof yaself with nobody, but if there’s anybody out to plank her I’d like ta know so I could warn him friendly to stay off. Ya know what I mean? Hell, Greek, she’s onny a kid, and she’s my onny sister…”

Greek nodded. “I dig.”

Rusty waited, then, “Well?”

Greek looked troubled, then shook his head in the negative. “No, not that I know about. She sticks pretty close to the broads. She asks around once in a while who some guy is, when she don’t know, but she acts kinda skitty ’round the men. You know what I mean.” Then he changed the subject quickly, “Where’s Weezee?”

Rusty waved it away fast. “Oh, she wanted to come, mentioned it this afternoon, but I didn’t feel like draggin’ no women tonight.” Greek understood, and a lecherous quirk of his lips indicated he felt the same way.

“I was out to the dumps this afternoon.”

Rusty smiled. “I saw ya, ya bastard. You was yellin’ as loud as the rest of them apples.”

Greek spread his hands in helplessness. He grinned back. “I don’t like a blade in my gut any better’n you do, man. Candle’s top dog around here and I like the group. No sense my playin’ hard man and gettin’ stomped. Read me?”

Rusty smiled back, and a mutual respect flitted between them.

Greek changed the subject again. “Wanna find a nice piece? Some fresh stuff from off Cherokee turf here tonight.”

Rusty’s brow furrowed, and his gray eyes slitted down. “You let that stuff in, when you know the Cherokees are on the prowl?”

Greek thumbed his nose at the ceiling. “Frayk ’em!”

Rusty wagged his head and pursed his lips with a puff. “That’s bad biz, man.”

“Ah, hell,” Greek said, “they ain’t comin’ down here. The turf’s too hot for ’em since the rumble. They won’t show their butts in sight for months. And if they do,” he patted his jacket pocket, “we give ’em the way out, put ’em down good.”

Rusty chuckled. That’s all they ever thought about. Laying and fighting and drinking and sipping the tea. It was all pretty hopeless, but wild in a sort of clockwise way.

“Yeah, point out the fresh stuff. Long as I’m down, I might as well socialize a little.” They walked into the crowd together.

The first girl—called herself Goofball, but Rusty heard someone yell to her as Mary, and the broad turned to answer—boxed him into one of the bedrooms and Rusty didn’t object too strenuously. It wasn’t so good. She was strictly nowhere from style, but it was an interlude and by the time they unlocked and came out the joint was rocking high and heavy and the sticks were passed around free.

Rusty stayed off the pot, the Sneaky Pete, the Sweet Lucy, and the other broads and kept looking for Dolo. From time to time he heard the word that she had been there and leeched out so he stayed, hoping she would come back and he could talk her into going home. But she had come and gone. She didn’t come back and an hour after he had arrived, Rusty couldn’t leave.