Harlan Ellison - Web of the City

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Candle go down under a cop’s billy and he spurred himself on. His shoulder was numb from the tire-chain smash he had suffered. The way was blocked by two girls who were still fighting; the one girl clubbing the other in the breasts with a brick.

He elbowed them aside roughly and plunged through the doorway, letting the battered broad’s screeches slip past his consciousness. Inside the club rooms things were even worse, if that was possible. The cops had somehow discovered the back way—probably waiting for just something like this to instigate a raid on the Cougars—and the rooms were filled with battling cops, Cherokees and Cougars. The howls of the broads was a wide tapestry of sound and beat almost physically at Rusty.

He tried to get back out, found himself boxed in. He saw a cop fasten his eyes on him, and tried to duck away. But the cop had him and the hand closed tightly about his neck, painfully. He choked and kicked back with his leg, missing the cop, kicking someone else. The cop dragged him by the collar toward the back exit and when Rusty tried to snake away the cop grabbed his arm, twisted it back and up till the socket felt as though it were lined with sand.

The pain was great, so Rusty settled down quietly.

He only tried to kick free once more, as the cop shoved him up the steps of the riot car. But it was no good. And the paddy wagon was dark inside, like somebody’s belly, all full of kids…

The squad room was crowded and the kids milled about uncertainly, eyeing the door with a wary craftiness. Once in a while one of the Cherokees would say something guttural to a Cougar and a mild flare-up would start. But circulating cops with ready billies kept the noise to a minimum.

Rusty stood in a corner, by himself, smoking quietly. This was hell on skates! Of all the stupid things to have happen to him, this was the topper. To get himself picked up now, when he was released in Pancoast’s custody, when he had gotten away from the gang. He cursed himself for having slipped—so easily, so goddamned easily—back into his old ways. Then he realized that the poison was not completely neutralized; it still swirled in his veins and he knew he had to watch himself carefully all the time.

This was going to be rough as banana peels, and he didn’t know how he was going to get out of it.

Fish slid over to him from the bench where he sat and spoke from the corner of his mouth, hardly moving his lips, so the cops could not see him speaking. “Hey, man, you got any sticks on you?” His head was completely swathed in bandages.

Rusty shook his head.

Fish nodded satisfaction. “That’s your tail if they catch you with pot.”

“I know it.”

“Man, you shoulda gone home early. Why were you hangin’?”

“My sister, you jerk. I thought she was comin’ back and I went to knock off a piece while I waited. She musta come back and left or somethin’ while I was with that stupid Goofball, Mary, whatever the hell her name was. So I was a stupe, so I’m here, so I—”

“Hey! You!”

A bull-faced desk sergeant, behind the high counter, was motioning through the cigarette smoke and the crowd at Rusty. Rusty played it cool for a minute, looked around, as if to say, who—me? The cop motioned again. “Yeah, you, the one with the butt in his face. C’mere.”

Rusty touched Fish with his elbow, and shoved away from the wall, walked forward slowly. A Cherokee gave him the elbow hard as he went past, but Rusty paid no attention.

He walked slowly, and hit the counter with his head high.

“Yessir?”

“Weren’t you in here a couple months back, on a rumble rap?”

“I don’t know, sir. Maybe.”

“Don’t ya know?”

“I’m not sure, sir.”

“Not sure, huh?” His voice became all-business, hard. “Name?”

“Santoro.”

“First name, wise guy.”

“Rusty.”

“What’s your given name? None of that gang crap.”

Rusty bit his lip. Oh hell, all right! “Russell.”

One of the Cherokees in back said in a falsetto, “Oh, Raww-sull!”

Rusty stiffened, but continued to stare at the plump, darkeyed sergeant above him. The officer lifted a phone, spoke into it softly and settled back with his arms folded across his chest.

“Can I go back now, sir?” Rusty said bitterly.

“Stay put,” the cop replied.

Rusty stayed and waited, knowing they were yanking the book on him. The file, the dossier, the grave-sheet, the record of the sins he had built. He waited and died a little bit inside, knowing he was back on the treadmill, knowing only a minor miracle would save him now.

In a few minutes another officer came in from a side door and tossed the folder to the desk, looking at Rusty with curiosity. “Real juicy,” he said, cocking a thumb at the boy.

Silence descended heavily in the squad room as the kids listened to hear the sum total of Rusty’s offenses, to see how rough a stud he was.

The sergeant opened the file, and read the make-sheet. “Arrested August 1955, car stripping; first offense. Released into custody of mother. Arrested June 1956, mugging, released on insufficient evidence; arrested March 1957, breaking and entering, assault with a deadly weapon, released in the custody of Carl Pancoast.”

He looked down heavily and his dark eyes bored into Rusty’s gray ones with rock hardness. Rusty stared back implacably. They weren’t gonna make him buckle.

“Nice. Real nice,” the cop said with sarcasm. “Good record for a kid your age. This—uh—Pancoast know you were out tonight?”

“I don’t know for certain, sir.”

“Whaddaya mean, ya don’t know?”

Rusty shrugged. “I’m just not sure, sir.”

“What were you doing down there in that bowling alley tonight? You go there to fight?”

“No, sir.”

The cop leaned heavily forward on his fleshy arms. “Then what were ya doin’ there?”

“I was looking for my sister, sir,” Rusty said, knowing he would not be believed.

The cop looked quizzical. “Why?”

“I didn’t want her to go to the dance. I knew there was gonna be trouble with them,” he nodded his head behind him, at the surly Cherokees standing in listening positions.

The cop bit his lower lip. “Anybody know you was goin’ there for that?”

Rusty shrugged. “I’m not sure, sir.”

“You’re not so sure about anything, are you, kid?”

Rusty remained silent. What was the point of answering?

Suddenly, Fish spoke up from the rear. “I knew he was lookin’ for his sister.”

And Greek stepped out, “Me, too. That’s what he said when he come in.”

The cop looked up, surprised. This was not standard with the gang kids. Play dumb, that was the rule. And yet here were two of them, sticking their necks out for someone else. The sergeant pursed his lips, thinking.

Rusty knew what it had taken for Fish and Greek to open their mouths. It made them stand out and that just wasn’t done in the streets; a stud could get hurt that way.

“Who said that?”

Fish did not answer. To corroborate Rusty’s story was one thing, to be singled out and brought forward—that was strictly another. “I asked who said that?” Still no answer.

But another voice—Rusty recognized the heavy voice of the Greek again—chimed in, “That’s right, fuzz. He was there for his sister. He told me!”

Then another, Poop it was. “Right, that’s right!” They were all following suit, for Rusty had not even spoken to Poop at the dance. But in a moment, all the Cougars were yelling it was so.

The cops started moving through the crowd, uncertain, trying to stop the noise, but the desk sergeant slammed his beefy hand on the desktop, yelled, “Okay! Okay! No more of that, shut up or you all go into the tank for the night.” He looked down at Rusty uncertainly.