William McGivern - Savage Streets

Farrell parked across the street from the Chiefs’ clubhouse and cut the motor. In the close warm silence of the car rain pounded on the thin metal above his head and rolled down the windshield in slow level waves. The block was deserted and the street lights on tall iron poles cast lonely yellow reflections on the streaming sidewalks and gutters. When he stepped from the car the gusting wind blew a tangle of hair across his forehead, and the rain soaked through his sweater in the time it took him to slam the door.

There was no light above the entrance to the clubhouse but the curtained window beside the door was a golden square in the darkness.

Farrell hesitated as two cars swung into the block, tires whining on the slick pavement, the low beams of their headlights leaping up the wet black street. The lights flashed on his face as the first car swerved suddenly toward him; Farrell leaped back to the curb, a spray of water splashing his legs as the ear skidded to a stop. The car door opened and Sam Ward swung his legs from under the wheel. “The reserves are here,” he said, shouting over the wind. Detweiller climbed out of the front seat and came around the splash of the headlights, a peaked golf cap on his head, his body bulking large in a trench coat. Malleck got out of the back, the collar of an Air Force flight jacket turned up around his neck.

The second car had pulled carefully to the curb, and the driver was hurrying to join the group. It was Wayne Norton, Farrell saw, his neatly handsome features tight with excitement. He was wearing a tie, Farrell noted irrelevantly; a neat blue tie, a gray suit and a dark overcoat.

The four men faced him in a semicircle and Malleck yelled over the wind: “It’s your game, Farrell, don’t worry about that. We’ll just make sure it’s played according to the rules.”

“I told Ward I didn’t want any help.”

“You’ve got it anyway,” Detweiller said, gripping his shoulder. “Don’t be stubborn. Let’s go.”

Farrell was conscious of a fierce gratitude for their support; they were on his side. He had to be right; it was inconceivable they were all wrong.

“What’s the procedure?” Norton said shrilly.

“Play it by ear, I guess,” Ward said.

“Just watch me if you’re in doubt,” Malleck said. The smile that was like a flame lit the fissures in his rocky face. “Come on, let’s go.”

They crossed the street quickly and went down the steps to the Chiefs’ clubhouse. Malleck halted them by raising a hand and pointing at the window. Inside a couple danced slowly under the naked light bulb but the cheesecloth curtains blurred the harsh illumination and the dancers were remote and insubstantial figures, as weightless and languid as underwater acrobats.

The dancers were Cleo and Jerry. She wore high heels and stood on tiptoes, but her head did not reach his shoulders. She was like a doll in his arms, her face pale and pouting under black bangs, her firm, provocative little body snuggled tightly against him.

They were alone in the long, narrow room.

“Okay?” Malleck whispered to Farrell.

“My show, remember?” Farrell said, and tried the knob; it turned under his hand and he pushed the door open and walked into the room.

The light dazzled him for an instant; the illusion of a shimmering translucence was gone, and everything was revealed in a merciless intensity; the girl’s frightened, excited eyes, the worn furniture, the shining wooden surface of the bar, the photographs and pictures of Indians on the damp stone walls.

Malleck said to Ward: “You wait outside, hear? Knock if anybody else shows up.” And to Detweiller: “Close that door and keep it closed.”

Jerry had pushed Cleo away from him and was watching Farrell with a swiftly growing anger hardening on his big square face. “What do you mean busting in here like this?” he said. “Who the hell do you guys think you are, anyway?”

“Take him,” Malleck said gently. “Don’t waste no time talking.”

“I told you not to bother me or my family again,” Farrell said in a cold, heavy voice. “This afternoon you ran down my daughter. That’s why I’m here.”

“You’re crazy,” Jerry said, crouching slightly and staring from Malleck to Farrell with wary eyes. The overhead light drew incongruous furrows down his broad young face. “Every time something happens to one of your cry-baby brats you blame it on us.”

“My son saw you,” Farrell said.

“He’s lying,” Cleo cried. “He’s a liar. Jerry wasn’t anywhere near the Boulevard today.”

“They know where it happened,” Malleck said. “They got their stories all set.”

“I don’t give a damn what happened to your kid,” Jerry said furiously. “You guys get out of here. Go blow off somewhere else. You hear me?” He walked toward Farrell, drawing a deep breath that hardened the muscles in his big chest and arms.

Farrell went to meet him, and Malleck said, “Ah!” in a hoarse exultant voice as Farrell’s first blow caught Jerry high on the cheek, staggering him, dropping him to his knees. A thin and brilliant streak of blood gleamed on his cheekbone, vivid and theatrical in the glaring light. Jerry touched the cut and looked stupidly at his fingertips. Cleo was crying. She said, “Leave him alone, leave him alone,” in a shrill, hysterical voice. She picked up a shoulder bag from the bar and struck at Wayne Norton’s head and shoulders, sobbing, “Get out of here, all of you, leave him alone,” while tears sparkled like cut glass on her face.

Without raising his voice Jerry said: “Get Duke, Cleo! Get him!”

Malleck said, “Shut her up, for God’s sake,” and Norton caught her wrists and pulled the bag from her hands. He said, “Now calm down, just calm down a bit,” in a tense, insistent voice, and threw the shoulder bag into a comer. The latch opened and the contents of the bag spilled onto the floor, a lipstick and compact, a notebook with a silver pencil fitted to it, and a half-dozen odd coins that rolled about in erratic circles under the bright light.

Norton put his hand over the girl’s mouth, his arm about her waist, and pulled her down with him onto the couch. She kicked and tried to bite him, and he said, “Cut it out, cut it out,” his lips close to her ear.

“A handful, eh?” Malleck said, grinning.

Norton’s forehead was damp with perspiration. “Damn you,” he said, forcing her head back and pulling her against him with all the strength in his arm. He trapped her flailing feet with his legs, pinioning them at last with a scissors grip just above her ankles.

Jerry rolled to his feet and charged at Farrell. “Let her alone, you bastards,” he yelled, and swung a roundhouse at Farrell’s head. The blow missed by six inches. Farrell swung at his head, but Jerry got inside the punch and Farrell’s arm curled around his thick neck. Jerry took a two-handed grip on his sweater and flung him against the wall. He hit Farrell twice then, once in the chest and again on the side of the head. Farrell fought back furiously; he was conscious of nothing but Jerry’s flushed and twisted face, the curses spilling from his lips. Once he fell, crashing drunkenly across a three-legged table and taking it to the floor under him, and again he stood alone in the naked light as Jerry crawled toward him on his knees, sobbing and shaking his head in pain, and finally — he didn’t know how much later — he stood swaying helplessly and watched Malleck step forward and hit Jerry with two vicious blows, once across the jaw and again — as the boy fell forward — across the back of his wide, corded neck, which was as exposed and vulnerable as that of an animal on a chopping block.

“No — don’t,” Farrell said thickly. “Let him alone. Don’t...”