The Amboy Dukes (20 page)

The band began to play, and Betty did not reply but whirled toward Frank with her arms outstretched and Frank had to smile as her eyes invited him to dance. The band played, without rhythm or co-ordination, and the dancing became more unruly and violent. Frank and Betty saw Shimmy and two more of his gang on the floor quietly tapping couples and suggesting that they leave. Almost all the people left immediately, but one boy began to protest. As he pulled back his fist to slug one of Shimmy’s friends Shimmy stepped forward and hit the boy a short open-handed slap across the jaw. The girl opened her mouth to scream, but another one of the Williamsburgers stepped behind her and placed his hand over her mouth. The boy looked desperate and then he blanched as he saw the open knife in Shimmy’s right hand. Without any further fight the couple permitted themselves to be led to the door, were given their hats, and left.

“That Shimmy’s hard,” Betty said.

“You like him?” Frank snapped at her.

“I didn’t say I did,” she retorted. “Gee, you’re touchy tonight.”

“Aw, shut up.” Frank whirled her away from him.

Betty’s eyes filled with tears. “What’s the matter? I didn’t say anything.”

“Forget it.” Frank led her off the floor. “I’m sorry, kid. I guess I’m a little jealous.”

“But I don’t like him,” Betty insisted. “Let’s stop it,” she said. “We don’t want to have our first fight, do we?”

At that moment Benny approached them, staggering slightly, and as he asked Betty if she would dance with him Frank turned his back on them in disgust. He sat on the arm of one of the easy chairs and reflected that the dance was not as he had expected it to be. There were other girls as pretty as Betty at the dance, and the boys were too excited by being at a racket which was being patronized by the hardest juvenile gangs in Brownsville and East New York to be concerned with a pretty face. Individually they were all interested in dating a girl who was attractive and stacked up like a million, but when the gang was dominant all girls were categorized as pieces, and Frank realized that he should have been proud to be in the company of fellows who belonged to the Bullets, the D-Rape Artists, the Powell Friends. But he was not.

Members of the Dukes and the Tigers greeted Frank, but his surly responses did not encourage them to stop and talk to him. The band continued to play, and the dancers paid no attention to it as the floor became crowded with small milling groups that obstructed the persons attempting to dance. Conversation degenerated to shrill cries and expostulations and shreds of laughter, and the cigarette haze floated like a murky cloud about the room.

Benny returned with Betty, and Frank knew immediately by her loose laugh that she had taken a stiff drink.

Benny patted his hip. “You want one?”

Frank’s eyes were narrow slits. “I thought we were going on the wagon?”

“Ah”—Benny waved his hand—“tonight’s different.”

“With you it’s always different. Give me the bottle.” Frank held out his hand.

“You want a drink?”

“I’m going to empty it in the can.”

Benny replaced the bottle in his pocket. “The hell you are.”

“Come over here,” Frank said to him. “Excuse us, Betty. Listen,” he said to Benny as they stood in a corner of the room, “I’m warning you to ditch that bottle. The last time we got tight we got us in trouble, and now we gotta stay sharp if we don’t want to wind up you know where.”

Benny laughed foolishly. “I can hold my liquor.”

“Sure, like you could hold an enema.” Frank held out his hand. “Give me the bottle and let’s cut the talk.”

“Suppose I don’t want to?” Benny clutched his hip pocket.

“Then you’re on your own,” Frank told him.

Benny blew his breath in Frank’s face. “Whatever I do I’ll never be on my own. You neither. I wish I were. I don’t trust you, you bastard.”

“Shut up!” Frank warned him.

“Don’t tell me to shut up.” Benny staggered a little. “I don’t trust you. Crazy was right. He knew what he was talkin’ about when he said you were a rat!”

Frank shook Benny, then slapped him and forced him to sit down on a folding chair. “You’d better cut it out.” He shook him again. “Now I know you’re drunk. If you don’t give me the bottle I’m going to call Larry and Bull and we’re gonna knock you cold.”

Benny struggled to stand up, but Frank held him. “Let go of me,” he began to shout. “Let go of me!”

Larry came over with Shimmy and Mitch.

“Benny’s drunk,” Frank explained to them, “and he’s got a bottle.”

“So let him have a good time if he’s not bothering anyone,” Shimmy suggested.

Frank released Benny and turned around. He approached Shimmy and stared directly into Shimmy’s small fishlike eyes which did not blink. “Listen,” he began, “the guys’ve been telling me you’re a hard guy. Wait”—he raised his hand to prevent Shimmy from interrupting him—“maybe you are. But I’m a hard guy too. And I don’t like you, and if you make a move for your shiv I’m going to beat the piss outa you.”

Larry stepped between Frank and Shimmy. “Cut it out, boys,” he pleaded. “We don’t want no trouble.”

Frank struggled to keep his head. He knew what Shimmy had that he lacked: the ability to present an outward appearance of calm at all times. No matter how Shimmy felt, whether he seethed with anger and rage, with the lust to stab or kill, his expressionless eyes and tightly compressed lips never betrayed him. Slugging a guy or laying a girl, Shimmy’s countenance never changed, and now as he listened to Frank’s threat he still kept his hands in the deep pockets of his double-breasted jacket, tensed, alerted for a sudden attack, but still master of himself.

“I’m not starting any trouble,” Frank went on. “But I want him to stay away from my date. I just saw him over there talking to her, and now he’s over here telling me what to do with Benny. Now you”—he turned to Benny again—“give me that bottle and make it snappy before we have a little accident.”

“Give him the bottle,” Larry ordered.

Benny withdrew the bottle from his pocket. “I’m just giving it to you because I don’t want to start anything now.” He glared at Frank.

Suddenly they heard Crazy’s voice, pitched in the key that meant he was seeking trouble. “Don’t give it to him, Benny,” he said. “Give it to me and let’s see if he can take it away from me.”

“Shut up”—Larry turned to him—“and get the hell outa here. Mitch’s been looking for you, so go find him. Come on, let’s break this up.”

With a great show of cordiality Larry grasped Shimmy’s arm and led him toward the checkroom. He spoke earnestly to him, laughing and finally placing an arm around his shoulders in an effort to convince him that the flurry of words meant nothing.

“What’s the matter?” Betty asked Frank as he rejoined-her.

“Nothing. I saw you talking to that ape. Stay away from him if you want to stay healthy.”

“He came over and talked to me,” Betty said. “He didn’t. say anything or get wise.”

“I know that kind of wolf,” Frank told her. “He doesn’t say anything, and the next thing you know you’re flat on your back and wondering how the hell you got there.”

“You want to go?” Betty asked him.

Frank looked around. “I think so,” he replied. “Come on.”

It was after eleven o’clock and the mob of new ticket holders was arriving, and the Dukes who were stag stood in a group near the door and greeted the boys and girls they knew. As Frank waited to get to the checkroom he saw Crazy push forward and jostle him.

“Stay away from me,” Frank warned him.

Crazy hopped up and down, and Frank knew he was working himself into a rage.

“Who the hell asked you to come to our dance?” Crazy said to him.

Frank did not reply.

“Does your old man know you’re down here? I heard about him being at the police station,” Crazy went on while the other Dukes listened quietly. “Ya got your old man’s permission to be down here?”

Frank shoved Crazy against two of the Dukes. “Keep my old man out of this, you lunatic bastard,” Frank said.

“Your mother still buttoning your fly?” Crazy laughed and made a blowing noise with his lips.

“I’m remembering that.” Frank tried to imitate Shimmy’s impassivity.

“I’m remembering Fanny Kane,” Crazy retorted.

Frank could not resist taunting him. “She’s here. Why don’t you get her?”

“I saw her,” one of the Dukes answered Crazy’s silent question. “She came in a little while ago.”

“You better find her,” Frank continued, and then he squared off as he saw the charging look in Crazy’s eyes. “Come on, you crazy bastard,” Frank dared him.

Bull ducked under the checkroom counter and came toward them. “Cut it out,” he said.

“I’m not doin’ nothin’,” Crazy said. “Look at him.” He pointed to Frank. “He’s startin’ the trouble.”

“You’re a crazy bastard,” Frank repeated. “A no-good crazy bastard who was born crazy, is living crazy, and is going to die crazy.”

Crazy spit at him. “Beat it. You’re not one of the Dukes any more.”

“Go to hell,” Frank said.

“You’re not one of us,” Crazy went on, waving his arms and rolling his eyes. “You don’t hang around with us any more. We don’t even want you around. Do we, guys?” he asked the Dukes who stood around them.

The Dukes were silent, and Frank sensed their new and sudden hostility toward him.

“No”—he faced them—“I guess after tonight I’m not. Now I know where I stand with you guys.”

“For cryin’ out loud,” Bull said, “don’t you guys got anything else to do but start arguments? I’m breaking my ass in the checkroom and you guys are out here making trouble instead of keeping things going. You”—he pointed to Crazy—“you get in the checkroom with me.”

“I want to find Mitch,” Crazy said.

“Get in the checkroom”—Bull pushed him—“and leave Mitch alone. He’s got a date.”

“I want to see Fanny.”

“Let him go, Bull,” one of the stag Dukes said. “I’ll help you.”

Bull held Crazy by the arm and squeezed. “Listen to me,” he cautioned him. “What’s between you and Frank you can settle some other place. But you stay quiet. We’ll need you later.”

“For what?” Crazy asked eagerly.

“We’re not paying the band,” Bull said. “Well need you.”

Crazy rubbed his hands together and cackled. “We’ll have trouble with them, huh? Boy, that’s for me!”

“Don’t say anything,” Bull continued. “Now go find Fanny and stay out of trouble.”

“I’ll see you later.” Crazy roughly bucked a dancing couple out of his way and charged across the room to Fanny, who stood in front of the band with the arm of a D-Rape Artist around her shoulders. She moved in rhythm with the music, and the boy with her was making fast time. As he bent down to whisper something in her ear, Crazy snarled and tore Fanny loose from the embrace of the boy with whom she had been standing.

Fanny shrank away from Crazy. “Let me alone,” she faltered.

Crazy walked toward her. “So I caught you at last,” he said, and each word was a menace.

The saxophonist raised an arm to keep Fanny from falling over his music stand, and the D-Rape Artist looked around for some of his guys, and as one whizzed by on the dance floor he motioned to him for help.

“Let me alone,” Fanny said.

“You stood me up,” Crazy told her.

Fear paralyzed Fanny. “Let me alone,” she repeated. She clutched the arm of the D-Rape Artist, who placed her behind him.

“Get away from my girl, Sam,” Crazy said to Fanny’s protector.

Sam’s courage returned as he saw some members of his gang coming toward him. “For who?” He pushed Crazy.

“For me!” Crazy shouted at him. “She’s my girl and she gave me a screwing!”

Sam turned to Fanny. “Are you his girl?”

Fanny trembled. “No.”

“You bastard!” Crazy tried to get at her, but Sam and two of his friends blocked him. “You stood me up! Remember? Come outa there.”

“Listen, Crazy”—Sam felt safe now as two more of his gang stood behind Crazy—“why don’t you blow? This kid don’t want no part of you.”

With a smooth rapid motion Crazy drew his spring knife and simultaneously pressed the spring and shoved the knife against Sam’s stomach. “One move outa you or your other crumbs and I’ll have this in your guts,” Crazy rasped. “Just one move.”

“Don’t do anything, Sam,” one of the D-Rape Artists warned him. “I’m going to get Larry.”

Crazy pressed the point of the knife against Sam and it made a little impression in the cloth of Sam’s jacket. “In your guts,” Crazy repeated. “You son of a bitch. You think I can’t handle five guys like you? You think you’re gonna fool around with my girl?”

“I was only kidding,” Sam gasped, and tried to move away from the knife, but Crazy pressed the point into the pit of his stomach.

“Nobody kids around with me,” Crazy told him, and Sam began to look sick. Crazy’s reputation as a cutter and potential killer was well known in Brownsville. In one of his murderous rages Crazy was berserk, a street and gang fighter spoken of respectfully. Impervious to pain and blows, he would keep charging into the middle of any brawl, kicking and slugging with a fury and energy that was abnormal. Then—no one knew when—Crazy might draw his knife and begin slashing, and there were many who predicted that Crazy was going to be a big-time mobster if he lived long enough.

The crowd became more compact around Crazy, Sam, and Fanny, and the leader of the band signaled with his clarinet for the musicians to cease playing. There was a sudden cessation of noise as the word spread throughout the room that Crazy Sachs was going to give it to a guy.

Perspiration dampened Sam’s face and his eyes were hunted and sick, for the knife pricked his jacket and he knew that any sudden movement he or his friends might make would be the impulse that would propel the knife into his stomach.

“Let’s talk things over,” Sam said to Crazy.

“You’ve said enough,” Crazy said. “You got my girl.”

“You’ve got me wrong,” Sam protested, and quickly lowered his right hand, which he had raised to wipe his face, for Crazy had pricked him warningly. “I didn’t know she was your babe.”

The crowd gave as Larry and Mitch shoved their way toward Crazy and Sam.

“Crazy”—Mitch spoke quietly—“what do you think you’re doing?”