The Gathering (29 page)

“Whether she’s got little tits. But solid.”

They made no effort to lower their voices. Rather, they guffawed uncontrolledly.

The young woman was blushing furiously. Many nearby passengers were embarrassed—some for her, some for themselves, and some for both.

The three young men buried themselves more deeply in their books, though none of them was studying any longer. No one seemed impelled to interfere or intercede, although two or three passengers did approach the conductor to ask if he was going to “do something.” But he was an older man, not at all up to taking on either of these two.

As the car started up again, the sailors ostensibly innocently bumped up against the young woman’s legs, then snickered. The young woman seemed to shrink from the contact. As the two rocked back and forth, rubbing against her, Mike leaned across Bob Koesler and spoke to Manny. The streetcar noise drowned out his words to anyone save his two companions. “What,” Mike was nearly shouting, “are the odds?”

“What odds?” Manny returned.

“Of these two guys being on this car doing what they’re doing?” From his vantage Mike could see the sailors in profile.

Manny’s eyes followed Mike’s gaze. The taller of the two gobs was rhythmically rubbing his leg against the young woman’s leg. She tried to tuck her leg further under the seat, but could not escape him.

As the sailor turned to smirk at his buddy, in a flash Manny was able to see the face full on. Manny groaned. He knew where this was heading. Surely someone would intervene on the young woman’s behalf. But not he. Please God, not he!

He’d had only one honest-to-goodness fight in his life. It had unnerved him much more than it had overcome his vanquished opponent. As a result of that one fight, Manny had learned something that he had hitherto not known about himself: that he had a terrible temper. What’s more, he knew too that if ever he fought again he might lose all control and go for the kill.

Ever since, Manny had lived largely on the reputation of that fight. Knocking opponents here and there on the football field was one thing; football was a violent game. But Manny played by the rules, even if he did occasionally draw blood. Probably, had he been a prizefighter, he would have done all he could to beat his opponent, while sticking scrupulously to the Marquis of Queensberry. But he would have, and could have, controlled the killer instinct.

On top of that, Manny had listened to the seminary rector warn his students that fighting could be a cause for expulsion.

All this ran through Manny’s mind when he saw the sailor full face. The young man was known to Manny only as Switch. Undoubtedly, Manny thought, the way his luck seemed to be running today, the bulkier sailor was Blade.

The last time Manny, Switch, and Blade had met, Blade was saved from death only because Mike and Switch had pulled Manny off him. Now they met again.

Manny looked down the aisle. Instantly, men became preoccupied with whatever they could pretend to be interested in. Some seemed disappointed and increasingly disgusted at the disgrace these young men were bringing to their uniforms. Still, no one was going to challenge the sailors.

Now, there was no doubt in Manny’s mind that he had to get involved. He couldn’t dump this on either Bob or Mike. Blade was too lethal for them. Indeed, he might be just as punishing for Manny to tackle.

The car stopped to take on passengers. The newcomers quickly became aware of a tense atmosphere. Riders aware of what had transpired were waiting for “the other guy” to do something. The car started up again.

Manny spoke loudly enough to be heard by everyone in the rear of the car. “Fella, it’d be a smart idea to get off at the next stop.”

Blade and Switch turned with a “who—me?” expression to confront the idiot who had an evident suicide wish. Manny met Blade’s stare without flinching.

“I got a better idea,” Blade spat. “You get off. Even better, I throw you off.”

The nearby standees backed away as far as possible, leaving the field to Manny and the sailors.

Clearly, Blade had no memory of their previous meeting. But Switch did. He lost a shade of his braggadocio as he mouthed just loudly enough for Blade to hear. “Don’t you remember this crud? In the school yard? They were playing with a ball … remember? He kicked the shit out of you.”

Blade shot an angry glance at his buddy, as if to say, Yeah, and after I kick the shit out of him now, I’m gonna do the same to you.

But he did remember. And remembering, he was momentarily overcome by severe qualms. The beating had taken place long ago. But it was the worst beating he’d ever suffered. He’d been bruised and sore for weeks after.

However, he’d learned a thing or two since then. And—his eyes slitted, his lips tightened in an ugly sneer, and his confidence returned—he was in the Navy now!

Manny was seated. Blade didn’t have to seize the high ground; fate had delivered it to him. Manny had expected to absorb the first blow. He hadn’t counted on its being so devastating. It was an arcing punch that caught him on the left side of the chin. The punch had all the power and impetus of having been delivered downward, carrying Blade’s weight behind it. In the split second Manny had to think, he realized that Blade had come close to breaking his jaw. One more punch like that and he’d be sipping food through a straw.

Manny hunched his face turtlelike between his shoulders, compressed his body downward, and barreled up into Blade. He would have taken him to the floor but for the circle of onlookers; instead of going down, Blade was buttressed by the wall of standees.

Manny had removed his coat earlier. Thus, Blade’s blows fell on thinly protected skin and muscle. Blade, on the other hand, still wore his heavy pea jacket. Manny’s only open target was his opponent’s back, but his punches had little punishing effect.

It was a combination boxing and wrestling match—a street fight. By sheer power of will, Manny worked himself to a standing position. His blows now could reach Blade’s face.

Blade wanted desperately to destroy his opponent. But Manny drew on inner resources he hadn’t been aware of. In a flash, Blade went down as Manny rained hammerlike blows, right and left, on the punching bag that was Blade’s face.

It was over. Once again Mike, assisted this time by Bob, pulled Manny off Blade and literally saved the beaten man’s life.

The fight lasted only seconds. Even so, Switch managed to get into it, punching Manny several times when his back was exposed. Bob Koesler moved to pull Switch away. But then, something unusual happened. The young woman who was the unwilling cause of all this, snatched off her sensible shoe and swung it with all her might, smashing Switch on the head. He crumpled to the floor.

Cheers rang out. In the few minutes they rode this car, the sailors had caused the passengers to move from an indulgent “boys will be boys” attitude to one of disgust and anger.

The two sailors were dragged from the streetcar. Several passengers volunteered to wait for the police to arrive. Military justice would follow police action and would be harsh.

The hero once again: Manny Tocco.

   
TWENTY-ONE
   

T
HE FIGHT WAS STILL WITHIN HIM
as his buddies held Manny Tocco fast. Maybe, Bob Koesler guessed, it was like a powerful horse that had just won the Derby. The horse was not going to stop on a dime. Nor would Manny be as composed as he had been before Blade’s onslaught.

Little by little, Manny unwound. He became aware of his newfound popularity as, one by one, his fellow riders congratulated him. He had seen what had to be done and he’d done it.

The young woman who’d been sitting across from them now slid onto the bench between Mike and Manny. “Thanks.” From the tone of her voice she meant it.

Manny focused on her gradually as if coming out of a fog. “You’re welcome,” he said, not too clearly. His speech seemed to have some sort of impediment. He winced as he touched his jaw. Blade’s first blow had done major damage. Manny was grateful nothing was broken.

She touched his jaw tenderly. It didn’t hurt as much when she did it. “You guys go to school? College?” She included all three of the young men; she’d observed them studying.

“Yeah,” Bob replied. He answered only to save Manny from having to talk, which was obviously painful. “We’re at Sacred Heart Seminary.”

Her eyes widened. “You’re seminarians? You’re going to be priests?”

“So we hope,” Bob said.

She slumped in the seat ever so slightly. Then she shrugged. “Nothing bad intended,” she addressed Manny, “but if you change your mind, you could always go into prizefighting.”

Manny’s answering chuckle was broken off by a flash of pain. “You didn’t do so badly yourself,” he finally managed. “I saw you swing your shoe. Thanks. He was bothering me.”

“What are you going to do now?” she asked. “I mean, you aren’t exactly in shape for school.”

Manny assessed his clothing. Nothing was torn, just soiled and mussed. “I think,” he said slowly, “I’ll go home and start over.”

“You mean after all this, you’re going to go to school anyway?”

Manny nodded. “As long as I don’t run into those two again this morning, I should be okay.”

“May I come along?”

He was incredulous. “Come along? With me? What for?”

“Well, I’m in college too. Marygrove. I’m a journalism major. I have a few contacts at the
Free Press
. If it’s okay with you, I’d like to write this up and see if they’ll run it.”

His every instinct was “No!” If the story got published, the rector would surely read it. Manny was well aware of the boss’s edict on fighting. Although this might be a special case, still it
was
a fight. On top of which, he had creamed a serviceman.

But … this had been a trauma for her as well. What the heck; the paper probably wouldn’t publish it anyway. He nodded his okay.

She was overjoyed. She was certain this was a good human interest story—a chance for her to get into print. Go for it!

Manny and his grateful new friend left the streetcar to the applause of their fellow passengers. One enthusiastic fan began a chorus of “What shall we do with the drunken sailor, Earl-eye in the morning?” Enough passengers were familiar with the chantey to join in, making it a sort of accolade for the victors.

During the streetcar ride to Manny’s home, he gave the fledgling journalist enough information for several stories. Words poured out of him. This was undoubtedly an after-effect, an escape valve for the adrenaline-based killer instinct that had remained even after Manny had been pried off Blade’s pulpy face—and still had to be tamped down.

At this point, a bit breathless, the young woman left her deliverer to go in search of a typewriter.

Manny kept his explanation at home to a minimum. With a change of clothes, he returned to the seminary, where he had been reported absent from all the morning classes except for English. However, he had enough mnemonics at hand to please the teacher. He would gladly take the responsibility for tardiness rather than answer for the public brawl that had caused it. Mike and Bob had told no one about the fracas except Stan Benson, who by now was an adjunct member of the small clique.