Sleepers. Part 12

"That's the plan," I said.

"I don't even know why I hang out with you guys," Michael said.

"You're lonely," I said.

"You're ugly," John said.

"You have no other friends," Tommy said.

"Must be it," Michael said.

"You think the water's too cold to swim in?" Tommy asked.

"That water's always cold," John said. "It's like swimmin' in chunks of ice."

"It's not the cold that bothers me," I said. "It's that other stuff."

"All that s.h.i.+t floatin' around the edges," John said. "You ever think whose toilet that was flushed out of?"

"No," Michael said. "I don't."

"And the rats," Tommy said. "I went under once and this huge, ugly b.a.s.t.a.r.d was doin' a Sea Hunt Sea Hunt right alongside me." right alongside me."

"Makes you wanna puke," I said.

"Good place for it," John said.

"What wimps," Michael said, dismissing the three of us with a wave of his hand.

"Oh, sorry, I forgot," John said. "Tarzan "Tarzan here loves it. Makes him feel like a man." here loves it. Makes him feel like a man."

"I don't love love it," Michael said. "But it's all the water we got and b.i.t.c.hin' isn't gonna send the rats to Jersey." it," Michael said. "But it's all the water we got and b.i.t.c.hin' isn't gonna send the rats to Jersey."

"Mikey's right," I said. "Where else can you go and catch all the eels you want?"

"And get some a.s.shole to buy 'em," John said.

"Dead or alive," Tommy said.

"Whatta we gonna do with the money we make?" John asked.

"How about Ho-Ho's and a movie?" Michael said.

"At the Beacon?" Tommy asked.

"Nothin' good's there," I said.

"What?" Michael said.

"Don't remember," I said. "Somethin' French."

"What's at the Loew's?" Tommy asked.

"Von Ryan's Express," I said. "Greatest war movie ever." I said. "Greatest war movie ever."

"We've seen it four times," John moaned.

"We're talkin' a lotta eels," I said. "If we're gonna do a movie and Chinese."

"What's wrong with you, Shakes?" Michael said. "We don't need money for a movie."

"I'm gonna pa.s.s," John said.

"Why?" I asked.

"Gotta get home," John said.

"Trouble?" Michael said.

"Not yet." John shrugged. "But there will be. My mother's got herself a new boyfriend and he's lookin' to keep me in line."

"Need us?" Tommy asked.

"If I needed you guys, I'd be in real real trouble," John said. trouble," John said.

"That's no joke," Michael said, suddenly somber and quiet. "You can't trust anybody but us."

"I know," John said. "But I can handle this guy."

"Let's swim, then," I said. "After that, we walk John home."

"Okay with you?" Michael asked John.

"Okay with me," John said.

Tommy and John moved on ahead, reading the statistics on the backs of baseball cards as they walked. I stayed by Michael's side, our pace slower.

"You really serious about all that?" I asked. "That we can only trust each other."

"What do you think?" Michael asked.

"I think you are," I said.

"Then why'd you ask?"

"Wanted to make sure."

"Well, now you're sure."

"What about Johnny and b.u.t.ter?"

"What about 'em?"

"You think they feel the same way?"

"I think we all do," Michael said.

"Think it'll always be like that?"

"It's like that now," Michael said.

"I want it to last longer than just now," I said.

"Maybe it will," Michael said. "Unless you start thinkin' like King Benny."

"n.o.body thinks like King Benny," I said. thinks like King Benny," I said.

"Friends are like loans," Michael imitated a King Benny monotone. "Bad ideas."

"That's only because all his friends tried to kill him," I said.

"He'll go down one day," Michael said. "And it won't be a friend that does it."

"That's where you're wrong," I said. "Guys like King Benny never go down."

"Why's that?"

"They let others go down for 'em," I said. "They walk away clean."

"Yeah, but we're not like King Benny," Michael said. "We're not always gonna walk away clean. One of us might go down. That's why we have to stick together."

"Hey, do eels bite?" John asked, approaching the edge of Pier 82, gazing down at the murky water, its greasy waves lapping the sides of the dock.

"They suck," I told him.

"Like your mother," Tommy said.

"Except eels do it for free," John added.

Michael stripped off his s.h.i.+rt and stepped out of his sneakers. "Let's get wet."

"Last one in carries the eels," I shouted, taking a running jump into the water.

"First one in kills 'em," John shouted after me, stripping down to his underwear.

b.u.t.ter stood atop one of the rusty moorings, naked, his body facing the sun. "Should I pee here or wait till I get in?" he said to Michael.

"Share it with the fish," Michael said. He ran up behind b.u.t.ter and shoulder-blocked him into the water.

"Let's go, Mikey," I said. "We only got about an hour till the tide picks up."

Michael dove in backward and stayed under for as long as he could hold his breath, emerging twenty feet to our left.

"There's tons of 'em down there," he said. "We could make a lotta money today."

"Or we could get eaten alive by river rats," Tommy said.

"It's still better than goin' to the Yankee game," John said.

I remember that as a perfect afternoon. We spent the rest of the day in the water, chasing after small schools of eels, avoiding the rush of the rats, the sound of our screams and laughter bouncing off the iron shadows of the abandoned pier.

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OUR FAMILY LIVES were kept separate from our street lives. were kept separate from our street lives.

We each knew the problems that existed behind our doors, but we also understood ours to be situations that couldn't be improved by discussion. We never needed to organize playdates or sleepovers. Our parents never socialized or made attempts at forming friends.h.i.+ps.

"Our apartments were war zones," Michael described them. "But it was a war we were better off fighting on our own. We knew what was going on, we saw the cuts, the bruises. We heard the talk. We just chose to keep it to ourselves. Home was the one place where we couldn't help each other. Nothing we could do would change a thing. So we ignored it, didn't dwell on it, except for an occasional joke or comment. In a way, our problems just made our circle tighter."

There were no Boy Scout troops in h.e.l.l's Kitchen, but there was a Police Athletic League center on Tenth Avenue, which we were allowed to use free of charge. There, my friends and I boxed and hit the various bags and watched older boys spar and jump rope in preparation for the three-round bouts in the Daily News- Daily News-sponsored Golden Gloves tournament.

We bowled at the lanes on Eighth Avenue and 54th Street, our weekly games paid for by the Sacred Heart parish, and we played in knock-hockey tournaments run by the De Witt Clinton Park a.s.sociation. We shot dice in front of Fat Mancho's store for a dime a roll and pitched pennies against all comers. All of these activities were done with the knowledge and consent of our parents. In fact, we were given a parental green light on most things we wanted to do. All that was required was staying out of trouble and keeping our parents' partic.i.p.ation to a minimum.

There were no curfews to worry about, but neither was there a danger of being s.n.a.t.c.hed off a h.e.l.l's Kitchen sidewalk by a stranger or shot at random by a drive-by gunman. Our parents knew that as long as we stayed within the confines of h.e.l.l's Kitchen, we would be safe from any harm beyond street fights and sports injuries.

There were eyes everywhere. h.e.l.l's Kitchen was Mayberry with a temper. The neighborhood was like having one giant baby-sitter. One giant, very mean baby-sitter.

What little socializing did exist between adults and children would take place in the saloons and diners that dotted the area. The Eastern Europeans and their families flocked to the diners, while the Irish were more likely to frequent the saloons. The Italians and Puerto Ricans would bounce from one to the other.

Early in h.e.l.l's Kitchen history, diners and luncheonettes lined 11th and 12th Avenues, their booths filled with longsh.o.r.emen fresh from four-day s.h.i.+fts, sailors on sh.o.r.e leave, couples on first dates, mothers with loud children. One such diner, called the Kitchen and owned by a German family named Heil, is credited with giving name to the neighborhood.

The saloons at first belonged to the gangs and were deemed unfit by most families.

As the gangs faded, the saloons turned into what they had been for many in their old country-a place to meet, swap stories, forget the mounting debts, share some laughs, and, above all else, drink. It was not an uncommon sight to walk into a h.e.l.l's Kitchen saloon on a Sat.u.r.day afternoon and see it crammed with families, drinking, laughing, singing old songs, and remembering friends and relatives on distant sh.o.r.es.

It was a drinking culture broken along ethnic lines: strong whiskey for the Irish, homemade wine for the Italians, cold beer for the Puerto Ricans.

Drugs were not yet part of our world.

As much as our parents embraced drink, they had no patience for drugs and they put their trust in King Benny, the biggest eyes and ears in h.e.l.l's Kitchen, to keep them out.

King Benny used diplomacy when called for, force when necessary. He earned his money from old-fas.h.i.+oned mob enterprises-policy running, loan sharking, truck hijacking, swag sales, and prost.i.tution. These crimes were quietly condoned by a police department warmed by weekly payoffs and supported by a neighborhood addicted to illegal action. King Benny ruled with a tight fist and lashed out with deadly purpose against any threat to his domain. A lot of people tried taking over his business during his reign and a lot of people ended up dead.

He would do favors for those he liked and ignored the financial requests of those he considered liabilities. He would listen to people with problems and offer opinions on how those problems could be solved. He was a father confessor without a conscience. His decisions were never rash and were always final. His words were, in h.e.l.l's Kitchen, respected as the law.

It was the only law not ever broken.

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