The Warriors (4 page)

“But you have to admit, man,” Secretary said to Ismael, “that they know how to live.”

“This is the nearest you are going to get to it,” War-Counselor said for Ismael, who knew how to keep them hating.

They turned along the sweeping, graceful approach ramp that bowed over everything as it led to the bridge.

It grew dark. They were all assembling, reaching the ends of the transportation lines, converging on Van Cortlandt Park. They came by subway, cars, buses; some walked. They followed Ismael's schedule and they followed Ismael's guides who wore white ice-cream pants and were stationed at the jump-off points. They avoided the usual park entrances. If the cruising cops noted a lot of white pants—well, it was hot, wasn't it, and it was this year's style. The cops had enough to do taking care that the celebrations didn't get out of hand. One boy was already in the hospital because some firecrackers went off in his face, and it was still early.

Warriors poured in from every part of the city, from New Jersey and Westchester. They were met and directed along chosen routes that led, wherever possible, along hidden paths through forest, between hills, wandering among bushes, always away from the promenades. When two gangs were known to be at war, they were given separate routes as far apart as possible. Ismael's couriers escorted them, passed them from one liaison man to another along the lines of communication, directing them carefully through the dark cover in which only the white pants of Ismael's men were visible.

As they moved uneasily along invisible roads through black fields they were comforted by the knowledge that all around them plenipos from most of the city gangs were converging on the meeting ground.

Benny the scout, Ismael's man, stood on the edge of the highway that cut through the Park watching for the signal from the
guide on the other side, who kept a lookout for cars. When there was a lull, he gave Benny the word by blinking his flashlight. Then Benny directed the waiting men across. He squatted behind a clump of bushes, staring into the unbroken blackness for the signal. Behind him crouched six delegates from the Morningside Sporting Seraphs, potent and deadly, with a fine war record. Their faces shone a little under the lamplight from the road. They wore big, bulky caps slewed off to one side. One of them looking at the arcs of July Fourth fire springing up in the blackness around them, and listening to the explosives, said, “Man, wouldn't this be a good time for them to come down to kill and drop that old A-bomb? I mean boom; but good. No one even notice.”

“Man, you're too stupid. You see nothing, you hear now? Nothing. You dead before that boom finished. Like that. Boo-dead-oom. Maybe quicker.”

“Well, what do I care? Serve them right.
All
the mothers would get it. I mean all them others, and us, we'd be in the same boat. Some show. Man, wouldn't you like to see that old bomb?”

“
You
wouldn't see it.”

“Well, maybe for one second, like. Some rumble. Boom, man.”

“Man, you something else. Stupid.”

The flashlight across the road blinked. Benny passed the word and the Seraphs kicked off, bent and weaving, running furiously, bodies horizontal, knees kicking, holding imaginary rifles like movie soldiers. They were across, gone, and into the darkness in two seconds. Benny waited for the next group to move up. Beyond the bush-clump, cars hissed by, their headlights stabbing at the back of the bush.

Arnold and his Family were led through the dark land. Arnold brought up the rear, guarding against a sneak attack. They
squelched across a little muddy turf—it had been raining a few days ago—and Hinton stepped cautiously; where would he get money for another pair of shoes? Lunkface protected his hat against the branches. Hector kept brushing his clothes. It was unfamiliar here, and frightening. The effect of the drink was wearing off and they were jumpy and irritable.

The runner turned them over to Benny and went back to get the next detachment. Benny turned around and saw Hector. Now Benny had trouble with Hector when they both lived in Ismael's territory. That was a long time ago when they were both bopping tots. He was startled when he saw Hector; he owed Hector something hard. Hector, in turn, thought he owed Benny a little man-to-man. Benny was tough. He never gave ground to any man but his officers; that came under the heading of discipline and did not detract from manhood. But now was not the time; this was not the place.

They faced one another. Benny had to look away for the signal. Lunkface, who was closest, recognized what was happening and laughed, sneering at Benny's face-loss. The lull in traffic came. Benny waved them on. Hector didn't move; he knew Lunkface had seen it. Papa Arnold stepped out a few feet on the highway, but came back. Lunkface watched them carefully.

“Man. You. Move,” Benny told Hector. “You want to ruin everything? You want to bring the troopers down?”

Hector started to go, but Lunkface put his hand on Hector's shoulder to hold him. And so Hector said, “Who tells me to move? No one tells me to move. When I'm ready, man, then I move.”

“You're holding up the operation,” Benny told him. Even if Hector was going to sound him and demean his manhood in front of the others, Benny had made up his mind to take it. There would be time to settle things later. He was a man and the big part of his manhood now consisted in being one of Ismael's
Army. That meant discipline and taking lip when you had to, for hadn't everyone in the land heard of Ismael? Benny saw it was too late to move now; the cars had come up and were sweeping by. Lunkface was moving around to Benny's side and he got himself set. Arnold caught Lunkface's arm. “You let your uncle roll his own.”

Headlights spangled the backs of the bushes, filtered through, and speckled their faces suddenly with shifting leaf patterns. Far off, crackers fired and a row of dull explosions walked around the horizon. Hector and Benny faced up. Hector waited and then began to move across the road, satisfied that his honor had not suffered. Benny took hold of his sleeve and told him to chill it, to wait for the word. Hector looked at Benny's face. He looked down at Benny's insulting hand holding his sleeve. He looked back at Benny's face. Lunkface was bouncing up and down a little on the balls of his feet, muttering something that no one could hear, something almost animal-like, exciting himself for
that moment.
Bimbo came up and looked carefully at both faces and waited. “No one tells this man to move,” Hector said.

“Ismael tells you to move,” Benny said, invoking authority, letting go of Hector's sleeve, realizing that he had made a mistake.

“Don't listen to him,” Lunkface said. “Go.”

“You, child, shut your mouth.” Arnold said. “Don't lip. Don't sound.”

Behind them, another column had been moved up.

Bimbo whispered, “You can't do anything now. You have to cool it, man.”

“I know him,” Hector said. “He knows me.”

“I know you,” Benny said.

“Talk. Go. All this talk. Go, man,” Lunkface agitated. Arnold nudged Lunkface in the ribs with stiffened fingers. Lunkface grunted. “Next time, the eye; you hear?” Papa said.

They stood there long enough for honor to be satisfied. Arnold knew that the whole operation could be jeopardized and he said, being big about it, “All right, you'll fair-it later. Now call it, children.”

“You running?” Lunkface wanted to know.

“I'll run
you
,” Arnold told him. And Dewey told the Lunkface to still himself and wait.

The lookout from the other side of the highway signaled frantically, wanting to know what had happened. He was ready to fire the blue alarm flare, but when the lull in the traffic came, Benny gave the word. They ran across. Around the far bend the first sweeping bars of headlights came down the road. Further down, they could see other groups crossing the same way, running quickly and secretly. They went down a little hill, past the signaler, and were picked up by another scout in white pants who took them through the black field. Far ahead and a little above, where another highway ran, headlights swept along. They came to their place on the damp plain. The sky was coming alive with fire.

A red flare climbed slowly from the middle of the field and hung in the air. It meant they were all there now.

Ismael Rivera's car had circled the complex of park roads, looking for a clear space between the bunches of moving cars. They had gone around the meeting place two times. Ismael looked down there and saw nothing but a flat, black plain, and that, he thought, was good. No one was visible. No one was lighting up, for he had given the word that there was to be no smoking. And it was a credit to his organization that none of his scouts or none of the groups had been seen crossing the highways. He knew what to look for and still he hadn't seen it. Could it be smoother?

The driver shot ahead of the cars around him and drove in
clear darkness now. It was the third time around. Soon the nearest headlights were left a quarter of a mile behind. About a quarter of a mile ahead, a band of little red lights receded, dancing in formation as they bounced over potholes. The red lights swept around a curve and disappeared. Ismael's car slewed around the curve and the headlights behind were blocked out.

Ismael nodded to War-Counselor. War-Counselor passed the word to Secretary. Secretary told the Chauffer. The Chauffer edged to the road rim fast and his lights blinked a message. About twenty sentries came out on the concrete and were picked out by the lights; they stood fifty feet apart. The car screeched fast and stopped; one of the sentries opened the doors. Three of them got out; the car started again, going so fast for a moment that the wheels spun on the pavement, gripped, and the car roared off.

The three of them were escorted down the embankment, following the dim white pants. Although the darkness seemed to hold nothing but damp, unfamiliar smells of vegetation, the sounds of insects buzzing, and the rustling of grass and leaves, Ismael knew that they were all there, a thousand strong. As he went, Ismael received whispered reports from the scouts. There were ambassadors from almost every major fighting gang in or around the city.

Ismael was taken to his place. He began.

The glorious Fourth was reaching a new crescendo. Even though explosives were forbidden, all around the Park rim, Roman candles were going up, sheaves of many-colored light blazed, explosions canonaded in an almost steady rumbling barrage. Faintly heard strings of crackers machine-gunned and blinked away. Sparklers burned for a little while like stars. Rockets exploded into a thousand patriotic shapes: heroes of American History, Presidents—Washington in lights to the west, Lincoln in nebulous clouds auroraed down toward the south, Kennedy danced in the northeast—historic flags blazed. The Statue of Liberty shimmied in an air current.

Ismael stood on a little rise—like a pitcher's mound—in front of a stand of bushes which concealed him from the roads. A ring
of flashlights had been stuck into the ground around him and tilted up so that he was illuminated. His eyes stared through the cold blue glasses and he felt all the eyes stare back. He remembered an advertisement—something about how someone's life was saved by flashlight batteries: Whose life would they save tonight? He heard a responsive murmur coming from the darkness, but it might have been a change in the wind, for all he knew. He stood there, dapper, the coolest, wearing the neat, simple, Ivy League clothes; he shunned the too-tight fit, the surplus of buckles most of the men wore. His hat sat neat and square on his head, and except for the one earring that glinted in his ear he could have looked like an advertising man. Did they understand what he had done?

They waited in the pool of dark. Bracketing them, two rows of highway lights strung away and the cars sped by, faintly heard, known mostly by the flash and turn of the headlights shooting off into the night over their heads. Further back were the lights of apartment houses. Here was The Man with the Idea, who was rumored to have twenty-one expensive suits in his closet and as many pairs of shoes; the Man with an arsenal that could outfit a battalion. Who did not know Ismael?

Ismael knew he had about ten minutes to get The Word to them. Their attention would stand no more. He heard hands slapping at mosquitos. He had to make it simple and he had to make it dramatic and he had to give them just enough to bring them out, roaring. Once he really got them going his cadres could keep them that way for a long time. He imagined this moment many times, he thought again and again of everything he had to say to them. He rehearsed how he would distill his knowledge into this moment to which the Idea had brought them. Though his face remained, as it always must, impassive, he felt the terrible surge of power, that throb when he had to release it in one scream. The sunglasses masked it. He knew he
didn't dare orate to them; they were always talked at, and they had learned long ago not to listen. Then too, his voice was not strong; shouting, it would not even reach to the end of the black field. He had stood in front of the mirror and ranted, gestured, made faces, but he knew he couldn't showboat like a Castro. What he said must be simple, for most of them were not quick of understanding. What he said must be spoken quickly, for most of them had no patience. What he said must be put strongly, more acted than spoken, for they had to be hooked to stand and hear. He knew they moved there in the darkness frightened by their strange surroundings, ready to break and run, always nervous when they were away from their own turf.

Two hundred yards away, Lunkface moved restlessly in the darkness and wanted to know, irritably, when the Man was going to begin, or was he going to showboat there all night, posing his sweet clothes in the flashlights? Stolid Bimbo whispered to wait. Nervous Hinton shifted, unable to squat comfortably, feeling eerie there in the darkness. How much of this strangeness could he take? He was on the verge of terror and it was only the feel of his family around him that kept his mask tight.