The Way Some People Die

Chapter 19

We drove down Sanedres Street on the way to Mario’s house. From a distance I could see a small crowd gathering in front of the arena, clotting in groups of two and four and six. A string of naked bulbs above the entrance threw a onesided light on their faces. There were many kinds of faces: the fat rubber faces of old sports wearing cigar butts in their lower middle, boys’ Indian faces under ducktail haircuts, experienced and hopeful faces of old tarts, the faces of girls, bright-eyed and heavy-mouthed, gleaming with youth and interest in the kill. And the black slant face of Simmie, who was taking tickets at the door.

Mario clutched my right forearm with both hands and cried out: “Stop!”

I swerved and almost crashed into a parked car, then braked to a stop. “That wasn’t very smart.”

He was halfway out of the car, and didn’t hear me. He crossed the road in a loose-kneed run. The faces turned toward him as he floundered into the crowd. He moved among them violently, like a killer dog in a flock of sheep. His hand came out of his pocket wearing metal. There was going to be trouble.

I could have driven away: he wasn’t my baby. But a light jab to the head might easily kill him. I looked for a parking place, found none. Both sides of the road were lined with cars. I backed and turned up the alley beside the arena. The faces were regrouping. Most of the mouths were open. All of the eyes were turned toward the door where Mario and Simmie had disappeared.

I started to get out of my car. The exit door in the wall in front of my headlights burst open with sudden force, as if a rectangular piece of the wall had been kicked out. Simmie, in a yellow shirt, came out of the door head down and crossed the alley in three strides. Mario came after him, running clumsily with his striking arm upraised. Simmie had one knee hooked over the top of the fence when Mario overtook him. The glaring whites of his eyes rolled backward in terror. The metal fist came down across his face. The black boy fell in slow motion to the gravel.

I took hold of Mario from behind. His metal knuckles flailed my thigh and left it numb. I shifted my grip and held him more securely.

“Calm down, boy.”

“I’ll kill him,” he cried out hoarsely between laboring breaths. “Let me go!” His shoulders heaved and almost took me off my feet.

“Take it easy, Mario. You’ll kill yourself.”

Simmie got onto his knees. The blood was running free from a cut on his brow. He rose to his feet, swaying against the fence. The blood splashed his shirt.

“Mr. Blaney will shoot you dead for this, Mr. Tarantine.” He spat on the gravel.

Mario cried out loudly, making no words. His muscles jerked iron-hard and broke my grip. His striking arm swung up again. Simmie flung himself over the fence. I pinned Mario against it and wrenched his metal knuckles off. His knee tried for my groin, and I had to stamp the instep of his other foot. He sat down against the fence and held the foot in both hands.

The Negro woman I had seen the day before came around the corner of the building on the other side of the fence. She was the first of a line of Negro men and women who stood at the end of their row of hutches and watched us silently. One of the men had the black-taped stock of a sawed-off shotgun in his hands. Simmie moved to his side and turned: “Come on over here and try it.”

“Yeah,” the man beside him said. “Come on over the fence, why don’t you?”

The woman touched the bloody side of the boy’s face, moaning. I looked around and saw that the faces were dense in the alley around my car. One of the fat rubber faces opened and called out: “Attaboy, Tarantine. Go and get the black bastard. Let him have it.” The face’s owner stayed where he was, in the second line of spectators.

I pulled Mario to his feet and walked him toward the car.

“Did the dirty nigger hit him?” a woman said.

“He’s drunk. He knocked himself out. You might as well break it up.”

I got in first, pulled Mario after me, and backed slowly through the crowd.

“I got one of them,” Mario said to himself. “Christ! did you see him bleed? I’ll get the others.”

“You’ll get yourself a case of sudden death.” But he paid no attention.

One of the bright-eyed girls followed the car to the sidewalk and hooked one arm over the door on Mario’s side. “Wait!”

I stopped the car. She had short fair hair that clasped her head like a cap made out of gold leaf. Her young red-sweatered breasts leaned at the open window, urgently. “Where’s Joey, Mario? I’m awful hard up.”

“Beat it. Leave me alone.” He tried to push her away.

“Please, Mario.” Her red-shining mouth curved in some kind of anguish. “Fix me, will you?”

“I said beat it.” He struck at her with the back of his open hand. She held on to it with both of hers.

“I heard you lost your boat. I can tell you something about it. Honest, Mario–”

“Liar.” He jerked his hand free and turned the window up. “Let’s get out of here, I’m feeling lousy.”

I took him home. When he stepped out of the car, he staggered and fell to his knees on the edge of the curb.

I helped him to the door. “You better call the doctor and let him look at your head.”

“To hell with the doctor.” He said it without energy. “I just need a little rest, that’s all.”

His mother opened the door. “Mario, where you been, what you been doing?” Her voice was thin and piping with anxiety, as if a frightened small girl were sunk in the inflation of her flesh.

“Nothing,” he said. “Nothing to worry, Mama. I went out for some fresh air, that’s all.”