The Boys from the Hill

© 2011 by Bernard Salmon. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 08/29/2011

ISBN: 978-1-4670-2551-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4670-2550-8 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4670-2549-2 (ebk)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011915763

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

CONTENTS

I

II

III

IV

V

Epilogue

Author’s Biography

I

Like a plunge into cold water on a hot summer day, the surge of fear overwhelmed him. Instinctively he ran; he jumped over the first stone parapet that separated the apartment house roofs, scooted across the next roof, and then leaped over the parapet to the next roof. He stumbled on the forgotten drop of a few inches, but fear and excitement spurred him on in a turbulent flow of motion to safety.

The door loomed next. He pulled it open. The familiar creaky, rusty-hinged sound signaled safety to him, so he enjoyed the moment. It did not distract him from his escape; he was already down a flight of stairs to the top floor of the apartment building.

Rushing down the hall stairs, he heard steps behind and above him. Someone was still after him. He almost knocked over an old lady with a bag of groceries who unintentionally blocked his escape. At the ground floor level, he stopped; a police car was parked in front of the house. He raced for the back door leading to the alley.

Once more, he enjoyed the chase. He ran toward the left, hardly conscious of the light patterns in the alley from the apartment windows above. He headed back to the house on whose roof his flight had started. There was no choice; this was his only possibility of escape. He ran as long as there was a chance to elude the police. He still heard someone in pursuit, and he guessed it must be one of the boys.

There was no apparent way out of the alley, but he could hide. Reaching the end of the blind alley with difficulty, he scaled a heavy drainpipe to a ledge hidden from view. He looked down to see that it was Tony who was following him. He motioned the bigger boy to follow him up to the ledge. Tony climbed up to the ledge more easily, and they stretched out in the shadows and waited.

Do you think they’ll find us? he whispered to Tony.

Nah, but keep quiet. They may be here soon. Just keep quiet.

Right.

The loud, rough voices of the cops, seemingly coming from nowhere, filled the alley. Johnny imagined them with their blue shirts open at the neck and their sleeves rolled up, shining flashlights about. He tensed and lay silent.

Are you sure they came down this way?

How the hell can anyone be sure with a bunch of fresh brats like that?

I’ll stay here. You poke around the end of the alley and see if you find anything.

Johnny lay silent: afraid to move, afraid his breathing or heartbeat could be heard, afraid he’d be caught. He remained silent and hoped Tony would do the same.

Find anything down there?

Not a damn thing. There’s a gate to the front of the building, but it’s locked tight. They must have beat it out some other way.

Let’s go back to the car and see if anyone else was able to grab one of them.

Johnny relaxed somewhat. He would wait a long time before moving. A nudge from Tony told him it was probably safe. Cautiously, his head peeked over the edge, and he peered with eyes and ears into the alley.

I don’t see anything, Johnny said quietly. You see anything?

No, I think we’re safe. They’re gone. Tony replied in a slightly louder tone.

Boy this was great tonight. Wasn’t it?

You’re damn straight.

Who threw the bottle? Johnny grinned.

You got me. I thought I’d die when it almost hit the cop’s car. Between laughing and being scared, I thought they’d catch me.

Yeah, I thought we were finished when I heard them in the alley. Do you think anyone else was caught?

Who knows. Who cares. Wait till we tell the boys tomorrow about how close they came.

Yeah. Think we can leave yet?

In a few minutes, but we’ll have to be careful.

The boys were familiar with every alley, cellar, roof, fire escape, hiding place, and door on their block, and they knew which doors and gates were usually locked or kept open. They knew every escape route, and they occasionally used them when older boys or adults got mad at them for one of their many pranks or their more serious escapades.

Once in the hall of his own apartment building, Johnny felt secure. All the excitement had been worth it, he told himself. He bounded up the sixty steps to his apartment in twos. He was home.

Is that you, Johnny? his mother called as he quietly closed the door to his apartment.

Yeah, ma, he replied.

What was the commotion about?

What commotion?

In the street—didn’t you hear it?

No, I was at the center.

Have you seen your father?

No, isn’t he home yet? Johnny asked hopefully.

He must have stopped after work somewhere, she answered. Johnny was tired from a full day. School and running with his crowd had exhausted him. He was in bed and sound asleep in a few minutes.

During the night, he awoke when his father noisily stumbled into their apartment. Johnny was back into a sound sleep in no time.

*     *     *

The early morning light pierced his widow and filled his small room. The morning slowly brightened, and its shimmer crept under his eyelids, awakening him. He was in the bathroom washing his face and hands when the apartment door opened, and he knew it was his mother returning from Mass. His father was already gone off to work.

Did you bring the rolls, ma? he hollered from habit.

Sure, Johnny, she replied.

He finished washing up, pulled on a clean T-shirt, and brushed his teeth with a blue-handled toothbrush. The sound of bacon frying tantalized him. Johnny entered the kitchen and sat on a white enameled chair that was chipped to reveal an original coat of blue paint. A green-topped table and two matching chairs completed the room’s sparse furnishings. The rest of the kitchen was filled with closets, shelves, a work counter, an oven, the sink, and an aging refrigerator.

Johnny poured himself a glass of milk from the half-filled bottle and hungrily ate his breakfast.

The mass was fast today. Father Sullivan said it. He’s a nice man and a good priest. Do you like him?

Yeah, ma, he’s all right. He always talks to you, and he’s good to the kids.

You’re right, Johnny. He got Mrs. Devlin’s boy Kevin out of trouble with the cops. Now that Kevin’s grown up, he’s a settled married man.

He must have been some guy, that Devlin, trying to beat up a cop.

Well, he’s lucky he had a good priest to help him. When you get older, don’t be like him, Johnny. Stay out of trouble.

Don’t worry about me, ma. I stay out of trouble.

Thank God for that. If only your father would take it a little easy.

Don’t worry about him either, ma. He’s big and strong and can take care of himself. He’s in after me and out to work before I wake up, and it doesn’t hurt him.

Johnny finished gulping down his milk. His mother picked up the newspaper and spread it on the table. She scanned through it while stealing glances at him, drinking in his pleasant, youthful face and eyes and the long, wavy hair that draped itself over his forehead and tufted above his ears.

As Johnny got up from the table, his mother scrutinized him again.

Fix your tie and comb your hair before you go, she called.

All right, ma.

Tony was waiting on the street corner for Johnny. A parade of people passed before him on their way to work and school. He leaned against a red fire alarm pole and coolly surveyed them rushing by. Teenage toughness and adolescent shyness kept Tony aloof so that he only half-smiled hello to some who greeted him.

Say hello to the nuns for me, he wisecracked to two younger boys on their way to St. Martin’s parochial school.

Johnny emerged from his tenement halfway down the block. He walked briskly to the corner, squinting from the brightening sun.

They greeted each other.

Hi, Tony.

What do you say, Johnny?

Lets go get some loose butts, Tony continued.

Yeah, good idea. It was a regular activity they did most mornings.

They crossed the street and strolled halfway up the block to a candy store whose storefront and worn wooden newsstand were covered with tin signs advertising soda and cigarettes.

Good morning, boys.

Good morning, Pep, they echoed.

What can I do for you?

They furtively glided to the back of the store and eyed Pep with blank, secretly meaningful stares. Pep responded, walking behind the counter at the rear of the cramped space. Pep’s body was crowded in behind a dull glass case filled with penny candies. Rubbing his stubble-covered face, he asked, What would you like, boys?

Do you have any loose? Johnny answered.

Pep resignedly reached for an open pack of cigarettes behind him.

How many do you want?

Three each.

Slowly and clumsily, he squeezed six cigarettes from the pack and laid them on the glass counter. The boys each pushed a nickel forward and quickly stored the cigarettes in their jacket pockets.

One of these days I’m going to get in trouble for giving you kids cigarettes like this.

Thanks a lot, Pep, they blurted out. They hung around a while at the front of the store, talking to Pep.

Did you see any of the guys this morning? Tony asked.

Yeah, Red and the O’Leary boys were around before, just like every morning.

What’s new? They have anything to say?

Not a thing. What could be new? They haven’t been kicked out of school or taken to the station house yet, so they’ll be hanging around here later bothering me.

He laughed crudely, and Johnny and Tony laughed along with him. Just then, a customer entered, and Pep’s attention was drawn away. The boys were still chuckling as they stepped down into the warming feel of the late spring day and called a goodbye back to Pep. They strode hurriedly to the next corner, their legs whipping out in unison as their heels banged a steady, rapid beat on the pavement. They paused at the next corner and each lit up a cigarette, deftly striking their matches and maneuvering the cigarettes with affected harshness.

They talked about last night’s close call with the cops as they resumed walking with a more leisurely pace. They recalled the excitement and thrill of last night’s action and chase and mentally honed their stories for telling to the guys later on.

Johnny thought about it. The chase had just happened, but it seemed so long ago. He pressed his memory to recall the chase and could only summon a vague uncertainty, a hazy blur of scary flight lacking the emotional intensity of the fear he had experienced. It was so unreal this morning, like a strange chapter from long ago or a scene from an old movie.

Mr. Preston’s face broke into familiar lines of vexation and exasperation. Tony waved his arm back and forth, trying to get his teacher’s attention.

Hey, Teach, ask me. I know the answer. Ask me. Ask me, Tony insolently protested.

Yeah, ask Tony. Ask Tony. Johnny and the class clamored in support.

Preston boiled over. Mild and easygoing, he was unhappy and uncomfortable in an authoritarian role but had learned long ago that only an occasional flare-up of temper could save him from the harassment of these ingrates and fools. He bristled at the class with intelligent insight, a weapon they knew they were impotent to refute.

Shut up. Shut up, you stupid, rude kids. You think you’re smart, don’t you, Russo. Think you’re real smart. Well, I’ve got some bad news for you—some real bad news. You’re not as smart as you think you are. The fact of the matter is, you’re an ill-mannered, uneducated, inane, smart-aleck jerk. And worse than that, smart guy, mark my words: you’re headed for trouble if you don’t smarten up. Keep on being a troublemaker and you’ll wind up in jail or somewhere like that. Just because you’re a little smarter than the other morons around here doesn’t make you anything. If it wasn’t for the low standards of today, you’d have been thrown out of here long ago. And another thing: if you have any ideas about going to college, forget them. You’d never make it. You’re just too much of a smart aleck. A twenty-dollar-a-week clerk or a ditch digger is all you’re ever going to be, and then we’ll see how smart you are. The same goes for you, Cleary. You were a good kid when you first came here, but now you’re going down the drain just like that smart aleck. Stay away from him.

The class was subdued, and Tony’s ears reddened. He had been confronted directly, and he was taken aback and confused, in complete disarray. But he managed a parting remark to bolster his sagging facade.

All right, Teach, if you can’t take a little kidding…

Let’s get on to something else, class, Preston interrupted.

Preston was in control now, and he considered the matter closed. His face was drained and very pale, and he spoke to the class in a nervous, hushed voice that carried over the unnatural quiet of the classroom to the scarecrow faces in front of him. At least now I’m getting outward attention, he thought.

Preston hated these blowups. When they occurred, they always seemed so justified, but later he regretted them. He regretted his loss of composure and his harsh comments, but he had found that they were necessary to control these scatterbrained boys. They couldn’t successfully fight his intellectual superiority. He felt that he had been particularly harsh this time. Well, the matter was closed.

When the bell rang to end the final period, the students filed out brimming with noisy energy, ready to burst on the city’s streets. Tony and Johnny were swept along with a gang of youths exuberant at their reprieve from the boredom of school.

Preston really gave it to you today, didn’t he? A tall fellow kidded Tony.

Yeah, he better watch it or he’s gonna get me mad, Tony replied.

Yeah sure, smart guy, another joked.

Tony was on the verge of a bit of temper, but he forced himself to think it through. The incident was over, and he thought better of it. After a few moments, he replied, What the hell, the guy was right. I went too far this time, and he jumped on me. I didn’t notice anyone else flexing their muscles. As long as he passes me, he’s not a bad guy. Tony silenced them.

Where’s this fight supposed to be? Johnny asked.

Down the block and around the corner, a short, stocky teen answered.

When they reached the next block and turned the corner, hidden cigarettes suddenly appeared and everyone lit up. Tony struck a match, and he and Johnny went through the ritual of lighting up as they’d done twice before that day, once in the morning and once again in a school lavatory stall. They joined the unruly mob of boys who were waiting for some action to start.

Who’s having it out? Tony asked.

One of the PRPs and one of the Cobras.

Just then, two aggressive groups turned the corner and forced their way through the milling crowd. The combatants, a Negro and an olive-skinned Hispanic, were conspicuous by their obvious nervousness and forced fierce faces. A crude ring formed by the crowd contracted in anticipation.

Move back. Give them room.

C’mon, let’s go. Let’s get it started.

The boys faced each other, and the fight started. They circled each other cautiously with their hands held high, moving in exaggerated feints and parries.

C’mon, Duke. Deck him.

Hit him, baby. Hit him.

One hit the other hard, and they exchanged blows. The exaggerated form was dropped as they began to mix it up more violently, throwing, missing, landing, and half-landing punches in a wild melee of violent action. The crowd’s lust for excitement had been fed, but it was denied a climax.

Break it up. Here come some teachers.

The crowd scattered, and the fight was ended—perhaps only temporarily. It might be settled later in a rematch or even escalate into a gang war under the harsh retribution codes of the streets.

After running a block, Tony and Johnny slowed down and enjoyed the remnants of their cigarettes. They strolled home and talked about last night, school, the fight after school, and the rest of the day.

We have to go on the hook one of the days, Tony.

I’d like to, but we’d better not. It’s too late in the year to fool around with that. Get caught and they might fail us. Wait till next year.

Johnny emerged from his apartment building and stood for a moment on the stoop. Ralphy and the O’Leary boys were down the corner swinging a broom handle. Inhaling the warm, summery air, Johnny headed straight for them.

How did you guys make out last night? Johnny asked.

That was some ball, Ralphy said.

We got away, but we thought they might have grabbed you, Junior O’Leary chimed in.

Who threw the bottle? Johnny asked.

I don’t know.

Not me.

No one would own up to doing it. They all laughed.

Well hell, someone did, Johnny said. They all laughed harder.

Junior’s brother, Mickey, who was a year older than him, stood in the middle of the street taking swings with the old broom handle at an imaginary pink rubber ball. He swished the bat around in flawless style. The brothers were strong, chubby boys whose round builds and faces gave them a pleasant, cheerful look.

Johnny leaped into the tale of the narrow escape the night before. It had been a great adventure, and he recited the episode dramatically. The other boys listened intently and relived the chase with Johnny.

So they almost caught you last night, Mickey called over between swings. You guys were lucky. They would’ve flattened you.

Yeah, Ralphy joined in. Anyone they caught would be done in, man. Those cops play rough.

Here come Tony and Red! Junior said.

Everyone turned and gazed at the boys sauntering down the street. They walked as if they owned the sidewalk, an air of youthful vigor in their easy confident gait. Big Red Crowley was an overgrown boy who had a mane of golden-red hair. His stride was amazingly agile for an oversized teen.

Heard they almost grabbed you last night, Mickey said.

Yeah, it was a close call, Tony answered.

Tony told me already, Red stated. Good thing they didn’t find you guys. You and Johnny would have gotten a beating.

You know what they say. If you’re going to be a wise guy, don’t get caught, chubby Junior opined.

Hey, let me see the bat, Mickey, Big Red commanded.

Wait a minute. Can’t you see I’m practicing my swing?

What do you want it for? To practice striking out? Junior jumped into the banter.

Yeah, you can’t hit. You’re a stiff. Let me show you how it’s done. It was Mickey’s turn to get on Red.

Red reached out, grabbed the stick, and wrestled it from Mickey’s grip. He spread-eagled his grip as far as he could over the bat and inspected first one