bars of the first floor fire escape, staring at the alley below. Four garbage cans and an empty refrigerator carton stood against one wall; the shadows of a forty-watt bulb filtered across the auditorium’s back door. The rain had picked up, a steady Hudson River breeze blowing newly laundered sheets across the dirt and empty cans of the alley.
Michael had positioned us there. He was positive something was going to happen and he’d picked the most strategic place to observe the action.
We watched as the bride and groom stood in the narrow doorway, arms wrapped around each other, both drunk, kissing and hugging. The harsh light from the auditorium forced us to move back toward the window ledge.
The groom took his wife by the hand and stepped into the alley, moving toward 51st Street, holding a half-empty bottle of Piels in his free hand. They stopped to wave at a handful of friends crowding across a doorway, the men drunk, the women shivering in the face of the rain.
“Don’t leave any beer behind,” the groom shouted. “It’s paid for.”
“Count on that,” one of the drunks shouted back.
“Good-bye,” the bride said, still waving. “Thank you for everything.”
“Let’s go,” the groom now said to his new wife. “It’s our wedding night.” With that, a grin stretched across his face.
The first bullet came out of the darkness and hit the groom just above his brown belt buckle, sinking him tohis knees, a stunned look on his face. The bride gave out a loud scream, hands held across her chest, eyes wide, her husband bleeding just inches away.
The group by the door stood motionless, frozen.
The second shot, coming from the rear of the alley, hit the groom in the throat, dropping him face first onto the pavement.
“Help!” the bride screamed. “Jesus, God, please help! He’s gonna die! Please help,
please!”
No one moved. No one spoke. The faces in the doorway had inched deeper into the shadows, more concerned with avoiding the shooter’s scope than with rushing to the side of a fallen friend.
Sirens blared in the distance.
The bride was on her knees, blood staining the front of her gown, crying over the body of her dying husband. A priest ran into the alley, toward the couple. An elderly woman came out of the auditorium holding a large white towel packed with ice, water flowing down the sides of her dress. Two young men, sobered by the shooting, moved out of the doorway to stare down at the puddles of blood.
“Let’s get outta here,” John said quietly.
“So much for getting married,” I said just as quietly.
Michael, Tommy, and Carol said nothing. But I knew what they were all thinking. It was what we were all thinking.
The street had won. The street would always win.
Fall 1965
10
M Y FRIENDS AND I were united in trust.
There was never a question about our loyalty. We fed off each other, talked our way into and out of problems and served as buffers against the violence we encountered daily. Our friendship was a tactic of survival.
We each wanted a better life, but were unsure how to get it. We knew enough, though, to anchor our hopes in simple goals. In our idle moments, we never imagined running large companies or finding cures for diseases or holding elected office. Those dreams belonged to other places, other boys.
Our fantasies were shaped by the books we read and reread and the movies we watched over and over until even the dullest dialogue was committed to memory. Stories of romance and adventure, of great escapes and greater tastes of freedom. Stories that brought victory and cheers to the poor, allowing them to bask in the afterglow of revenge.
We never needed to leave the cocoon of Hell’s Kitchen to glimpse those dreams.
We lived inside every book we read, every movie we saw. We were Cagney in
Angels with Dirty Faces
and Gable in
The Call of the Wild.
We were
Ivanhoe
on our own city streets and the Knights of the Round Table in our clubhouse.
It was during those
Michael had positioned us there. He was positive something was going to happen and he’d picked the most strategic place to observe the action.
We watched as the bride and groom stood in the narrow doorway, arms wrapped around each other, both drunk, kissing and hugging. The harsh light from the auditorium forced us to move back toward the window ledge.
The groom took his wife by the hand and stepped into the alley, moving toward 51st Street, holding a half-empty bottle of Piels in his free hand. They stopped to wave at a handful of friends crowding across a doorway, the men drunk, the women shivering in the face of the rain.
“Don’t leave any beer behind,” the groom shouted. “It’s paid for.”
“Count on that,” one of the drunks shouted back.
“Good-bye,” the bride said, still waving. “Thank you for everything.”
“Let’s go,” the groom now said to his new wife. “It’s our wedding night.” With that, a grin stretched across his face.
The first bullet came out of the darkness and hit the groom just above his brown belt buckle, sinking him tohis knees, a stunned look on his face. The bride gave out a loud scream, hands held across her chest, eyes wide, her husband bleeding just inches away.
The group by the door stood motionless, frozen.
The second shot, coming from the rear of the alley, hit the groom in the throat, dropping him face first onto the pavement.
“Help!” the bride screamed. “Jesus, God, please help! He’s gonna die! Please help,
please!”
No one moved. No one spoke. The faces in the doorway had inched deeper into the shadows, more concerned with avoiding the shooter’s scope than with rushing to the side of a fallen friend.
Sirens blared in the distance.
The bride was on her knees, blood staining the front of her gown, crying over the body of her dying husband. A priest ran into the alley, toward the couple. An elderly woman came out of the auditorium holding a large white towel packed with ice, water flowing down the sides of her dress. Two young men, sobered by the shooting, moved out of the doorway to stare down at the puddles of blood.
“Let’s get outta here,” John said quietly.
“So much for getting married,” I said just as quietly.
Michael, Tommy, and Carol said nothing. But I knew what they were all thinking. It was what we were all thinking.
The street had won. The street would always win.
Fall 1965
10
M Y FRIENDS AND I were united in trust.
There was never a question about our loyalty. We fed off each other, talked our way into and out of problems and served as buffers against the violence we encountered daily. Our friendship was a tactic of survival.
We each wanted a better life, but were unsure how to get it. We knew enough, though, to anchor our hopes in simple goals. In our idle moments, we never imagined running large companies or finding cures for diseases or holding elected office. Those dreams belonged to other places, other boys.
Our fantasies were shaped by the books we read and reread and the movies we watched over and over until even the dullest dialogue was committed to memory. Stories of romance and adventure, of great escapes and greater tastes of freedom. Stories that brought victory and cheers to the poor, allowing them to bask in the afterglow of revenge.
We never needed to leave the cocoon of Hell’s Kitchen to glimpse those dreams.
We lived inside every book we read, every movie we saw. We were Cagney in
Angels with Dirty Faces
and Gable in
The Call of the Wild.
We were
Ivanhoe
on our own city streets and the Knights of the Round Table in our clubhouse.
It was during those
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