“I’m not sure, sir.”
“You’re not so sure about anything, are you, kid?”
Rusty remained silent. What was the point of answering?
Suddenly, Fish spoke up from the rear. “I knew he was lookin’ for his sister.”
And Greek stepped out, “Me, too. That’s what he said when he come in.”
The cop looked up, surprised. This was not standard with the gang kids. Play dumb, that was the rule. And yet here were two of them, sticking their necks out for someone else. The sergeant pursed his lips, thinking.
Rusty knew what it had taken for Fish and Greek to open their mouths. It made them stand out and that just wasn’t done in the streets; a stud could get hurt that way.
“Who said that?”
Fish did not answer. To corroborate Rusty’s story was one thing, to be singled out and brought forward—that was strictly another. “I asked who said that?” Still no answer.
But another voice—Rusty recognized the heavy voice of the Greek again—chimed in, “That’s right, fuzz. He was there for his sister. He told me!”
Then another, Poop it was. “Right, that’s right!” They were all following suit, for Rusty had not even spoken to Poop at the dance. But in a moment, all the Cougars were yelling it was so.
The cops started moving through the crowd, uncertain, trying to stop the noise, but the desk sergeant slammed his beefy hand on the desktop, yelled, “Okay! Okay! No more of that, shut up or you all go into the tank for the night.” He looked down at Rusty uncertainly.
Rusty stood with his hands deep in his pants’ pockets, not saying anything, neither recognizing the comments nor denying them. But a thin, satisfied look crept over his lips. They weren’t bad kids—good guys when they had the chance. Except who the hell ever gave them half a chance?
The cop motioned to the officer who had brought in the dossier and the man came up closer to the counter, stood on tiptoe and leaned in. The sergeant leaned across and they spoke together for a few moments.
Then the sergeant nodded, said, “I don’t know,” and the other said, “So give him a ring. It’s early. Maybe he can do something.”
The sergeant nodded again and picked up the phone. He spoke into it, waited a moment, then looked down for something in the dossier. Rusty had a good idea what was happening and he wanted to croak.
The cop was going to call Pancoast. What a bitch of a deal! There went all the teacher’s confidence in him.
The cop started dialing and Rusty moved to stop him. The cop looked up and Rusty had an abrupt, terribly vivid impression of bars, between himself and the cop, and he said nothing.
The cop got the number and listened. It rang. Again. Finally, after perhaps a minute, he hung up.
He stared at Rusty for a moment, then leaned over, said, “You’re out on custody, you know.”
There was no point to answering, so Rusty didn’t.
“I said something to you, kid—Santoro.”
Rusty nodded, “Yessir.”
“You knew there was gonna be a rumble tonight?”
Rusty spread his hands eloquently. “That’s why I went after my sister. I heard there was gonna be trouble.”
“You know you’re skatin’ pretty thin ice, Santoro.”
“Yessir.”
“Go on home and we’re gonna call this Pancoast. He’s not answering now so we’ll call him tomorrow, and we’re gonna give him a report on this, let him decide if he still wants you under his custody. If not, you’ll sail into the pokey so fast it’ll make your butt ache. Be at home when we want you.”
Rusty was amazed. Go home? Just like that? What was this? What was the catch?
The boy turned and started toward the door.
The Cherokees set up a howl.
“Hey, man! That ain’t no fair!”
“You gonna let him go like that?”
“You let him go, you gotta let us all go!”
“Lousy fuzz-lover!”
The sergeant bit his lower lip, regretting his decision. Then, “Hey, you. Santoro. Wait a minute.”
The cop tapped a pencil against the desktop, then
“You’re not so sure about anything, are you, kid?”
Rusty remained silent. What was the point of answering?
Suddenly, Fish spoke up from the rear. “I knew he was lookin’ for his sister.”
And Greek stepped out, “Me, too. That’s what he said when he come in.”
The cop looked up, surprised. This was not standard with the gang kids. Play dumb, that was the rule. And yet here were two of them, sticking their necks out for someone else. The sergeant pursed his lips, thinking.
Rusty knew what it had taken for Fish and Greek to open their mouths. It made them stand out and that just wasn’t done in the streets; a stud could get hurt that way.
“Who said that?”
Fish did not answer. To corroborate Rusty’s story was one thing, to be singled out and brought forward—that was strictly another. “I asked who said that?” Still no answer.
But another voice—Rusty recognized the heavy voice of the Greek again—chimed in, “That’s right, fuzz. He was there for his sister. He told me!”
Then another, Poop it was. “Right, that’s right!” They were all following suit, for Rusty had not even spoken to Poop at the dance. But in a moment, all the Cougars were yelling it was so.
The cops started moving through the crowd, uncertain, trying to stop the noise, but the desk sergeant slammed his beefy hand on the desktop, yelled, “Okay! Okay! No more of that, shut up or you all go into the tank for the night.” He looked down at Rusty uncertainly.
Rusty stood with his hands deep in his pants’ pockets, not saying anything, neither recognizing the comments nor denying them. But a thin, satisfied look crept over his lips. They weren’t bad kids—good guys when they had the chance. Except who the hell ever gave them half a chance?
The cop motioned to the officer who had brought in the dossier and the man came up closer to the counter, stood on tiptoe and leaned in. The sergeant leaned across and they spoke together for a few moments.
Then the sergeant nodded, said, “I don’t know,” and the other said, “So give him a ring. It’s early. Maybe he can do something.”
The sergeant nodded again and picked up the phone. He spoke into it, waited a moment, then looked down for something in the dossier. Rusty had a good idea what was happening and he wanted to croak.
The cop was going to call Pancoast. What a bitch of a deal! There went all the teacher’s confidence in him.
The cop started dialing and Rusty moved to stop him. The cop looked up and Rusty had an abrupt, terribly vivid impression of bars, between himself and the cop, and he said nothing.
The cop got the number and listened. It rang. Again. Finally, after perhaps a minute, he hung up.
He stared at Rusty for a moment, then leaned over, said, “You’re out on custody, you know.”
There was no point to answering, so Rusty didn’t.
“I said something to you, kid—Santoro.”
Rusty nodded, “Yessir.”
“You knew there was gonna be a rumble tonight?”
Rusty spread his hands eloquently. “That’s why I went after my sister. I heard there was gonna be trouble.”
“You know you’re skatin’ pretty thin ice, Santoro.”
“Yessir.”
“Go on home and we’re gonna call this Pancoast. He’s not answering now so we’ll call him tomorrow, and we’re gonna give him a report on this, let him decide if he still wants you under his custody. If not, you’ll sail into the pokey so fast it’ll make your butt ache. Be at home when we want you.”
Rusty was amazed. Go home? Just like that? What was this? What was the catch?
The boy turned and started toward the door.
The Cherokees set up a howl.
“Hey, man! That ain’t no fair!”
“You gonna let him go like that?”
“You let him go, you gotta let us all go!”
“Lousy fuzz-lover!”
The sergeant bit his lower lip, regretting his decision. Then, “Hey, you. Santoro. Wait a minute.”
The cop tapped a pencil against the desktop, then
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