IV
Sandy Van Pelt
The front office thought the radio car would give us a break in spotnews coverage, and I guessed as wrong as they did. I had been coveringCity Hall long enough, and that's no place to build a career--the PressAssociation is very tight there, there's not much chance of getting anykind of exclusive story because of the sharing agreements. So I put infor the radio car. It meant taking the night shift, but I got it.
I suppose the front office got their money's worth, because they playedup every lousy auto smash the radio car covered as though it were thestory of the Second Coming, and maybe it helped circulation. But I hadbeen on it for four months and, wouldn't you know it, there wasn't adecent murder, or sewer explosion, or running gun fight between six P.M.and six A.M. any night I was on duty in those whole four months. Whatmade it worse, the kid they gave me as photographer--Sol Detweiler, hisname was--couldn't drive worth a damn, so I was stuck with chauffeuringus around.
We had just been out to LaGuardia to see if it was true that MarilynMonroe was sneaking into town with Aly Khan on a night plane--itwasn't--and we were coming across the Triborough Bridge, heading southtoward the East River Drive, when the office called. I pulled over andparked and answered the radiophone.
* * * * *
It was Harrison, the night City Editor. "Listen, Sandy, there's a gangfight in East Harlem. Where are you now?"
It didn't sound like much to me, I admit. "There's always a gang fightin East Harlem, Harrison. I'm cold and I'm on my way down to NightCourt, where there may or may not be a story; but at least I can get myfeet warm."
"_Where are you now?_" Harrison wasn't fooling. I looked at Sol, on theseat next to me; I thought I had heard him snicker. He began to fiddlewith his camera without looking at me. I pushed the "talk" button andtold Harrison where I was. It pleased him very much; I wasn't more thansix blocks from where this big rumble was going on, he told me, and hemade it very clear that I was to get on over there immediately.
I pulled away from the curb, wondering why I had ever wanted to be anewspaperman; I could have made five times as much money for half asmuch work in an ad agency. To make it worse, I heard Sol chuckle again.The reason he was so amused was that when we first teamed up I made themistake of telling him what a hot reporter I was, and I had been visiblycooling off before his eyes for a better than four straight months.
Believe me, I was at the very bottom of my career that night. For fivecents cash I would have parked the car, thrown the keys in the EastRiver, and taken the first bus out of town. I was absolutely positivethat the story would be a bust and all I would get out of it would be abad cold from walking around in the snow.
And if that doesn't show you what a hot newspaperman I really am,nothing will.
* * * * *
Sol began to act interested as we reached the corner Harrison had toldus to go to. "That's Chris's," he said, pointing at a little candystore. "And that must be the pool hall where the Leopards hang out."
"You know this place?"
He nodded. "I know a man named Walter Hutner. He and I went to schooltogether, until he dropped out, couple weeks ago. He quit college to goto the Police Academy. He wanted to be a cop."
I looked at him. "You're going to college?"
"Sure, Mr. Van Pelt. Wally Hutner was a sociology major--I'mjournalism--but we had a couple of classes together. He had a part-timejob with a neighborhood council up here, acting as a sort of adultadviser for one of the gangs."
"They need advice on how to be gangs?"
"No, that's not it, Mr. Van Pelt. The councils try to get their workersaccepted enough to bring the kids in to the social centers, that's all.They try to get them off the streets. Wally was working with a bunchcalled the Leopards."
I shut him up. "Tell me about it later!" I stopped the car and rolleddown a window, listening.
* * * * *
Yes, there was something going on all right. Not at the corner Harrisonhad mentioned--there wasn't a soul in sight in any direction. But Icould hear what sounded like gunfire and yelling, and, my God, evenbombs going off! And it wasn't too far away. There were sirens,too--squad cars, no doubt.
"It's over that way!" Sol yelled, pointing. He looked as though he washaving the time of his life, all keyed up and delighted. He didn't haveto tell me where the noise was coming from, I could hear for myself. Itsounded like D-Day at Normandy, and I didn't like the sound of it.
I made a quick decision and slammed on the brakes, then backed the carback the way we had come. Sol looked at me. "What--"
"Local color," I explained quickly. "This the place you were talkingabout? Chris's? Let's go in and see if we can find some of thesehoodlums."
"But, Mr. Van Pelt, all the pictures are over where the fight's goingon!"
"Pictures, shmictures! Come on!" I got out in front of the candy store,and the only thing he could do was follow me.
Whatever they were doing, they were making the devil's own racket aboutit. Now that I looked a little more closely I could see that they musthave come this way; the candy store's windows were broken; every otherstreet light was smashed; and what had at first looked like a flight ofsteps in front of a tenement across the street wasn't anything of thekind--it was a pile of bricks and stone from the false-front cornice onthe roof! How in the world they had managed to knock that down I had noidea; but it sort of convinced me that, after all, Harrison had beenright about this being a _big_ fight. Over where the noise was comingfrom there were queer flashing lights in the clouds overhead--reflectingexploding flares, I thought.
* * * * *
No, I didn't want to go over where the pictures were. I like living. Ifit had been a normal Harlem rumble with broken bottles and knives, ormaybe even home-made zip guns--I might have taken a chance on it, butthis was for real.
"Come on," I yelled to Sol, and we pushed the door open to the candystore.
At first there didn't seem to be anyone in, but after we called a coupletimes a kid of about sixteen, coffee-colored and scared-looking, stuckhis head up above the counter.
"You. What's going on here?" I demanded. He looked at me as if I wassome kind of a two-headed monster. "Come on, kid. Tell us whathappened."
"Excuse me, Mr. Van Pelt." Sol cut in ahead of me and began talking tothe kid in Spanish. It got a rise out of him; at least Sol got ananswer. My Spanish is only a little bit better than my Swahili, so Imissed what was going on, except for an occasional word. But Sol wasgetting it all. He reported: "He knows Walt; that's what's botheringhim. He says Walt and some of the Leopards are in a basement down thestreet, and there's something wrong with them. I can't exactly figureout what, but--"
"The hell with them. What about _that_?"
"You mean the fight? Oh, it's a big one all right, Mr. Van Pelt. It's agang called the Boomer Dukes. They've got hold of some real gunssomewhere--I can't exactly understand what kind of guns he means, but itsounds like something serious. He says they shot that parapet downacross the street. Gosh, Mr. Van Pelt, you'd think it'd take a cannonfor something like that. But it has something to do with Walt Hutner andall the Leopards, too."
I said enthusiastically, "Very good, Sol. That's fine. Find out wherethe cellar is, and we'll go interview Hutner."
"But Mr. Van Pelt, the pictures--"
"Sorry. I have to call the office." I turned my back on him and headedfor the car.
* * * * *
The noise was louder, and the flashes in the sky brighter--it looked asthough they were moving this way. Well, I didn't have any money tied upin the car, so I wasn't worried about leaving it in the street. Andsomebody's cellar seemed like a very good place to be. I called theoffice and started to tell Harrison what we'd found out; but he stoppedme short. "Sandy, where've you been? I've been trying to call youfor--Listen, we got a call from Fordham. They've detected radiationco
ming from the East Side--it's got to be what's going on up there!Radiation, do you hear me? That means atomic weapons! Now, you get th--"
Silence.
"Hello?" I cried, and then remembered to push the talk button. "Hello?Harrison, you there?"
Silence. The two-way radio was dead.
I got out of the car; and maybe I understood what had happened to theradio and maybe I didn't. Anyway, there was something new shining in thesky. It hung below the clouds in parts, and I could see it through thebottom of the clouds in the middle; it was a silvery teacup upside down,a hemisphere over everything.
It hadn't been there two minutes before.
* * * * *
I heard firing coming closer and closer. Around a corner a bunch of copscame, running, turning, firing; running, turning and firing again. Itwas like the retreat from Caporetto in miniature. And what was chasingthem? In a minute I saw. Coming around the corner was a kid with alightning-blue satin jacket and two funny-looking guns in his hand;there was a silvery aura around him, the same color as the lights in thesky; and I swear I saw those cops' guns hit him twenty times in twentyseconds, but he didn't seem to notice.
Sol and the kid from the candy store were right beside me. We tookanother look at the one-man army that was coming down the street towardus, laughing and prancing and firing those odd-looking guns. And thenthe three of us got out of there, heading for the cellar. Any cellar.