T W O

In spite of what Tiffany told me, it wasn't all right.

It will never be all right.

That day, I found a new room in Hell. That day, I found out what kind of monster I was. Bad stuff doesn't just happen, you know. A good kid would have fought back. He would have won. A good kid wouldn't have listened to his fucking junkie brother, he would've got away. He would have got away!

No one talks about the gingerbread children, the kids the witch caught. She built her house out of their bodies. Some she ate. The Brothers' Grimm don't waste time with them. The lost don't figure in Disney's Wonderful World. Losers don't count.

I went home the next day but there was no talking to Angelo. And Angelo didn't talk to me. I don't remember anything about it. That was the only good thing -- not remembering. Not thinking.

I moved out and into Allen's place that night.

I worked for Allen for the next four years which I understand was something of a record. Kids would arrive at the apartment, then leave. There was a fairly constant parade of boys and girls of all types and ages in the house, always around four to five that lived there. I lived there most of the time. The youngest I ever saw was eight years old although there was talk Allen supplied younger. Allen didn't encourage us to ask. Neither did the freaks.

There are a lot of kid-freaks in the world, always have been. I hear people talk about how that kind of thing never happened much before before folks were exposed to sex on TV, movies and books. Bullshit. It was just easier to keep it secret. People will say, DO anything to pacify themselves. Where the hell do they think the freaks came from in the first place? Most homes grow their own.

People always dive into a homosexual panic when they hear about a man who goes after boys. They're wrong when they think that. Like, if a man had a yen for ten-year old girls, that would make him one of the goddamn Brady Bunch?

No. He's a sick fuck. Period.

Most gay men and women I met were okay. Some were assholes but I never knew a group anywhere that didn't have its share of those.

People also think all freaks are men. Wrong again. There are plenty of women getting off where they shouldn't. The meanest I ever knew was a woman.

I remember one kid, Billy, who used to work at Allen's. He ran away from home. His Mom would come into his room in the middle of the night, sit on his bed and do her thing. When Billy woke up, she'd beat him for playing with himself. So he taught himself to hold onto the bedpost when he went to sleep so he wouldn't get whipped. One night he woke up — like usual — and he was still holding onto that post. And he knew whose hand was on him. She almost killed him that night. Billy crawled out the next day and ran away.

"So why'd you wake up?" that's what Toby wanted to know. "You could've pretended to be asleep."

Billy just looked at him and walked away.

"Why'd he run away?" Toby asked me when we were alone. "He didn't have to go."

How do you answer something like that?

But that's the kind of questions Toby always asked. Dumber than dirt, always getting in the way, Toby could fall over his own shadow — or mine. He was my partner. He was ten years old when his mom married a guy who didn't want to be a daddy. So Toby had to go and for as long as I knew him, he wanted to go back home. It didn't make any difference to him what they'd done, he wanted to go back. He talked about it all the time. He couldn't understand anybody running away from home. His plan was that he was going to make a lot of money so when he did go back, everybody would be happy to see him. And they would all live happily ever after.

Toby and I never saw much money. The big bucks came from Allen's set-ups like the Coney Island clown we went with once a month. All financial arrangements were made in advance. This freak didn't look or dress like a clown but we called him that anyway to make it less scary. Yeah. That guy scared me even though I tried not to let Toby know. I didn't want to set him off. Toby was always scared and fear's what turns them on. That's all. The freaks like that you're little and scared. They like to think they're big and strong — In Charge. The trick is to get the money, get them off and get out and not let them see you're too scared because that makes them mean.

Truth is, see, they are big, strong and mean. They can hurt you. Bad.

So I figure Allen must've got mucho dolares from the Coney Island clown for what he did to us. I hate ferris wheels, carrousels, all that amusement park shit. The smell of candy apples and spun sugar still makes me want to throw up.

Toby and I did the movies most of the time. (I must've seen Flipper a zillion-million times. We saw them all, Toby and me.) Movies are fast and easy, a breeze to skim, but you don't make much. Five for a hand-job, ten to blow, twenty on variations. Spot a sucker and you can negotiate more. Toby was lost from the start. The bad freaks could spot him a mile away.

"You go with him," Allen says to me. "You know what to do. Take care of him." And that's how I left the house and went 'round to the Square, watching that Toby didn't get hurt.

Of course I fucked up.

At first, I was happy to be out of the house. Out on the streets, I did pretty much what I pleased. I called the shots. In the city, I was in control, not Allen Frank.

Even before video parlors, there were places kids hung out — and gangs. (There are all kinds of gangs in the City and not all of them fighting-gangs.) It's only natural, you and your mates that you watch out for and who watches out for you against everybody else. There was this very cool group of black kids who had the spot across the street from the arcade off Broadway. Most of the time, they stayed on their side of the street and we stayed on ours. Then one day, Speed scored big and showed up with a new boom box. That monster was huge. I swear, if you stared directly into it, the chrome would blind you. It wouldn't seem like much now but back then, there was major appeal. Eight-tracks were never much for anything, plastic-molded, tinny-sounding bastards that ate up all the juice, fast. Speed had locked onto a really fine portable, cassette stereo. This was big music and I liked it so I went over to check it out. It wasn't like we were friends or anything. Still, we weren't enemies either. So Speed, Lion-Boy and the rest of them, we talked and everything was okay.

Then a couple of days later, someone goes and bounces a brick off the box. We didn't know who did it. Nobody knew. Just somebody being mean, I guess — or trying to be funny. But it pissed Speed off and since it was summer and hot and we didn't have nothing else to chew over, we chewed on that. Pretty soon, someone says it was one of the white kids who trashed Speed's box. Next they're saying it was me because I had gone over there, I was the only one showed any interest. They said I was jealous — like, I couldn't have ripped off one of my own or talked one of the freaks into getting me one if I wanted? This was stupid. I went over because I liked the music, not because I was mad or jealous or anything. It was neat to have the big sound around. Speed was nothing to me. I had nothing against him.

But there had to be somebody to blame and I got elected. Everybody took sides, everybody fought. Didn't make any difference what I had to say about it. These things have their own momentum. Toby and me, we watched it grow all around us. As the weather got hotter and stickier, our corner got meaner and bloodier. Our gangs weren't ignoring each other any more. They do something to us. We do something back and vice versa. I don't remember who started first. Naturally, it wasn't good for business and Allen was complaining along with all the other players. They tried to put an end to it but, out there, we weren't having any of that. That was our territory.

It all came together — then fell apart — early one evening. The sun was hardly down and it was the cusp of the cruise-hour. There were only five of us, counting me and Toby. We walked out of the arcade and it was so quiet, it made my teeth hurt. All the hair stood up on my neck and arms. They came out of everywhere, fast like slick, black oil. Speed, Lion-Boy and the others, nothing subtle about it. You know, Speed was smart and, early on, I guessed he knew I didn't do anything to him. It was a matter of pride. Somebody stuck him so he had to stick somebody back.

He meant that knife for me but he got Toby instead. Toby was staying close to me, like always. He saw Speed coming before I did but he didn't move. I don't know what he was trying to do, dumb little shit. He got in the way. He was always getting in the way.

Should have been me. Speed meant it for me. Got Toby. Ripped him in below the belt and shoved up. Nearly split him, belly to throat. God, Jesus — I'd never seen blood like that before.

Toby dropped. He fell on the sidewalk, holding onto himself. Me and Speed stood and stared at him. Then Speed ran away. I ran, too. I didn't stop for Toby, didn't hold him or help him. I didn't say anything to him. I ran. Last I saw of Toby, he was lying there on the ground and his eyes were open. He looked surprised.

I always knew Toby wasn't going home but I never thought he would die like that. We dodged death every day together, living like we did. There were close calls and that made us close. I never thought he would die. Never thought he would die for me.

Toby was more to me than Angelo or Berto or Maria ever were. I'm sorry I ran away. I shouldn't have run. I should have stopped it, should have taken care of him.

But I didn't.

Things went back to normal on our corner after that. Speed disappeared for a few weeks but even he came back. I worked alone. I didn't want to work with anybody and I made sure no one wanted to work with me. Death followed me. I suspected as much before but after Toby died, I knew for sure.

It got Angelo a few weeks later. Allen's friends mixed rat poison in his smack when he got to be too much trouble for them.

No.

The truth is, they killed him because I stopped being useful.

Finding Angelo was bad. He'd been dead a while and he was stiff, arms and legs twisted around. Hard and cold. He'd puked and shit all over himself, clawed himself up trying to get out what he'd shot in. He'd bashed into things. There was smashed stuff on the floor, furniture turned over. I know he must have screamed. He must have cried, but no one came. He died alone.

I didn't know everything right away. First thing I did was run to Allen after I found the body. Angelo, dead ... that knocked me out of my shell — like being hit with a nuclear device. Allen wasn't at the apartment so I waited for him there, strung out like old threads of crazy glue. I can't say I had seen much of Angelo in the last four years or that he had wanted to see me. We fought all the time when we were together but, no matter where I was or what I did, Angelo was always there. All I did was for Angelo. All of it.

Billy came into Allen's place, wanted to know what I was doing. I couldn't tell him anything.

"I been looking every where for you," Billy said, excited. Anxious. "I hear Allen talking on the phone this morning and I hear him say 'Angelo Bianco's a pain and a drain but the brat's another story. The kid's smart but I should've done with them both long ago.' Then the other guy starts talking 'cause Allen listens for a while. Then Allen says 'the free ride's over and if that don't get the brat's ass in gear, he'll visit our Italian friends.' I didn't hang around for the rest of it. I cut out before he could spot me. Jesus, Red — the Italians. I think he means it."

We both knew Allen's Italian friends weren't mob. They were worse. They were butchers.

"You okay?" Billy asked.

I nodded, too scared to talk. Too scared to shake.

"I tried to find you. Kept checking back here, just in case. I went to your brother's but nobody answered —"

"Angelo's dead." I said it but it didn't feel real, didn't feel like I thought it should.

Billy didn't look too surprised. "That's it then," he said.

"I don't know," I whispered. The rest of my voice was lost somewhere else.

"I'm getting out," Billy talked fast and quiet even though we were all alone. "You better get out, too."

It wasn't lost on me that Billy didn't ask me to go with him. I didn't blame him either. Just wondered why he stayed to warn me.

Finally, I said, "You busted Speed's box, didn't you?"

Billy shrugged. He clammed up, didn't say "yes," didn't say "no." But we both knew the truth of it.

"Why?" I said. "Why'd you do it?"

Standing on the doorway, Billy shrugged again. On the spot. I hoped he would answer my question, give me some reason — anything — but he didn't. He walked out of Allen's apartment and I never saw him again.

I stood around for a while, trying to motivate myself into moving but it wasn't happening. I didn't understand. What would have been so terrible if Billy had told Speed, "Hey, I fucked up. I'm sorry about the radio. I'll try to make it right"? We fought the whole summer over that stupid box. People got hurt for it. Toby died for it. Billy wasn't a mean kid and I don't think he meant for any of that shit to happen. But ... why did he do it?

Then I thought — what if there weren't any reasons? What if things just happened, the bad calling out to the bad, drawing it in like a magnet? Like the moon dragging a mean tide to sea, then shoving it back, all curdled and scummy with the fresh ruin of a new day? All the hopes, all the promises just so much backwash. Sludge.

I shuddered. I felt sick but I started to move — blind, staggering at first, like I was drunk or something. Next thing I knew, I was running like mad, out of the building, down the sidewalks. There was a noise wailing all around me, like sirens. It was me. It was terrifying, being out of control like that. And I couldn't control it, I couldn't stop it — not the running, not the crying. So someone stopped me. Someone grabbed onto me but I got away. I had had years of experience honing my escape skills and I used them now. However, I soon discovered this guy was experienced, too, and he captured me again.

What he caught was a short, skinny, screaming, biting, kicking, snarling fifteen year old street brat and I don't think he was that happy with his prize. A crowd gathered making escape more impossible, causing me to panic that much more. Fortunately, I began to wind-down. I was doing as much damage to myself as to the man who held me. After a while, I stopped struggling and yelled out, "Don't hurt me!"

Sometimes, all you can do is beg. Sometimes begging works.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he said. "Settle down."

I spied around, searching a way out, and it was almost as bad as being hit. I had never seen so many eyes, everybody straining to get a look. For months after, I had to get used to that. People staring.

I looked up, to get away from those eyes, right into the face of one of New York's finest. That took only a moment of sheer terror to sink in. He was a cop.

Something in my face changed the expression on his and he shifted his grip around to let me stand on my own. He kept his hands on my arms, so I couldn't get away, but they stopped bruising.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he said again. Then, "Are you hurt?"

I shook my head. It was funny, autumn was just around the corner, winter was months away and the weather was as hot and humid as the night Toby died but I had to clench my teeth to keep them from chattering. I'd never been so cold before.

"What did you take?" the cop asked and it took me a while to reason out he thought I'd done some kind of drug. That made me mad. I didn't do drugs. I never did drugs. Angelo —

"Angelo —" I croaked out.

"What about Angelo? Are you Angelo?"

I shook my head, wild. "No!" I yelled. "No, Angelo — my brother ... Angelo's dead!"

The cop couldn't hold me up any longer. I sat down on the sidewalk and bawled, gave up to it. A murmur of shock and sympathy rushed from the crowd and swept over me like warm wind. It was salt in a wound. They didn't know. They just didn't know!

It had all been for nothing. Angelo was dead.

And all I could feel was glad.

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