Sleepers

'So much for getting married,' I said, just as quietly.

Michael, Tommy and Carol said nothing. But I knew what they were thinking. It was what we were all thinking. The street had won. The street would always win.

Fall 1965

SEVEN

My 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 ru

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 uninhibited moments of pretend play that we were allowed the luxury of childhood. Faced by outsiders, we had to be tough, acting older than our years. In our homes we had to be wary, never knowing when the next violent moment would come. But when we were alone we could be who we really were – kids.

We never pictured ourselves, as adults, living far from Hell's Kitchen. Our lives were plotted out at birth. We would try to finish high school, fall in love with a local girl, get a working man's job and move into a railroad apartment at a reasonable rent. We didn't see it as confining, but rather as a dramatic step in the right direction. Our fathers were men with sinful pasts and criminal records. We would not be.

I loved my parents. I respected King Be

We thought we would know each other forever.

'It's simple,' Michael said.

'You always say it's simple,' Tommy said. 'Then we get there and it ain't so simple.'

'It's a new store,' Michael explained. 'Nobody knows us. We walk in, take what we need and walk out.'

'What do they have?' John demanded to know.

'At least fifty different titles,' Michael said. 'Flash, Green Lantern, Aquaman, you name it. Just wailing for us.'

'How many work the store?' I asked.

'Two, usually,' Michael said. 'Never more than three.'

'When?'

'Afternoon's the best time.'

'You sure?'

'Follow the plan,' Michael said, looking at us. 'It'll work if we just follow the plan.'

My friends and I were thieves who stole more for fun than profit. We took what we felt we needed but could not afford to buy. We never went to our parents for money, never borrowed from anyone and never walked into a situation armed.

We hit candy stores for their comic books, toy stores for games, supermarkets for gum. And we were good at it. The few times we were caught, we either talked, fought or cried our way out of trouble. We knew that nobody was going to send a kid to jail for rounding out a Classics Illustrated collection.

We kept our escapades from our parents. Though most of them were involved in small-time scams of their own, none would have been pleased to know their children were chasing fast on their heels. Still, Thou Shalt Not Steal carried little weight in Hell's Kitchen. The neighborhood was a training ground for young criminals and had been throughout most of its history.

Time spent in the company of made men, their allegiance sworn to a life of crime, led to a desire to flex our own criminal muscles. Where once we were content to walk out of a store with a handful of Green Hornets, we now felt the need to empty entire racks, from Sgt. Rock to The Fantastic Four.

In the neighborhood, the gaze on us intensified with each small job we pulled. The old-line hoods would glance our way, an acknowledged nod toward a new generation, as active in their recruiting methods as any Ivy League head hunter. We were the promise, the raw rookies who could one day hold the neighborhood together, score the deals and keep the illegal traffic moving.

There were many roads a young man could travel on the streets of Hell's Kitchen. None promised great rewards. The majority turned into dead ends.

Career criminal was simply one such option.

Michael was the first one in the candy store.

I followed soon after. John and Tommy – Butter and the Count – waited outside, close to the front door. The entry was curved and narrow, a hardwood candy stand ru

Michael walked to the comic book racks, reached for a Batman and handed it to me.

'Read that one yet?' he asked.

'No,' I said, looking over my shoulder at the two men cutting open candy cartons. 'It's new.'

Want it?'

'Not today,' I said.

'What is it, Shakes?' Michael asked, racking back the Batman.

'Let's not do this,' I said, lowering my voice to a whisper.

'Why not?'

'It just doesn't feel right.'

'We're here now,' Michael said.

'And we can leave now.'

'Don't crap on me now, Shakes. We can do this. You and me.'

'It feels different this time,' I said.

'It feels different every time,' Michael said.

'You sure?' I asked.

'I'm sure,' Michael said.

I hesitated, then I nodded my compliance. 'Make your move,' I said.

Michael pulled three comic books from a top rack, well aware that the two men were staring in his direction. I took four Sgt. Rock comics from a lower shelf, put them under my right arm and followed Michael further down the aisle. Behind me, one of the men lifted the counter top and began to walk toward us. He was tall and thin, thick dark hair sitting in clumps on the sides of his head and a large, circular scar resting below his left eye. He had a small iron pipe in one hand.

Tommy and John came into the store, pushing and shoving as per the plan. The man behind the counter stared at them between puffs on a fresh cigarette.

'No trouble. No trouble in here,' he said, his voice thick with a Middle Eastern accent, his cigarette filter clenched between stained teeth.

'I don't want trouble,' John said to him, pushing Tommy against the newspaper trays. 'I want candy.'

'That's the last time you push me,' Tommy said, picking up a paper and throwing it at John.

'Stop it!' the man behind the counter shouted. 'Outside. You like a fight? Go outside.'

The thin man facing us turned and walked away, moving toward Tommy and John and the front of the store. He walked slowly, slapping the base of the pipe against the palm of his hand.

'Get out, punks,' the man said, giving John's shoulder a shove. 'Get out!'

John turned and faced the store owner. Angrily, he put both hands on the man's shirt front and pushed him back.

'Don't touch me,' he said, watching the man tumble backwards, the pipe falling on top of discarded editions of the New York Post.

Things immediately got out of hand. The man jumped to his feet, his face red with embarrassment, and rushed John, catching him around the chest and dropping him to the ground. He straddled John's upper body and gripped his face with one hand, while the other formed a fist.