Sleepers

Tommy ran up from behind. He threw one arm around the man's throat and shoved a knee into the base of his spine,

Michael and I made our way to the front of the store, the sides of our jackets filled with dozens of comic books. We kept our eyes on the man behind the counter, watching for him to make a move. He never looked our way, frozen by the sight of his partner in a scrap with two boys.

John now freed one arm and landed two short blows to the man's stomach. Tommy scored with a steady torrent on the side of the man's head, causing his ear and temple to flush. The man fell to one side, tumbling off John, the bulk of his weight resting against the candy counter. One arm was dangling, free, inches from the iron pipe he had moments earlier dropped.

'We ain't ever comin' here again,' John said, back on his feet, shouting at the man behind the counter. He reached over, picked up a copy of the Daily News and threw it down on the head of his fallen enemy.

Michael and I moved past Tommy, John and the two men and walked out of the store, our stolen gains snug in their place.

John turned and followed us out. That left Tommy alone with the two men.

And before any of us knew what was happening, the man on the ground grabbed the iron pipe and came to his feet swinging, mouth twisted in rage. 'I kill you, punk!' he shouted. 'I kill you!' The blows landed in rapid succession. The first blow glanced off Tommy's shoulder. The second found a spot above his right eye, drawing blood. The third landed on the hard edge of Tommy's left wrist, the bone immediately giving way.

Tommy, his knees buckling from the pain, inched his way out of the store. A fourth shot caught him on the back of the neck, sending him crashing against the door and out to the street. Tommy fell to the cement, his eyes lifeless, his body limp.

John was the first to reach his side. 'I think he killed him,' he said, staring up at me and Michael.

'Then he's go

'Yeah you do,' Michael said as he nudged his way forward. 'Your only problem is with me.'

Michael opened the front of his blue denim jacket and reached a hand into one of the inside sleeves. He pulled out four folded, stolen comic books and dropped them to the ground. Then he yanked four more books from his other sleeve. Then he reached both hands into the back of his jeans and took out three more, dropping them all at his feet. The man moved toward him, stepping over Tommy's body.

'I kill all of you,' he said with teeth clenched.

'You're go

'This is bad,' I remember saying. 'This is so bad.' The man left his feet and swung the pipe, missing Michael's head by inches.

My eye caught John, his arms around Tommy, sweat streaking down his forehead, concern etched on his face. As a crowd collected, I looked at the faces surrounding me, the men focused on the action, most of them smoking, a few offering Michael free advice.

No one ever broke up a fight on the streets of Hell's Kitchen, no matter who the combatants were, regardless of the weapons used. A street fight was a respected ritual and no one dared step in.

Fights took place for any number of reasons, from unpaid debts to three-way love affairs gone sour, but the overwhelming majority occurred because they were the fastest and easiest way to settle a dispute.

Great street fights were talked about in the same nostalgic ma

Short of murder, nothing proved manhood more. Michael swung a sharp right and missed, grunting loudly as the punch sailed over the man's head. A fast follow-up left also failed. Large sweat circles formed on the back of his jacket and under both arms. As the crowd drew closer, the man moved to narrow the gap between the two. He took three steps forward, flashing the pipe, holding it low, squinting against the overhead sun, staring at Michael's face.

He swung the pipe, short, fast and hard, landing one across Michael's hip. A second blow caught him on the side of the face. Another quick swing, this one grazing Michael's jaw, sent him backwards, hands reaching for the ground, his head just missing the side of a fire hydrant.

The man walked to where Michael lay and raised the pipe over his head.

'You no steal from me again,' he said in a voice meant for everyone to hear. 'Nobody steal from me again.'

Michael's arms hugged the hydrant, his eyes cloudy, thin streams of blood streaking down his lips. John stood next to Tommy, his face emptied of all emotion other than fear. Butter still had his back to the candy store wall. There were tears ru

I couldn't move. I stood there, shivering in the afternoon sun, my legs heavy and numb, my stomach queasy, looking down at the beaten body of my best friend.

The crowd sensed a finish and closed the circle even tighter, breaking off any chance of a quick escape.

The street wanted someone to die.

'Drop the pipe!'

The voice came out of the shadows.

It was confident and webbed with the threat of violence. The man with the iron pipe took two steps back when he heard it, panic invading his macho veneer. I turned my head and saw King Be

'Didn't hear me?' King Be

'Yes,' the man said, his voice breaking. 'I hear.'

'Then do it,' King Be

The pipe fell to the ground, loud enough to echo.

'You wa

'Yeah,' Michael said, pulling himself up against the side of the hydrant. 'I do.'

'Then hurry,' King Be

Michael was up on shaky legs. He turned and faced his opponent.

'Fight me,' Michael said to him.

'No,' the man said, his eyes on King Be

Michael charged the man, both of them falling to the ground, arms and legs in full swing. He landed two hard punches against the side of the man's head and then threw a crushing elbow to the base of his nose.

The man swung once and missed, a steamless punch thrown more in frustration than anger. Michael answered with two more closed blows to the face, the second drawing blood. The men in the crowd whistled and applauded each landed punch.

'Kid's got him now,' a fat man in an oil-stained work shirt said. 'Couple more, the bastard'll be done for good.'

'Too bad he ain't got a knife,' a short man lighting a pipe said. 'He could cut him for sure.'

Michael landed three more punches, all flush to the man's face. He jumped to his knees, slamming an ankle against the man's throat. Two more punches to the neck and a quick kick to the chest brought it to an end.

Michael stepped over the man, ignored the pleas of the crowd to finish his foe, and walked to the comic books strewn on the ground. He bent down, picked each up and went back to where he had left the man. He stood over him, staring for a minute and then dropped the comic books across his face and chest.

'You can keep your comic books,' Michael said. 'I don't want 'em anymore.'