"Hit me," Britch said.
Scatter complied. Derby caught his wrist mid-swing. "Idjit! Dat’s da fastest way ta breakin’ yer hand." He turned the arm over. "Thumb outside yer hand. If ya break it, da lesson keeps goin’ – it jus’ hurts more."
"Lissen ta ‘im," Fib advised. "’E knows what ‘e’s talkin’ about." Derby was twenty-three and had been teaching the new boys to fight since the gang formed four years back. He was a stocky, dark-haired Irishman who’d found the Clason Point Boys more lucrative than a factory job and been only too happy to agree when Whip Hudson approached him.
Derby directed a colorful slur at the smaller boy perched on a crate nearby, elbows between his knees, watching. "Da las’ reference I’ll ask fer is yers, Wilcox. Next time da bulls catch me, ye can be da star witness." Fib laughed at the insult, and Derby snorted. "Oh, ye think I’m kiddin’, do ye?" he grinned.
Scatter darted a look between the two, and then started to smile. At that moment, Britch leveled a punch that knocked him into the dust and left him gasping for air. Derby looked down at him. "Idjit," he remarked, shaking his head. "Keep yer mind on what yer doin’."
Hudson boasted that the Clason Point Gang was the reason they called it Fort Apache. Most of the boys recognized this as wishful thinking, but they did their best to help make the Bronx 41st Precinct the roughest, nastiest beat a policeman in disfavor could have the misfortune to be assigned to.
Constable Charles Harward was one such policeman, and if the Clason Pointers had known how well they were doing their job, they might have been pleased – or worried.
Three years ago, Harward had been a sergeant, working the comfortable neighborhood of Riverdale. Three years ago, he’d never heard of the Clason Point Gang. Three years ago, his only trouble had been how to politely decline a slice of Mrs. Graber’s leaden cakes, but now . . .
Fib snorted. “Careful, kid.”
A black-haired girl turned in the alley entrance that led to the Clason Pointers’ headquarters. Scatter’s eyes grew wide. She must, he was quite sure, have just stepped out of the pages of his grandmother’s ancient Bible.
“Fact’ry closed taday, Nyssa?” Fib called.
“Or ya jus’ couldn’t stay away from us?” Britch added, grinning.
The girl rolled her eyes. “You know I can’t stand to be parted from you, Paul,” she replied. “New kid?” She glanced at Scatter’s open mouth. He flushed. Humiliated, he watched her disappear hurriedly into the building.
“Down boy!” Britch slapped him on the back, grinning. “If Whip catches ya lookin’ at his girl wit yer tongue hangin’ out like dat, ya ain’t gonna have one left.”
“I wasn’t-” He sputtered indignantly.
“She’s too old fer ya, anyway,” Fib advised. He hopped down from his perch. “I’ll see you bums, latah.”
Scatter, flushed at the teasing, seized a new subject. “Wheah’re ya goin’?”
Derby nudged him. “Mind yer own business.”
“Police station,” Fib replied, grinning.
James Wilcox was a liar. You could ask anyone in the South Bronx and receive the same answer – Fib Wilcox wouldn’t know the truth if it bit him on the seat of the pants, and he’d be the first to admit it. Once, he so confused Mrs. Suth at the bakery by swearing to her he was lying that she had to lie down for the rest of the day to calm her nerves. Everyone knew Fib was a liar, so when he told them what he did on his Friday outings, they just laughed at him. Not one of the Clason Point Boys ever stopped to think that the most ironclad alibi is the truth too outrageous to be believed.
“Mornin’, Charlie!”
Harward set aside his book of the wrongs fate had done him and scowled at the boy. “You’re late, Wilcox.”
The informer grinned cheekily at him. He was just the kind of boy Sana would take home and pamper. The thought made him scowl even more. Sana. Harward wasn’t quite sure how old Wilcox really was, but he was willing to bet good money he was older than the twelve year old waif he pretended to be. “Did ya really miss me dat much, Charlie?”
After all, everyone knew how Fib spent his Fridays. He trekked down to Port Morris and caught the ferry to Long Island City to see his girl Len. Derby and Lefty had met her before. “Handsome,” Derby had approved. “Dark, but handsome. Another shrimp, o’ course. Ye don’t deserve her, Wilcox!”
“Long as ya don’t tell her dat,” Fib had laughed.
Stay tuned! More to come!
