From what Richie understood, the Tong still existed down there, although they were nowhere near as powerful as the Mob—but who really knew what the hell was going on down there, or who was coming off those boats from the Orient every day and slithering into Mott Street. In school, the Wong gang was inseparable. Silent, even among themselves, they walked through the halls like the Imperial Guard, giving off a glow of royalty, a unity that raised them above all other gangs.

"Hey."

"Hey." Richie looked up. C was peering over his shoulder at his notes. C was Richie's girl friend, fifteen, with hair teased into a beehive. She covered her pimples with what appeared to be flesh-colored mud. The C stood for comb—she always carried around a large pink comb and a crumpled Kleenex in her hand.

"What's that?"

"Nothin'."

"If it's nothin' how come you're coverin' it up?"

"Because it ain't none of your business."

"You gonna rumble wit' the Pharaohs?"

"No."

C sat down next to him. Richie folded the score sheet and slipped it into his back pocket. He tensed his chest muscles under his sky blue muscle shirt to catch C's eye. C's jaws worked furiously, popping her Bazooka, which gave her sugar breath. She wore a hot pink rayon blouse, revealing the tiny puckers in her oversized bra. Richie knew she stuffed Kleenex, but always looked the other way when she sneaked the wads out before he felt her up.

Richie's garrison belt had RG & C in a heart followed by TRUE LOVE WILL NEVER DIE. C carved it in with a nail the night she gave him his first hand job in Big Playground. Richie had really wanted a blowjob because he'd heard some guys say that getting a blowjob was better than getting laid, but C had steadfastly refused. Finally after a few weeks of fighting and head pushing, C agreed to give him one the next night. The following day he took two showers, inspected every inch of his prick, and bathed it in some strong cologne. That night when the big moment came, C tentatively gave it a preliminary lick and almost gagged on the cologne. They dropped the subject after that.

C put her leg over Richie's leg and winked. She had on black imitation leather pointy ankle boots. Richie wore roach killers—pointy as a dangerous weapon, curving high over his ankle and low over his heel.

"Whatcha doin' tonight?"

"I gotta go to Fordham."

"How come?"

"I gotta see somebody."

"Can I come?"

"No."

"You seein' a girl?" Her eyes promised violence.

"No, I ain't seein' a girl," he mimicked. "I gotta see this guy"

"About what?"

"About a job."

"Bullshit."

"Bullshit yourself, I ain't kiddin'."

"I need help wit' my homework."

"Whatcha got?"

"Math and social."

"I'll come over about eight."

"Seeya then." She ruffled his hair and walked off.

The sunlight turned to a neutral gray. Six-thirty. Dinnertime. Big Playground was deserted except for the parky in his olive uniform collecting basketballs and spongy red kickballs. Richie Gennaro walked through the housing project to his own building.

 

His father was already home—which meant Richie was late. He washed quickly and sat down. His mother sliced a cantaloupe in fours and sat down with them.

The dinner table—one bowl mashed potatoes, one bowl broccoli, one plate with four steaks, garlic bread wrapped in silver foil, one bottle Hammer lem'n'lime soda, one bottle Hammer mellow-cream soda, one salad bowl, one jar Seven Seas French Dressing, one unlit candle, one Richie Gennaro—seventeen, one Randy Gennaro—twelve, one Louis Gennaro—forty-one, one Millie Gennaro—forty-one. In the comer, one television, on channel nine—one Dick Van Dyke.

Richie's father produced a paperback—one Lady Chatterley's Lover. "Is this yours?"

"Yeah."

"I don't want this filth in my house."

"It's a great book."

"It's filth. Don't talk back."

"Did you read it?"

"I don't read filth."

"Then how do you know it's filth?"

"I worked my way up from nothing.