She was probably the only student in the city who didn't know what office Mayor Wagner held in city government.

He left at nine-thirty and waited outside Big Playground for Antone. He showed up at ten.

"Hey."

"Hey."

"You wanna hop a cab?"

"Nah, I ain't got no dough."

"Well, I don't wanna take a train."

They wound up taking two buses over to Fordham.

Even though most of the stores were closed, thousands of shoppers were still walking through the massive shopping area. In the middle of the busiest intersection, on a large traffic island with both navy and army recruiting centers and a row of twenty public phones, lounged the Fordham Baldies, heads shaved and gleaming in the fluorescent overheads, black jackets showered with silver buckles, chains, and studs. They draped themselves over the phones, leaning back lazily, chewing gum or smoking cigarettes in slow motion, their studied poses out of pace with the hustle of the night shoppers.

Both Antone and Richie felt intimidated by the Baldies' sullen presence. Terror spotted them and sauntered over. Richie's stomach grew knuckles. He expected anything, was prepared for nothing. Antone's face was defiant but bloodless. Terror weighed three hundred pounds and stood six-four. His bald head revealed a thick roll of fat at the base of his neck. An asthmatic condition made every breath sound like it came from a steam Dress He was a high school dropout or kickout because he'd creased a shop teacher's head with a file when he was fifteen. "Whada, you want here?"

"We wanna see Joey ... it's important."

Terror's cross-eyes were black pearls. He never blinked. Tommy Tatti once said that Terror's mother was Mexican. No one would ever dare ask Terror about his mother. No one ever seriously talked about anyone else's mother. Even 'How's your mother?' was no good because the guy would think "What should be wrong wit' my mother?' "Joey ain't here ... beat it."

"You know where we can find him?"

"He's screwin' your mother."

Richie and Antone walked away. Terror laughed and walked back to the Baldies.

"Stupid fuckhead," Antone muttered.

Richie was silent. He was scared of Terror—he couldn't even bring himself to talk behind his back. They walked down Fordham Road past the blacked-out stores.

"Hey, there's Joey!" Richie spotted Joey's bald head bobbing up the hill toward his gang.

Antone stopped Joey. "Hey, Antone, what's shakin'? I haven't seen you guys aroun'." Joey DiMassi was tall and skinny. A scar slanting across his eyebrow gave his face a permanently dazed expression. He was the leader of the Baldies. He wasn't the toughest, and he wasn't the smartest in his gang, but he had a good logical head and a great sense of fairness and decency. He had respect.

Antone told Joey about the coming war. Joey smiled, asked some names of the opposition, and told Antone to relax, he'd take care of it. Everyone had implicit faith in Joey DiMassi. When he said he'd take care of it, it was as good as done.