Free Young and Violent by Vin Packer Page A

the Kings of the Earth, where he has never been before. Inside must be wonderful things; guns and swords, secrets — all clubs have secrets — and things. Junior Brown cannot be sure exactly what kind of things, but gang things, wonderful things. He listens to hear a noise from inside; but he hears none. Eyes had told him up at Dirty Mac’s that Gober was at the clubhouse. “Alone!” he had emphasized, “and he wants to stay alone! So you am-scray, Nothin’ Brown. Leave Gobe be.” Nothin’ knew enough not to tell Eyes why he had to see Gobe. Nothin’ was wised up to that deal. Now Nothin’ stood on the threshold of the clubhouse of the Kings of The Earth. And Gober had not locked the door behind him. Very cautiously; very stealthily, Nothin’ Brown sneaked to the door, opened it, and entered.
    At first he did not see the yellow couch.
    “What took you?” a voice said behind him where the couch was, “What was it took you so long? Hurry on over, hon. Your baby’s waiting — all ready.”
    Then Nothin’ Brown did see the yellow couch; and lying spread upon it Babe Limon, stark naked.
    God-dog! Did he run!

VI
    They tried to rehabilitate me.
    Tried to reinstate me
    In the human race —
    Tried to civilize me
    To psychoanalyze me
    Man, am I a case!
    — A RED EYES DE JARRO ORIGINAL.
    U SUALLY , nothing much is doing in Dan Roan’s office until after ten, eleven at night. Then there is always more doing in the streets. Most of the time Dan spends working in the streets, but around seven or eight, a couple nights a week, he works at his desk, reads — maybe plays ping-pong with a kid hanging around there. His office is one of these store-front places in the early hundreds, over near Third Avenue. Besides the small, square cubicle containing his desk, bookcases, and phone, there is the larger outer area where the boys can come in any time to lounge, watch T.V., listen to the phonograph, play table tennis. It is a shabby room, the furniture either contributed to the Youth Board, or bought out of the limited funds available.
    Now the place is deserted save for Dan. He sits at his desk, glancing over a postcard he received this morning from a former classmate in graduate school — Ernst Leites — a Fulbright Scholar studying in Paris. A slight sardonic grin tips Dan’s lips as he reads:
    Dear Dan,
    Your account of life amidst the savages in the asphalt jungle was most amusing. I think you should try Paris. It is lovely now, after about ten days of appalling chilliness; really most agreeable to be here. I’ve been writing a paper on recent French films, and getting used to drinking wine at lunch without feeling stupefied in the afternoon, which I consider a very worth-while accomplishment — the latter, not the former — heaven forbid! Any excitement in your life worth recounting? Do write.
    Best, E. L.
    Dan flinches suddenly at the sound of the voice behind him.
    “Hi, dad, what gives?”
    Turning, he sees Flat Head Pontiac leaning against the doorway, shuffling a deck of cards in his massive and well manicured square hands. Pontiac is sweet and cool; sweet in his charcoal gray trousers, tight-cut and clean; his white linen jacket; and the gleaming collar of his pink shirt set off by his narrow knitted black tie.
    Dan shoves the postcard under the blotter and swings his chair around to face Pontiac. He says, “You look happy, Pontiac.”
    “Groovy, dad, real groovy.”
    “Is that so?”
    “I’m on the fleece, dad.”
    “I didn’t know you touched the stuff, Pontiac.”
    “Maybe you ought to make a study of the Jungles and put the Kings down. Jungles got more color to them.”
    “Maybe so. Sit down?” Dan watches as Pontiac eases himself down into a plastic-covered armchair beside his desk. Pontiac looks around the small office, still shuffling the cards, his long legs sprawled in front of him. “This is a real gas, dad, this place. This is Endsville, dad.”
    “It’s okay, I guess.”
    “Not much