Free Stars Screaming by John Kaye

rounds with Gene. It wasn’t supposed to be a real fight—I mean, Gene was only thirteen and this guy already had a bunch of amateur fights—but as soon as the bell rang Calhoun ran across the ring and began pounding the shit out of Gene. By the end of the round he could barely keep his hands up, and blood and tears were running down his face.
    “Aaron knew he’d made a mistake, that he’d overmatched Gene, but when he told him between rounds that he was gonna call it off, Gene said, ‘No. Don’t stop it! Let me finish! If I quit now, I’ll always quit.’ So Aaron let him fight, and during the next two rounds he took a terrible beating. But he didn’t go down, and by the end of the third round everyone in the whole fucking gym was on their feet cheering for Gene.” Burk paused, and PK twisted around in her seat to look at him. “You couldn’t believe how proud I was, PK.”
    PK nodded her head, her eyes fixed on his. “He’s your big brother, Ray. You should be proud of him.”

    When word went out on Friday night that Gene Burk and Clay Tomlinson had agreed to fight the following afternoon, the news traveledby phone through the Southland’s teen grapevine in less than an hour. And by 9 A.M. the next morning, upwards of five hundred kids—all of them vibrating with excitement—began to arrive at Will Rogers State Beach, driving in from cities as far east as Riverside and as far north as Bakersfield.
    Former child actors Dean Stockwell and Bobby Driscoll rolled up together in a shiny new Corvette, and Brandon de Wilde, the kid from the movie Shane , was spotted drinking straight vodka from a silver flask, surrounded by a pack of slender surfers with dark suntans and bleached-white hair. By noon the parking lot was filled and several legendary street fighters from years past were making their presence known, swaggering through the milling crowd, knocking people aside: bad asses like Jack Boise, Eddie Del Campo, and the notorious Dockweiler twins, two giant mulattos with sweat glistening on their bulging muscles and their crudely shaved heads. Even Carl Linger rode up from Long Beach, along with ten members of the Hell’s Angels chapter he joined after he was paroled from San Quentin.
    Clay Tomlinson was off to the side, leaning against the fender of his ‘53 Olds Starfire, dragging on a Pall Mall, his lean and long muscled arm around “nympho” Nancy Leeds, a skinny cocktease from Tarzana, who was shaking her hips and grinding her pelvis to the rock-and-roll music blasting over the car radio. Idling nearby, watching her with an air of contempt, were a knot of Mexicans from Boyle Heights, part of the White Fence, LA’s oldest and largest street gang.
    When Gene came through the crowd, followed by Burk and Timmy and Patty Kendall, a girl shouted, “Here he comes! Here comes Gene Burk!” and suddenly all the voices and laughter and conversations ceased, leaving only a murmuring silence and the scuff of feet as a narrow lane was formed that opened into the center of the parking lot.
    Taking his time, but moving confidently and with no anger showing in his face, Gene walked right up to Tomlinson and said, “I’m ready when you are, Clay.”
    Tomlinson said, “You mean you’re ready to die,” and Gene grinned.
    “I don’t think so,” he said, and a space around them cleared fast.
    Laughing to himself, Tomlinson pinched off the burning end of his cigarette and lunged for Gene, grabbing him around the neck andwrestling him to the ground. Gene was caught off guard, and, before he could react, Tomlinson was already pounding his head on the concrete. Burk quickly pushed his way to the front of the adrenalized mob and screamed, “Don’t quit, Gene!” and with a sudden burst of strength Gene was able to separate himself and scramble back to his feet.
    The next time Tomlinson came at him, Gene feinted to his right and jabbed him in the face. Tomlinson took a step backward and started to spit blood. Gene