Free Wise Men and Other Stories by Mike O'Mary Page A

else must have stolen the bikes. But when the police arrived, I told them that I had seen Joey Russo running away.
    The police knew who Joey was, and they took me with them to look for him. At one point, we turned the corner into Eberhardt’s alley and spotted a kid on a bike. But before the police could close in, the kid cut through a backyard and disappeared. After that, the police gave up and took me home.
    The whole thing left me with an uneasy feeling. Had I done the right thing in telling on Joey? Was it him we saw racing down the alley? I didn’t hear any more about the stolen bikes until that fall.
    * * *
     
    Each Friday during the football season, one of the big high school games is played at Manual Stadium in Germantown. One particular night, I was hanging out with my friend, Mark Schmid, at his house across the street from the stadium. Mark’s older brother, Matt, was also there with some of his friends.
    Matt and the older guys called themselves “The Clique,” and they were apparently expecting trouble that night. Kenny Vessels had been cornered and beaten up earlier that day by several black guys along a stretch of Shelby Street. One of the black guys, known only as Rodney, had threatened Kenny with a gun. Tonight, Kenny was prepared: he had his father’s gun and he was showing it around.
    While the older guys talked on the front porch, Mark was trying to get me to slap box with him. Slap boxing was like boxing except you were supposed to land your punches with an open hand—a slap. Mark was pretty quick with his hands, so I tried to avoid slap boxing with him. Generally speaking, it was the exception rather than the rule when a slap box fight didn’t turn into a regular fight. Mark ended up slap boxing with Vince Metz, one of the older guys.
    The guys in The Clique were still talking about Rodney when Joey Russo came by. Joey knew Rodney. Shelby Street where Joey lived was more or less the boundary line between black and white neighborhoods. The guys seemed to be arguing about Rodney. After a few minutes, Joey walked over to where Mark and Vince were sparring.
    “Let me take him on, Vince,” said Joey.
    “Sure.” Vince walked away and Joey stepped in.
    You could tell Mark did not really want to slap box Joey Russo, but Joey insisted. He taunted Mark into attacking, then ducked under Mark’s punches, slapping Mark once on the way under the punch and again on the way back up. This went on over and over again until Matt Schmid (Mark’s big brother) quietly observed, “That’s enough, Joey.”
    “No problem,” said Joey. He let Mark walk away. Then he looked at me. “How about you?”
    “No thanks,” I tried. But everybody was watching, so I took my place for my slap box fight with Joey, thinking for the second time in my life, this is it: I’m gonna get my butt kicked by Joey Russo.
    Our fight started with Joey dancing around, feinting punches while I concentrated on defense. All the while, he was taunting me to throw a punch, which I finally did. Not only did I fail to land my punch, I found myself getting slapped with a counter punch before my right arm was even fully extended. It wasn’t much of a fight. Gradually, the other guys lost interest, and our bout eased to the pace of a casual sparring match. Before I knew it, I found myself in a conversation with Joey Russo.
    “You told on me about those bikes, didn’t you?” Joey said.
    “Yeah, I did,” I said.
    “That’s what I figured,” he said.
    “What happened?” I asked.
    “Nothing,” said Joey. “The cops tried to blame me for it, but they never found the bikes, so there was nothing they could do.”
    I didn’t say anything. After a moment, Joey dropped his arms and turned toward the bright lights of the stadium.
    I dropped my arms, too, and watched him. He was only a year older than me, but he had the same worn, expressionless face as the old men that used to shuffle into the Blue Motor Coach bus station to get warm in