The Vulture Read Online Free

every cat to go out and swing a chain with little chance of being the major concern at a Sunday funeral. That was a passing fad. As the gang members grew older, their turf and their women became more and more a part of their pride and what they symbolized. It was a something to hold on to. That was when the knives, razors, and guns turned up on the weekend and people started searching you at the door when you came to a dance. All of a sudden the fun of ambushing a whitey became a serious topic. Most of the gangs started to dissolvewhen killing became reality, but the ones who decided to stick it out were hell. Everything was for keeps. The whiteys battled the P.R.’s and the blacks, and it went the other ways around too. The gangs all wore their jackets and insignias. The Easter suits stayed in the closet. They were reserved for your burial.
    The Dock Battle of 1966
    I had made my reputation early. At sixteen, I was already out in the street by myself. Spade, gravedigger for all bad niggers and spics. I wasn’t a gang member, and I fought anybody I had to. In doing a thing like that, you set yourself up as a quick target the minute you beat up a gang member. Even a punk will try to back you up if he knows he has a follow-up and you don’t. It just so happened that before I became a serious problem I had a break. A friend of mine from school named Hicks, who was the leader of a Chelsea Houses group called the Berets, called on me one evening to invite me to a party. He had been trying to convince me that I should hook up with his gang for protection. They were supposed to throw this beer-and-reefer gig on the docks at 20th Street on a Friday night. I took myself for a look-see.
    I went to the party, and there were perhaps thirty of us, girls and guys drinking beer and roasting hot dogs over an open fire. The girls that the Berets had invited were primarily Puerto Rican chicks. This was a guarantee that everybody would get some leg, even if a few trains had to be engineered. All of these babes were notorious for drinking like fish and screwing everything that wasn’t nailed down.
    Out of the darkness behind us we were attacked, caught completely by surprise. I was sitting on the edge of the rotting dock with my feet hanging over the water. Before I could even turn around, I was pushed or kicked and was plunging into the murk that lapped up around the decaying columns.
    I went under immediately, taking in a great mouthful of the slimy water. The shock of the cold blasted my brain, and tears stung my eyes. As I went under, I could hear the foghorns from the drifting barges of garbage farther up the filthy Hudson. As I came to the top, I could see a fire starting to grow on the dock about twelve feet above me, and I could hear all the broads screaming and the yells of surprise and pain coming from the other Berets.
    My blue jeans felt like weights around my thighs. They had somehow come loose during my fall and now were binding my legs together and hindering my attempts to tread water. I went under once more and struck my head against something. Pain flashed across the length of my mind. I grabbed out in front of me and managed to get a hold on one of the pillars that supported the dock. All of the noises that had previously been so frightening to me now attracted me. I wanted to see someone and be with some people. The wet, mossy wood felt like a snake’s belly, cold and alive. The knit sweater that had been my pride and joy was ripped open, exposing my quivering skin to the snake’s bosom. I started to cry, I know, but at the same time I started climbing, hoisting myself up the column.
    The scum and murk of the water irritated my eyes, but still I could see the smoke rising above me in great balls. The sweet odor of the reefers had been replaced by the stink of burning wood. When I peeped over the platform, I could see the battle. My man Hicks, the leader of the Berets, was on his knees trying to fight off an attacker. He