They Rule the Streets

“Sit down, all of ya,” Patrick instructed, headed for the store room. “And if ya start fighten’, I’ll kick ya out.”

“Walker,” Gabe growled, stretched out lazily in his chair. Jon glared back, yanking out a chair from the table and sitting down, tense.

“Saporta,” he nodded, eyes fixed on his rival.

“Let’s get down to business,” Gabe instructed, propping his feet onto the table.

Patrick snorted, rubbing down the counter with a rag. “Listen t’ ya. ‘Business’. This ain’t no business, this is bull.”

“Bull?” Ryland repeated, taken aback. “This is importan’!”

“What, fighten’ over a piece of street?” Patrick snapped, leaning forward to glare at him over the counter.

“Aw, Pat, don’t start,” sighed Travis, rolling his eyes.

“I just don’t see what you boys find so damn interestin’, fightin’ over a bit o’concret,” Patrick muttered. “It ain’t important.”

“To us it is,” Ryland growled, ripping the darts from the wall and ignoring the Mets.

“To hoodlums,” Patrick barked, causing every gang member to turn sharply, glaring at him.

“Who ya calling hoodlum?” Mike Carden hissed, standing up and taking a step towards Patrick.

“War council, rumble,” Patrick snapped, listing the phrases off his fingers. “Why, when I was your age--”

“When you was my age! When my old man was my age! When my brotha was my age!” Ryland spat, pointing a blaming finger at Patrick. “None’a was evah my age! And th’ soona ya dig that, the better!”

“I’ll dig ya yar own grave, that’s what I’ll dig ya!”

“Hey!” Jon whistled, loud and sharp, causing the argument to fall. “We didn’ come ’ere so y’all’s can fight over who’s old or not! So sit down, all y’all, and let’s get this war councils started!”

“Alrigh’, ya heard the man,” Gabe instructed, clapping his hands. “Let’s get set up; coat’s all around.” The gangs gathered back to their original spots, The Cobras seated behind Gabe and the Mets behind Jon.

“Now, let’s get down the business,” Jon demanded as he shifted slightly in his seat.

“Aw, it looks like Jon hasn’ gotten accustomed to gracious livin’,” Gabe smirked, looking as his gang while they chuckled.

“I don’t like you either,” Jon faked smiled, “so cut it.”

“Kick it, Pat.” Gabe tilted his head to the side, signalizing for Patrick to leave the room.

“Boys, couldn’t’cha maybe talk it--” Patrick tried reasoning, but Gabe would have none of it.

“Kick it,” he snapped, once again tilting his head for him to leave. Patrick left all the while grumbling insults under his breath. When he had fully left the room, Gabe proceeded on with the Council rules. “We challenge you to a rumble, all out, once and for all. Except…”

“On what terms?” Jon drawled, giving off the impression that he didn’t care.

Gabe shrugged lazily. “Whatever terms ya calling.” His tone suddenly turned harsh as he glared at Jon. “You crossed the line once too often.”

“You started it,” Jon retaliated.

“Who jumped Sisky Business the other day?” Gabe snarled, slapping his hands onto the metal table.

“Who jumped me the first day I moved here?” Jon shot back.

“Who asked you to move here?” Ryland demanded, joining in the fight.

“Who asked you?” the Butcher snapped in defense of Jon.

“Go back where ya came from!” Nate yelled.

“Douche,” Ryland spat, his words causing Mike to turn a deep shade of red.

“Yank!”

“Wop!”

The gangs lunged for each other, ready to start the rumble right then and there, but Gabe and Jon held them back, stopping the fight. They settled back into their respected places, tense in case the fight were to start back up.

“We accept,” Jon announced.

“Time,” Gabe nodded.

“Tomorrow?”

“After dark,” Gabe specified. They shook hands, agreeing. The hand motions were quick, one moving twice up and down before they clasped their hands back before them. “Place?”
Jon shrugged before answering, “The park?”

Gabe turned to look at Travis, who shook his head slightly. “The river.”

Mike copied Travis’ motions, the smoke from his cigarette twirling before him. “Under the highway,” Jon suggested. After a brief moment’s pause, Gabe stuck out his hand and Jon shook it.

“Weapons?”

“Patrick! Hey, Patrick…” William burst through the doors, his face still glowing from the excitement of seeing Anna.

“Bilvy!” Gabe waved his friend towards him while Ryland repeated the question.

Jon, however, had his attention focused on Bill, eyes narrowed in hatred. After the second time of Ryland’s prompting, Jon raised his hands in a surrender like pose. “Weapons,” he repeated.

“Your call,” Gabe probed with a teasing smirk. “Or are ya ‘fraid to call?”

“Rocks.”

“Belts.”

“Pipes.”

“Cans!”

“Bricks!”

“Bats!”

“Clubs!”

“Chains!”

“Bottles, knives, guns!” William interrupted, disgust written on his face. “What a coup full’o chickens!”

“Who are you calling chicken?” Michael Guy snapped.

“Every guy knows his own,” Jon smirked, nudging Ryan who stood behind him.

“I’m callin’ y’all chicken,” Gabe announced, leaning against the old pinball machine Patrick had stored near his counter. “Big, tough, buddy-boys gotta throw bricks, huh? Afraid to get in close? Afraid to slug it out? To use plain skin?”

“Not even garbage?” Rian questioned, scratching his head.

“That ain’t a rumble,” Sisky muttered, his brow knotted in confusion.

“Who says?” Gabe demanded.

“You said, call weapons,” Jon reminded Gabe haughtily.

“The rumble can be increased by a fair fight. The best man from each gang’ll slug it out,” Bill insisted, moving back towards the table to stand behind Jon. Jon stood up, glaring menacingly at the taller man.

“I would enjoy to risk that,” he smirked. “Okay, fair fight.”

“No!” Men from both sides protested, moving in closer to their leaders.

“The commander’s choose!” Gabe shouted, causing the others to fall back. “Fair fight,” he continued with his hand held out. Jon grasped hands, shaking it for the final time.

Bill smiled at his handy work, loosing his tie as he walked towards Patrick, who had left the store room to make sure the rumble didn’t break out in his store. Jon, however, stopped him.

“When I get through with you,” he threatened, narrowing his eyes, “you’re gonna feel like a fish after skinning.”

“Nuh-huh,” Gabe taunted triumphantly. “Your best man fights our best man. And uh…” Gabe smacked Travis’ shoulder, and Travis stood up, flexing his muscles. “We pick ’im.”

“But I thought I would be fightin’ with--”

“Ya shook on it.” Jon let his breath out in an angry sigh, dropping his hands in defeat.

“Yes,” he growled, “I shook on it.”

“Look, Jon, if you wanna change ya mind, we can still--” Ryland’s reasoning was interrupted by a shrill whistle from Spencer who had been standing guard by the window. The men hurried to make it look normal.

Gabe and Jon jumped back into their seats and shuffled out a few cards between themselves, Travis, Ryland, Mike, and Butcher; Nate, Rian, and Alex ducked behind comic books; Brendon and the Farro brothers picked up an abandoned game of checkers; Joe, Hurley, Jack, and Zack started playing the pinball machine; and Suarez gathered the darts from the board and began tossing them with Michael.

Officer Wentz strolled through the door, his bat clutched in one hand while his hat sat absentmindedly on his dark head. He black eyes inspected the happy looking scene while the boys chattered with each other like the best of friends.

“Hey, Jon, you want a cigarette?” Gabe trilled, holding out the carton for Jon, who refused politely.

“No thank you, I don’t smoke.”

“Nice shot, Michael!” Suarez pretended to praise the other, slapping him a little to hard on the back.

“Check mate,” Brendon grinned, knocking Zac’s red checker off the board.

“Ev’nin’, Officer,” Patrick nodded, bending behind the counter to grab a Coke for Bill. “Bill n’ I were just closin’ up shop.”

“Wow,” Wentz laughed, grabbing the soda from Patrick’s hands and taking a sip. “Now this is more like it, fellows. Warms me to see y’all this way, and after only a few words earlier.” He looked down at the soda in his hands and lifted it to Patrick. “Oh, uh, do ya mind?”

“I have no mind, why else would ya be in here?” Patrick barked while Pete shrugged.

“Ya know, if Headquarters hears ’bout this, I could get a promotion,” Wentz announced as he strutted towards Jon. “A good deal all around, eh, Jon?” Jon stayed silent, staring straight ahead. “I get a promotion, and you Chicagoans get what you’ve been itching for; use of the playground, use of the gym, use of the streets, use of this here store…” He paused for dramatic effect, sticking his hand on the back of Jon’s chair. “So what if they turn it into a stickin’ pig sty?”

Jon shot to his feet, whirling to face the officer, but Gabe and the others around the table grabbed him, yanking him back to his feet.

“Hey! Don’t stop him!” Wentz chuckled, holding up one hand. “He wants to get home, write a letter to Illinois, say how he’s got it made over here!” Gabe glared at Wentz, for once sharing something in common with Jon and the rest of the Mets; hatred for Officer Wentz.

Wentz grabbed Jon’s chair, slamming it to the ground while Jon leapt to his feet, anger burning in his eyes. “Clear out, all o’ya!” Wentz bellowed, pointing towards the door. When Jon stood his ground, glaring at the man, Wentz chuckled. “Oh, yeah, I know,” he laughed, nodding to Gabe. “It’s a free country, ya know ya got the right. But I got a badge. What do you got? Thinks ya tough all over. Beat it!”

Jon grabbed his suit lapels and fixed them, his eyes still fixated on Officer Wentz. With a defiant snap of his fingers, he lead the Mets towards the door, having to forcefully dragged Mike from his position seat. As they left the store, Jon started whistling “My Country ’Tis of Thee”, the notes echoing in the silent room. The Mets joined in, a symphony of repressed citizens. When the screen door slammed closed, their song was cut short, leaving the room on dead quiet.

Wentz picked up the fallen chair and propped one leg on the seat, leaning on it. “Okay fellas, where’s the rumbled gonna be?” He was met with silence as the Cobras returned to their forgotten activities. “C’mon,” Wentz chuckled. “I know regular New Yorkers don’t rub elbows with filthy dirt like them Chicagoans!”

“Listen, Officer,” Zack started, but was cut off by a now angry Wentz.

“You shut cha mouth!” he snapped, dropping his nice guy demeanor. Wentz calmed down, turning towards Sisky. “C’mon, Sisky Business, before that smooth li’l face of yours gets cut up for life. Now, were’s the rumble gonna be?” Sisky turned towards Nate and Gabe, eyes wide. Both shook their heads, and Sisky looked back at Wentz.

“Is it gonna be the river?” Wentz demanded. “Or the park?” Unable to speak from fear, Sisky shrugged, the comic in his hand flopping to the floor. Hurriedly, he stooped over to pick it up, relieved that his confrontation with Wentz was over. “Look, fellas,” Wentz sighed, turning back towards the entire room. “I’m for you! I want these streets cleaned up, and you can do it for me!”

The Cobras feigned boredom, ignoring his choice words. “I’ll even lend a hand if things get rough!” Wentz bargained. “Now, where ya gonna rumble? The playground?” he asked Ryland, who blew a smoke cloud in his face. Turning to Spencer, he asked, “Sweeny’s lot?” When no one answered, his face grew dark and he once again faced the distracted Cobras.

“Why don’t you get smart, ya stupid hooligans?” he growled. “I outta take ya down to the station and throw ya into the can right now! You and the tenfold immigrant scum ya come from!” That got the gang’s attention, and turned towards him with hatred etched on their faces. However, they caught themselves and quickly turned away from him again. “How’s ya old man’s DT’s, Brendon?” he taunted.

Brendon turned towards him, anger masking his face, but Gabe held out a hand to stop him. Wentz smirked, turning towards Zack. “How’s the action on ya mother’s side of the street, Merrick?”

Zack leapt to his feet, throwing himself at the officer. It took everyone’s strength to hold him back while Wentz cackled. “Ya know, someday there ain’t gonna be anyone there t’hold ya back,” he taunted while Zack struggled to get free.

“Get him outta here!” Bill barked, shoving the mass of struggling gang members towards the door. “Go on, get him out!”

“Don’t worry,” Wentz shouted after the retreating backs. “I’ll find out where it’s gonna be!”

“I’ll see ya later, Bilvy,” Gabe muttered, following his gang out the door.

“So be sure to finish each other off!” Wentz continued, his voice echoing on the empty streets. “Cause if you don’t, I will!” The screen door swung shut, and Wentz stood before it, shaking his head with a sigh. Turn back to grab his Coke, he locked eyes with a disappointed Patrick. “Oh, yeah, understand them,” Wentz barked. “You try keepin’ a bunch a’ hoodlums in line all day and see how you turn out!” He stalked towards the door, cursing under his breath.

Upon hearing the choice words spoken by Pete, Patrick rested his elbows against the counter and frowned. “It wouldn’t give me a mouth like his,” he snarled. “That bastard.”

“C’mon Pat,” Bill sighed, tossing his rag in the sink. “Don’t let that guy get to ya.”

“I’m sick,” Patrick muttered, heading for his room above the store.

“Aw, Patrick,” Bill groaned. “Ya heard them, it’s gonna be a fair fight!”

“Like that’s supposed to fix anything?” Patrick scoffed. “What dream world are you living in?” He hit the lights, shaking his head as he tromped up the stairs.

“A world with Anna,” Bill grinned, closing his eyes for a moment before leaving the shop. “I won’t ever wanna live where she ain’t.”