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All during my years as Trapped and Guilty’s most prolific contributor, I had kept Scottie well supplied with kid-gang stories—highly stylized, carefully choreographed, practically anthropological tales of the big-city subculture of juvenile delinquents, based not on any real-life observation but on the predecessor stories of Evan Hunter and Hal Ellson, and (to some degree) the stories of those two. In the classic kid-gang stories, the gang members had nicknames like Shiv and Jojo and Jolly Roger, the gangs themselves were called the Barons or the Dragons or the Sinners, and they were organized in an almost feudal manner under the leadership of the toughest and most amoral of the bunch. They operated out of a clubhouse of their own (usually the basement of somebody’s house) and staked out a rigidly demarcated territory of some slum neighborhood, bringing terrible vengeance to bear on any member of a rival gang so bold as to cross its boundary. I wrote a lot of gang stories. It was almost like writing about Martians and Venusians. In this phase of my career I was writing hardly any science-fiction at all, not so much because I had left the field as because the field, as represented by its numerous monthly and bi-monthly magazines, had left me. I would not return until things began to change later in that decade, which brought a resurgence of magazines and a vast and dizzying upsurge in the publication of science-fiction paperbacks.
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PLAY IT COOL
Cool is sitting pretty, but cold is dead, dead, dead!
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Things were jumping in the Cobra clubhouse that night. The Cobras had pulled off a good grocery-store heist half-way across town on Webster Street, neutral turf so the cops wouldn’t know who had done the job. It had worked like magic. The Cobras had come busting in around closing time, just before the fat old proprietor was on his way to the bank with the day’s haul, and the take had been better than two hundred bucks.
“Two hundred bucks!” Johnny Slick yelled. Johnny was the boss of the Cobras, the Prez, the guy who made the others sit up and take notice. Now Johnny Slick was grinning from one end of his swarthy, pimpled face to the other. He had planned the grocery-store heist. He had cased the joint himself all week, figuring out the angles.
And now he had two hundred bucks in his hand. A nice, thick, fat bundle of bills. They hadn’t even bothered to heist the small change.
Johnny Slick counted out three five-dollar bills from the thick roll in his hand, and added a couple of singles to it. Then he looked around at the fifteen teenagers who made up the Cobras, and his eyes came to rest on the fat form of Louie the Chain.
Johnny Slick jerked his head. “Hey, you, Chain-o. Off your can on the double!”
Louie the Chain elbowed himself ponderously up out of the battered old sofa he was always in. Louie the Chain was a three-hundred-pounder, and most of it was sloppy fat. But he was like a brick wall in a rumble, and he swung the tire-chain like it had been invented as his special weapon.
“What is it, Johnny?”
“We need some refreshments. For our victory party. Take this dough and get over to the package store on South Tenth. Get a bottle of Scotch, a bottle of rye, and —uh—a bottle of gin. And get back here soon as you get the stuff.”
“Suppose he wants to see my I.D. card?” Louie the Chain objected. “Suppose he raises a fuss?”
“Just play it cool,” Johnny Slick advised him with a grin. “Play it cool and make like you’re gonna throw your weight around and break things. He’ll sell you the booze, don’t worry. Just remember to play it cool.”
–
Play it cool. That was Johnny Slick’s motto. Never lose your head, always look out for the main chance, stay cool and loose and wide open, and you’ll get whatever you want. Playing it cool had taken Johnny Slick to the top spot in the Cobras, had made him one of the most feared gang leaders in the whole city, and he was only a month past seventeen.
Play it cool, Johnny Slick thought. Play it cool and some day you’ll graduate out of this bush-league crap into big-time gangsterism. Play it cool and money, women, liquor will all be yours.
So far the motto had always worked. Johnny Slick got what he wanted. Fifteen Cobras were at his beck and call. Ever since he had disposed of his opposition within the gang in two brief, bloody face-to-face stands, Johnny Slick alone had ruled the Cobras.
And the arrangement was pretty good. He didn’t allow a steady auxiliary of debs, the way some of the other gangs had. Instead, the Cobras picked up their women when they wanted them, and dropped them when they were no longer of interest.
Johnny Slick masterminded the heists, too. The Cobras didn’t bother with small-time muggings and stompings, like the other gangs did. That was fun, in a sadistic sort of way, but it didn’t get you very much. A heist did, Johnny thought. It could get you two or three hundred bucks each time, sometimes more, and even split fifteen ways that was enough dough to have fun with.
The Cobras didn’t drink beer—they could afford the hard stuff, the best brands of booze. That was the way you lived when you played it cool.
One heist after another, all over the city. The Cobra treasury grew. Next winter, Johnny promised them, they’d all do down to Florida for a couple of weeks. The Cobras loved him. They didn’t know that Johnny Slick was planning to ditch the Cobras as soon as he was big-time enough to start running with the high-class uptown gangsters.
The uptown boys didn’t want to get mixed up with the gangs, but they kept an eye out for promising graduates from the gangs, and Johnny Slick was sure they had an eye on him, that they were going to take him in and set him up in big-time crime one of these days.
In the meantime, he just had to keep on playing it cool.
Louie the Chain returned with the drinks after about ten minutes.
Johnny Slick said, “Did the clerk give you any trouble about the booze?”
Louie the Chain shrugged massively. “He started to beef about my I.D. card. I just looked at him real mean. I played it cool, Johnny. Just like you told me to do, Johnny.”
Johnny Slick laughed and took the three bottles out of the paper bag. He opened them and sat back, and the Cobras had a party. Johnny drank just a little bit less than the others, because he knew he had to keep an eye on them.
That was part of playing it cool. He had to watch to see any signs of disloyalty, of growing discontentment. You never can tell when a little faction would spring up in a gang, gather strength, and eventually bring about a kind of revolution in which the old Prez got turned off by his rival.
Johnny looked around at the drinking, happy bunch. There weren’t any signs of trouble. Louie the Chain, Dan Guts, Nippie, Greasehead—he’d grown up with these guys, known them for years; they were happy with the way he ran the gang, and he had nothing to fear from them. Nor from the others—Crazy Phil, Stutters, and all the rest, including the new kid, Marty, the one who had joined the Cobras only a month ago after moving to this neighborhood from uptown.
Marty was a quiet kid, didn’t drink much, didn’t go much for the girls. But he liked the Cobra life, and he didn’t seem to be a troublemaker.
–
The party started to break up around half past ten. Johnny Slick was feeling pretty good about things, mellow and warm, with enough Scotch in him to make him loose but not enough to blunt the keen edge of his wits. Five or six of the guys, Nippie and Marty and Hammer Sam and some of the others, checked out early.
There were still seven Cobras left in the clubhouse at quarter to eleven. Most of the liquor was gone. There was still plenty of cash left over from the grocery store job, but Johnny Slick was saving that for tomorrow, when the dust-peddler came around. Johnny didn’t allow any serious dope-heads into the gang, but he didn’t mind an occasional marijuana party. And the cigarettes weren’t cheap.
It was Greasehead who suggested the idea first. “I’m still in the mood for some fun. How about getting us some girls?”
“Yeah,” Dan Guts put in. “Let’s go out and see what we can find.”
Johnny Slick took charge of the project before it had achieved any momentum. “Not girls,” he said. “Girl. Let’s find ourselves one chick and all of us work her over. How’s that for kicks?”
The novelty of the idea appealed to them, and they filed out of the clubhouse—a little clumsily, because most of them had taken a pretty good load on. Johnny Slick was the soberest of the bunch, as always. He couldn’t play it cool when he was liquored up.
The street was quiet and dark. It was a warm night in early summer, but this was a neighborhood where nobody stayed on the streets if he didn’t have to. The seven Cobras waited outside the clubhouse for someone to come along.
The first to come along was a married couple, fairly elderly. Johnny Slick whispered a harsh order and the Cobras stayed put.
Five minutes later, though, a boy and a girl came down the street. The girl was about sixteen, the boy a couple of years older. Johnny Slick didn’t recognize either of them. They were holding hands, and looked like they had just had come out of the movies or a nearby soda parlor.
Johnny Slick whispered, “Greasehead and Stutters, you grab the girl and make sure she keeps quiet. Get her inside as fast as you can. Louie, you get behind the guy and wrap your arms around him. We’ll take him from the front.”
It went off without a hitch. As the young couple approached, the Cobras glided silently out of their shadowy hiding-place with all the stealth and grace of their namesakes.
Greasehead and Stutters pushed the couple apart and got their hands around the girl. Greasehead clapped one big hand over her mouth to keep her quiet.
At the same time Louie the Chain slipped around behind the fellow and pinioned him with his immense arms. Dan Guts moved in high, Solly low, and fists and feet smashed into the astonished boy before he knew what was happening to him.
Johnny Slick did not take part in the actual encounter. He stood to one side, keeping watch for passers-by, and supervising.
The girl was writhing and kicking, but her mouth was sealed. The boy had collapsed with a little whimper of pain.
“Okay,” Johnny Slick said. “Good going. Leave him here. Take her into the clubhouse.”
–
The other guys were furious at the thought of the fun they had missed, when they found out about it. But Johnny Slick merely shrugged.
“Who told you guys to check out so early last night?” he asked them.
They had another big party that night, and they all got plenty high on weeds. Nearly a hundred bucks was left even then, but that didn’t last long. By the end of the week, Johnny Slick was starting to plan another heist. As he expected, there wasn’t a word in the papers or anywhere else about the girl.
Johnny began to forget all about her. That was in the past, and Johnny Slick lived only for the present and for the future.
Surprisingly, it was Marty, the quiet one, the new kid of the gang, who mad the suggestion for the next heist.
“There’s this butcher shop on South Eleventh,” he said. “My uncle runs it. We could bust in there easy, and make a big grab.”
“Hold on,” Nippie objected. “You gonna bust into your own uncle’s butcher shop?”
Marty shrugged. “Lemme explain. This uncle of mine, he’s a real bastard. He’s loaded with dough, but he don’t let anyone else touch it. My old man works for him and gets about fifty bucks a week! But that’s the sort of guy he is. All my life he’s made things tough for my old man and our family. It would be a pleasure to bust in and heist the take.”
Johnny Slick nodded. “Except we don’t like to pull jobs in our own turf, Marty.”
“This would be an inside job, though. Nobody would know who did it.”
“Okay,” Johnny Slick said. “What’s the pitch?”
Marty leaned forward. “My uncle locks up for the weekend around eight o’clock every Friday night. But he knows it isn’t safe to carry lots of money around on a Friday, because most robberies are done that day, so he stashes the money away in the back room until Monday and deposits it then.”
“Pretty tricky,” Johnny remarked.
“Yeah. Only I happen to know that gimmick. And my old man’s got a key to the store. So here’s what we can do: I’ll get the key and we can go over there late Friday night, after he’s gone. We go inside, take the dough, and beat it.” Marty snapped his fingers. “Five hundred bucks, just like that.”
–
It was all set. The job would take only two people—Marty himself, and Johnny Slick. Johnny had not wanted to bother with the job in person, preferring to let one of the other Cobras handle the dirty work, but Marty insisted. There was always the chance a policeman might wander along at the crucial moment, and Marty maintained that since he was inexperienced in this sort of business he wanted to have the gang’s coolest operator to keep him company. Faced with an argument like that, Johnny had to give in and agree to go.
They met on the corner of Eleventh and Hastings about half past nine that night. It was a dark, moonless night, very warm. Johnny carried his switchblade just in case of trouble.
Marty was at the corner right on time.
Johnny Slick said, “You got the key?”
Marty nodded and patted his pocket. “My old man won’t miss it. I’ll put it back on his key-ring tonight when I get home.”
“Okay. Let’s get moving.”
A few minutes later they were next door to the butcher shop, and then they were in its doorway, hidden by shadows. Johnny Slick glanced around quickly in both directions. The coast was clear.
“Hurry up,” he whispered. “Open it up and let’s get inside!”
Marty slipped the key into the lock. His hands were shaking, Johnny Slick noticed with displeasure. He wondered how cool the kid really was. It would be serious if Marty were to chicken out at a crucial moment. Johnny Slick began to wish he had sent Greasehead or someone else to act as look out, instead of going himself.
Marty moved around the darkened store as if he had known it all his life.
“The dough’s in a little box in the back room, and—hey! You hear that?”
“What?” Johnny Slick asked, puzzled.
“A key—turning in the door!”
Johnny Slick heard nothing. He said so. But Marty was getting frantic. “It’s my uncle, Johnny. Hell, I don’t know what he’s doing here, but—listen, you gotta hide! Let him find me here all alone and I’ll clobber him when he isn’t looking and you can come out, but meantime you better get in here—”
For a moment Johnny Slick knew panic. He had never been caught on a job before.
Marty opened a big door. Johnny Slick felt a draft of cold air. Marty shoved him forward, through the doorway, and closed the door behind him with a loud thumping sound.
–
It was terribly cold. Johnny Slick shivered. He realized that Marty had hidden him inside the butcher shop’s refrigerator room. The temperature was about twenty degrees in here, maybe lower. And it was close to eighty in the summer heat outside.
Johnny scowled angrily. He had been a damned fool to get talked into coming on this job, and a bigger one to let Marty push him in here. But it had all happened so fast, too fast for him to think.
He hoped Marty would take care of his uncle in a hurry. A guy could freeze to death inside a refrigerator room like this.
“Hey, Johnny!” Marty called. “Can you hear me in there?”
Through the thick door his voice sounded muffled and distant. Johnny Slick said, “Yeah, I hear you! What the hell’s going on? Where’s your uncle?”
“He isn’t here.”
“So open the door! You and your hearing keys turning!”
“I didn’t hear any key, Johnny.”
“Then why the hell did you push me in here?
“This isn’t my uncle’s store, Johnny. It’s my father’s. And there isn’t any money here. My father goes to the bank on Fridays.”
Johnny began to panic. “Marty! What the hell are you trying to pull?”
The muffled voice continued, “You know that girl you picked up and raped last week, Johnny? That was my sister, Johnny. She’s still in the hospital. She doesn’t remember what happened to her. But I know what happened Johnny. And I know who did it!”
Johnny gasped. He fumbled around in the dark refrigerator room until he found a light switch.
He pushed it. The room lit up. A small room, taken up mostly by the refrigerator machinery. Sides of beef and other cuts of meat hung from the walls.
The door handle, Johnny thought. Where’s the door handle?
There it was. But someone had gimmicked it! It didn’t work!
Marty laughed outside. “I hear you fiddling with the lock, Johnny. Don’t bother. I fixed it up so it only opens from the outside. Have fun in there, Johnny. My dad will be opening the store up on Monday morning. That’s only three days from now. If you get hungry, eat some meat.”
Johnny clawed at the thick unyielding door. “No! No, don’t leave me!”
“It won’t do any good to yell, Johnny. Nobody’s gonna hear you in there. I’ll give your regards to my sister, Johnny.”
Johnny Slick pounded at the door. It would not open. Already he felt the chill invading his bones. A whole weekend locked in here at twenty degrees, and he was wearing light summer clothes. He didn’t know whether he’d suffocate or freeze to death first. All he knew was that this was the finish of Johnny Slick.
“Marty! I’m gonna die in here! You can’t leave me!” he wailed hysterically.
From outside came Marty’s sardonic laughter. “Who says I can’t, Johnny? That’s exactly what I’m gonna do, right now. So long, Johnny. And remember...play it cool, man. Play it cool!”