Then, with Sonny Marino in front, the old Cavaliers started moving through the dark, empty streets. Ahead of them was the headquarters of the Savage Lords, the old tenement where the young hard guys slept. On the top floor, a light burned. In front of the building, Sonny looked at the others, at Nit-Nat, Stark, Wimpy, and the rest, feeling the old summer thrill, then turned and kicked in the front door. The Cavaliers came rushing in, and Sonny shouted up the stairs: “All right, tough guys! Let’s rumble!”
The hospitals in that neighborhood had never before seen so many damaged people on Sunday morning. The fire department said later they could not save the old tenement and let it burn out. Sonny Marino opened for business as usual on Monday morning, his hands hurting, his body aching, a bandage across his left eyebrow. His wife murmured that maybe they should still sell and move to Florida. “Are you kidding?” Sonny Marino said. “I’m gonna live here the rest of my life.”
WHEN LIAM DEVLIN TRUDGED to the door of Rattigan’s that Saturday night, the windows were opaque with steam. It was after midnight, and he was exhausted from a long shift delivering the fat Sunday newspapers. He hesitated for a moment. He could go and eat eggs at the Greek’s, read the paper, then just collapse in bed. But he wanted a beer. One or two, really, and a little television, maybe some music on the jukebox. He opened the door. There were only three customers in the dark, warm saloon, but right away, Liam Devlin wanted to leave. The reason was simple. Jack Parker was drinking at the bar.
“That Parker is a real magician,” the bartender, George Loftus, once said. “He opens his mouth and he makes customers disappear.”
On this night, Jack Parker was drinking alone, facing the beer taps, hatless, a thick mug in his fat pink hand. He didn’t look up when Devlin came in. This was itself unusual. Jack Parker was a cop, and a bully; the bullying was done entirely with words, with wisecracks and scathing remarks. But when he had goaded people to the point where they wanted to break his face, Jack Parker retreated behind the gun. He never used it. But everyone knew he carried it.
“Fleischmann’s and beer,” Devlin said softly to Loftus. “You been busy?”
“Look around,” the bartender said. “It’s like the plague broke out here.”
As always, Devlin started reading the Sunday
“Who are you?” he said.
Devlin turned and saw Parker looking at him, a wet smile on his loose, florid face.
“Nobody,” Devlin said. “I just walked in that door.”
“George, you let anyone in here these days.”
Loftus said, “Don’t start, Jack.”
“I mean, lookit this guy,” Parker went on. “Those pants haven’t had a crease in them since the Dodgers left Brooklyn. The jacket’s like something outta Catholic Charities. And the shoes…”
“We can’t all be fashion plates,” Devlin said.
“And the hair,” Parker said. “You let your hair grow down to your belt, I bet. Like Deanna Durbin.”
Devlin said, “What are you? Fred Astaire?”
Loftus rubbed the back of his neck and leaned forward on the bar. “Hey, we don’t need this, Jack. You understand? We don’t need this. So Jack, leave the kid alone. And Liam, read your paper.”
Parker downed his beer, nodded to Loftus to bring him another, and then stared for a while at himself in the part of the mirror visible behind the whiskey bottles. Devlin walked over to the jukebox. There were Irish songs by the Wolfe Tones and the Barleycorn, some tunes by Sinatra and Johnny Mathis, and a few rock-and-roll songs. He played “Sympathy for the Devil” by the Rolling Stones. The first chords boomed through the bar, and Parker spun around.
“Hey!” he shouted. “Shut that off.”
Devlin ignored him and walked to the bar. He said to Loftus, “Hit me again.”
“I said I don’t want to hear that crap!” Parker said. “Turn it off!”
“He put a quarter in, Jack,” Loftus said. “He can play the jukebox he wants to.”
“I’m tryin’ to
“I could tell,” Devlin said. “You got a real pained expression on your face.”
“You wise bastid!”
He whirled, his eyes wild, while Mick Jagger and Keith Richards drove the Stones.
There was a gun in Parker’s hand.
“You want noise?” Parker said. “I’ll give you noise.”
He walked over, very casually, and shot at the jukebox. The glass face shattered, the record scraped and died. Then he fired again. The shots were very loud. At the far end of the bar, the two old men looked up. Parker turned to Devlin.
“There,” he said. “How do you like that?”
Devlin didn’t answer. His hand trembled.
“You want rock and roll? I’ll give you rock and roll,” Parker said, and walked back to the bar. “Didn’t you read in the paper? Rock and roll is dead.” He placed the gun beside his beer mug. Loftus gave Devlin a look that said: Don’t move. Then he went to Parker.
