Chapter 8
Partners in Crime

June 1972

Willie's new life was not how he imagined it would be. As Jason explained it to him, he skipped the chocolate milk and drank rum straight from the bottle, even though it felt like fire in his throat.

"Now, you don't be takin' it personally. It's a fast way to make money. Easy money. It's just good business when you have somethin' people want, and they're willin' to pay ya for it."

"No. Fuck you." Willie glared at him, wiping his nose on his sleeve.

"What's the big deal? It's not as if you're a—stranger to the idea," Jason continued, confident in his speculation. "I can see it in your eyes." The older man offered him a cigarette, but Willie knocked his hand away and swung a punch to the head. The Irishman grabbed his arm.

"Listen, tough guy, do ya think I want to ask this? There's no other choice."

"I wanna go home." The teenager pulled his arm away.

"Well, that's nice but, sadly, it's not on your list of options; you're a long way from home, laddie, and we're flat broke." Willie moved to the far corner of the room and slumped to the floor. "And what makes you think you have a home to go to? Your sainted mother never even looked for you; did ya know that? Relieved she was, so her new family could pack their bags and move far away. You really thought she wants her bastard mistake trailin' after her?" he scoffed. "That would go down just lovely in Scarsdale, I'm sure."

The plausibility of that statement was not lost on Willie as he hurled the nearest object at the older man. "You're fulla shit!"

Jason caught the cup as it flew through the air, his hand-painted shaving mug from Germany, and placed it gently on the nightstand.

"Alright, mate, let me tell what options you do have. You can go along with my plan, or you can walk out that door right now. Go on, nobody's stoppin' ya—If you want to sleep in an alley and eat out of the rubbish bin, in all kinds of weather, and you'll either become a junkie or get killed by one. Then, you're goin' to need some cash to pay for that smack." He pointed a finger at his partner to emphasize the point. "And just how do ya think runaway lads like you earn a bob? Tell me what else you've got to sell." The Irishman shrugged. "Now, you can do it on your own, and good luck to ya, or you can do it with me here to look after ya."

Put that way, it didn't seem he had much of a choice. Willie chugged defiantly from the bottle; the burning liquid made his stomach churn and eyes water. "How do I know you're tellin' the truth?"

"Because I'm the only one left who gives a shite about your pathetic little arse; It's me who's taken care of you, good and proper," the Irishman replied with a hint of indignation. "Now it's your turn to take care of me for a while. The party's over, son; it's payback time."

Jason pulled him up from the floor and held the kid's shoulders in a protective gesture. Willie tried to shrug it off, angry and humiliated, but his mentor held fast.

"Ah now, it's just for a little while; temporary, ya might say, till we get our big deal goin'—and get back on our feet again. I'll tell you everythin' you'll need to know." He flashed that grin. "It's not so bad; people have done it since the dawn of time. How do you think I earned me keep as a lad? It got me where I am today."


Contrary to Jason's optimistic predictions, Willie's first business venture did not fare well. A large, gruff-looking man with a full beard picked up the young hitchhiker and parked with him behind a billboard. With a leering smile, he fingered the boy's shaggy hair.

"You're a real cutie, aren't you," he cooed. "Just like a little girl." He leaned over and kissed Willie, which made the young man swallow his gum. The guy's beard was coarse and scratchy and smelled of a dozen things. He proceeded to the next item on his agenda.


Jason was not angry but rather disappointed when his junior partner returned to the motel so early and with less than an adequate day's wages.

Willie took the five dollars from his pocket and placed it slowly on the night stand. Then he grabbed the lamp with every intention of smashing it into the wall, but it was bolted to the table. He ran into the bathroom and slammed the door.

"Willie, what is it? What's wrong?" he heard Jason call from the bedroom. The kid splashed cold water on his face and brushed his teeth, thoroughly. He came out and crawled into bed, pulling the cheap motel quilt over his head.

"Are you hurt? Let's see the moneymaker." Jason sat next to the teen, pulled the coverlet down to examine his face, and was relieved to find no marks. "There now, no harm done." Willie rolled over to face the wall, curled up into a ball. The Irishman rubbed his back.

"Don't be discouraged, lad. That was a bit of a rough start, is all. You can try again tomorrow." His partner did not reply, but pulled the bedding back over his head. "Tell you what. Let me get somethin' to cheer ya up. What'll it be, hmm?"

There was a long pause.

"A comic book," answered the lump under the blanket.

"Come on, you can do better. You'll never succeed in business without more bargainin' power than that."

"A Cadillac."

Jason laughed. "Let's aim for a happy compromise." He reached under the cover and removed the boy's sneakers. "Don't wear your shoes in bed."

The teen's head popped up. "I want new sneaks; those're fulla holes; and I wanna haircut, a real short one; and a chocolate milkshake, and a comic book."

"Yes, Prince William, whatever you desire. Well, just as soon as we have some cash, that is. I think for tonight I can manage a comic book and a Slurpee from the shop next door."

"…Sure, Jason."


The next day Willie was back out on a street corner, and every day after that. Sometimes he played a runaway kid at the bus station, or a hitchhiking teenager on the highway, or a scrappy orphan earning a meal. For 20 bucks a pop, the blond boy serviced traveling businessmen, pillars of the community, everyday joes, and once, a sad-faced rabbi who just wanted to talk about his problems. His customers were not members of the gay community; they almost always had wives and children at home.

At first, Willie spent hours hiding out in washrooms and movie theatres to get away for a while, but soon discovered these locations were their own hotbeds of salacious activity when his clientele followed him there. When it rained, he could sit in the back row of the cinema all evening and conduct business.

The young man stared at himself in the men's room mirror. How could they tell? These guys approached him all the time—silently sliding into the seat next to him to place their hands on his thigh. Things like that don't happen to normal people; Willie concluded there must be something wrong with him. Mea culpa, mea culpa.

As time passed, he became sullen and dismal, drinking heavily and rarely speaking to anyone. There were no more sympathetic stories and small talk with clients, even though the pretense was proper protocol for these transactions.

The surly hustler began his conversations with what he was willing to do and how much it would cost, followed by "Yes or no. Hurry up." He allowed absolutely no hugging or kissing and, in fact, preferred not to be touched more than necessary. Sometimes clients would buy dinner and drinks for the young man, and take him back to their rooms. Those were, no question, more comfortable arrangements, as long as they didn't want to chat; Willie invariably clamped his eyes shut and took his mind to a different place.


The hotel room door swung open and Willie was pushed into the hall. As he turned back to address the john, his jacket came flying out after him and landed in his face, after which the door slammed shut.

"Give me my money, you cheap bastard!" Willie hollered, banging on the portal. "Liar! Cheater!" When there was no response from within, he pounded louder. "Hey, everybody," he yelled. "The son a bitch in Room 208 is a thievin' asshole who screws around with young boys!"

The john appeared again in the doorway and grabbed Willie by the collar, glancing anxiously up and down the hall.

"Shut up, you little whore, and get out of here," he hissed.

"You have to pay me first."

"Well, you should have done something to earn it."

The john forcefully shoved Willie back and once more flung the door closed. The hustler staggered backward until he hit the wall opposite and sunk to the floor. He sat there for just a moment, and began to quietly weep.

Within minutes, the sobs increased in intensity to an uncomfortable volume.

"Go away!" The man called from behind the door.

At that, Willie began a full out crying jag, hugging his knees as he rocked back and forth. The john opened the door just as the lady in Room 207 did.

"What's going on out here? I thought someone was being murdered!" She spotted the boy on the floor by her door. "Oh, dear, are you alright?"

Willie wailed.

"Excuse me, miss, that's my son. He—fell down." The customer helped Willie to his feet and escorted him across the hall. "You're going to be fine. Come back to our room, Johnny." He called over his shoulder, "sorry to have disturbed you, miss," and gently closed the door.

"What are you, some sort of lunatic?" the older man shook Willie by the shoulders, but the boy's sobs had evolved into hiccups.

"Mister, p-please!" the young hustler hugged himself, trembling. "I can't go back without my money. You don't understand; they'll beat me so bad I won't be able to walk. He'll—He'll (hiccup) slice me again. He said n-n-next time, he'd kill me." Willie threw his arms around the man's waist. "Please, mister, I don't wanna die!"

"It's…going to be…alright," the john patted his shoulder awkwardly. Willie moistened the man's shirtfront with his tears. "I'm sure no one will hurt you. Just go to the police and report this whoever he is."

"You don't know what you're talking about!" The teen cried. "He owns the police! He's going to slit my throat; nobody cares about one less corner boy, but before I go, they'll torture me until I tell."

"Tell, uh, what?"

"Who it was; then they'll come after you." The man backed away. "Don't worry, they won't kill you, just take a souvenir," he pointed to the gentleman's crotch. "So you won't do it again."

"Christ, I knew this was a lousy idea," the john muttered, reaching for his wallet. "$20 you said."

"$25…only—only now I missed my next job, s-so," his voice cracked. "They'll still know."

The customer pulled more cash from his billfold, thrusting it at Willie. "Fifty? Is that what will get you out of my room?" The hustler nodded, sniffing. He smiled through the tears glistening in his big, orphan eyes. "Thank you, sir."

Willie picked up his jacket and left. He flipped a bird when the door closed behind him and skipped down the hall, stuffing the money in his back pocket.


Willie would roll johns whenever possible; that is, take off before delivering the goods, or lift their wallets and wristwatches. He started work just before evening rush hour and usually wrapped up at three or four in the morning, having breakfast or a burger at an all-night diner. Then, he'd take a bottle to bed and sleep away most of the day. Every few weeks, Jason hauled him to a backstreet doctor who gave the young man a shot of penicillin to ward off occupational diseases.

There were no days off. In fact, business boomed during the holidays, during which time Willie strolled through shopping centers and crowded streets employing his recently acquired skills as a pickpocket. Often he and Jason worked as a team, relieving happy, ignorant families of their Christmas savings. Who cared if Santa couldn't visit their houses that year? Jason felt no remorse about it, so Willie didn't either.

The holiday season was an enjoyable time of the year for Willie, because he rarely hustled, and it wasn't so lonely when he worked alongside his partner. Jason even complimented his nimble fingers remarking that, at St Jerome's, instead of berating the boy for substandard academics and singing talent, they should have put a violin in his hands. Willie asked if he could shoplift a violin, but his mentor said no.

After the New Year, family men went back to work, and so did Willie. One morning in late spring, upon the kid's return to their hotel room, Jason jumped up and pushed him back into the hallway. He was wearing only a robe, and behind him a naked lady with very red hair and very big tits was curled up on his bed. "Fifteen minutes," The Irishman said brusquely and closed the door in the boy's face.

Willie sat on the floor of the hall and smoldered. No wonder they were always broke if Jason was spending all their cash on hookers. Willie's cash, more like it. If that's the way it was going to be, the young man felt he deserved a piece of that pie for himself—but felt uneasy. The idea of intimate contact, with anyone, was not stimulating, it was downright repulsive; he didn't even like to touch himself anymore. What if he was too messed up in the head now and couldn't perform? The woman would no doubt laugh and treat him with the same contempt the hustler imparted to his customers. So what? She would just be a whore, it wouldn't matter what she thought. Willie was now 16 years old, and this issue had to be resolved.

The next day he spotted a girl his age, no, definitely younger, working the other side of the freeway. She had straw colored hair, wide blue eyes and freckles. The little hooker wore short shorts and a blouse tied up at the midriff like a farmgirl. There were pinpricks and bruises running up the insides of both arms. Willie jumped over the median strip barricade to introduce himself.

"Get away." She looked past him to the horizon of highway, sticking out her thumb. "I can't be talkin' to you."

"Why not?"

"Nobody's gonna stop if you're standin' here."

"But I'm a john, look." He pulled a stash of $20 bills from his pocket.

The streetwalker was apprehensive. "I don't think Clifford would like it."

"Who's that?"

"He's my boyfriend."

"What's the dif'rence? I'm payin', ain't I? Let's go in those woods."

The girl looked about hesitantly before capitulating. "Okay, Hurry up."

Willie wished they had had a blanket for there was not a comfortable inch in that cluster of trees. Still, it needed to be done, and afterwards the new man was relieved and far too pleased with himself to solicit any more work that day. He headed home to discover his pockets were empty.

Jason was furious. He smacked the kid across the room, shouting, "You don't be pickin' up trash off the street! Do you want to get the clap? And then you let that bitch rob you! Have you lost your mind?"

"Trash off the street. Like me."

"That's different." Jason regained his composure. "Now, don't be doin' that again. When you're in need of some comfort, old Jason will take care of you and get you a nice, clean, honest lady."

"Those whores you bring back here look old."

"Oh no, lad, that's skill and experience. You'll see."

The next time Willie saw that young prostitute, she had a black eye to match his. Good. She deserved it, he thought. They avoided each other's glance and did not speak.


The partners never stayed in one place for long. Jason would connive schemes which, successful or not, often required a hasty exit. Sometimes they lived high, but the money always ran out because Jason threw it away. He made friends, bought drinks for the house, and told tall tales of his seafaring days, frequently promising he would take Willie to Hong Kong, where they had the most talented young ladies in the world.

Willie would sit in the background and get plastered, affecting a punk smirk, wishing resentfully that he had that pocket full of cash and such a free and easy manner. But the young man had long since forgotten how to make friends, or even hold a polite conversation. He let his fists do the talking.

Jason indulged the lad, far more than he should have, allowing him to smoke and drink as much as he wanted and eat whatever he liked. He even paid extra to book motel rooms with color televisions. And, although the kid had a short fuse and was constantly getting pulled away from brawls, the Irishman rarely lost his temper. Well once, when his junior partner ran up a $600 debt with a bookie because he always bet on the Dodgers, no matter what the odds were. Jason laid into him with a belt, but Willie just laughed, wriggled out of his grasp and ran out the door. The elder was left with an empty jacket in his hand.

After spending a chilly night outdoors, Willie went back the next day.

But Jason was gone. He had checked out and left no message. The boy panicked, thinking that, not only had he lost all his stuff, but now that bookie would come after him; he'd probably kill Willie and throw him from a moving vehicle, like in the movies. How could the old man leave him alone like that? He ran to the diner, the convenience store, the bus station, the train station—there was no sign of his partner.

Frightened and defeated, he returned to the motel, sat on the front curb and buried his face in his hands. The sound of a car horn brought Willie's head up. There was Jason behind the wheel of a beat-up old Ford.

"Jason! I'm glad to see ya. Where'd ya get the car?"

"Stop muckin' about; get in." Willie hopped into the passenger seat and the Irishman sped off. "Thanks to you, we're in need of a particularly hasty exit, and I thought our hard-earned wages were better spent on this fine limousine than squanderin' it by payin' off some criminal."

"Will you teach me how to drive?"

"Sure, you already have your license, and you don't think I'm goin' to do all the work." Willie turned on the radio. Jason turned it off. "I'm not through talkin' to you. Don't you ever put us in a compromising position like that. You are nothin' but trouble, boy." Jason reached over and smacked the kid upside his head.

"I won't ever gamble again, except on—" The man shot a look at him. "I mean, not even on the Dodgers." The Irishman snorted. "I swear. On a stack of bibles."

The partners in crime criss-crossed the country. They stuck to the big cities where Junior turned tricks and picked pockets while the elder handled the money and pulled scams. Eventually they landed back in Brooklyn, from whence their journey had begun.

April 1974

Jason and Willie sat in a booth at the Last Exit Bar enjoying a lunchtime respite of beef stew and beer.

"Jason. Can you help out an old friend?"

They looked up to see a trembling man standing at the table. He would have resembled Willie at one time, but taller. The fair-haired stranger was deathly thin with pale skin, his sunken gray eyes surrounded by dark shadows.

"Wait here," Jason whispered to his companion and bounded out of the booth. "Sean, my man! How is life treatin' ya? Let me buy you a drink." He clapped an arm around the swaying man's shoulder and guided him to the bar.

Willie watched them across the room. The guy was weird; he looked kind of young but old at the same time. The two spoke briefly as Jason pulled out his wallet and placed some bills in his quivering hand, but they dropped to the floor. The Irishman bent to retrieve the money, secured it in the man's coat pocket and escorted him to the door. He returned to the booth and resumed his lunch as if nothing had happened.

"Jason?" The boy seemed disturbed.

"Never mind, it's nothin' to you."

"But who was that?

"Just a bum. He's a junkie. Now, don't you ever do that stuff."

"But how do you know him?"

Jason hesitated for a moment, then replied casually. "He used to be me partner."

The two finished their meal in silence.


After lunch, Willie hopped a bus to the old neighborhood, wondering if it had very much changed. At first the young man wasn't sure if he had gotten off at the right stop. His apartment building had been torn down and replaced with a strip mall which extended into what used to be the vacant lot. The row houses, of which he had been so jealous as a child, looked dilapidated and sad, but the playground had a new modern fence, and the Capri Garden Lounge was now a Korean church.

His old playmates were in school, preparing for their high school graduation.

Willie sat on the park bench, the one on which he had camped out the night he ran away. The young hustler often wondered how different his life would have been if he had gone home for supper that night. Did Lyddie ever think about him, even a little, or was her oldest son part of that embarrassing chapter of her life that she threw out with Monday's trash?

It didn't matter, of course; he could never look her in the face again. Not now. Jason often reminded the boy that his supposed family had moved on without him. He didn't know his mother's address anymore or even her new last name.

Forget about it, Willie thought bitterly. Her life got all better as soon as she dumped me. She's happy now with Big Dick and her real child.

He watched several small kids digging in a nearby sandbox. One of them could be Little Dick, but not likely. That spoiled brat probably attended some fancy preschool when the family moved up in the world to a better neighborhood.

A middle aged man sat on the bench next to Willie and smiled pleasantly. The teenager rose abruptly and sneered. Christ, in his own neighborhood.

"Fuck off."

He went back to his hotel, popped open a beer and watched one of his favorite movies, Public Enemy, on TV. Jimmy Cagney was his favorite actor—a little guy, but tough.