Disclaimer: Lalala don't own lalala.
Note: And now we get into the real story, which, essentially, is Ice and Velma's lives during the time of West Side Story and after. As it's a novelization of a film of a musical, I've made certain choices that I felt were for the benefit of this story in written form. It's nothing major, but if you notice something missing, it's most likely because this fic is from the point of view of Ice and/or Velma, and they don't always like to pay attention. Heh. If something really bothers you, though, feel free to let me know, and I'll gladly discuss it with you. :)
Proper credit: The beginning of this chapter owes some inspiration to a few lines at the beginning of Irving Shulman's novelization, though no direct quotes are used.
Hope you enjoy!
—viennacantabile
fell the angels
two : a piece of this world
.
He lived here as an invalid lives within the space he has learned to inhabit.
—Sandor Marai, Embers
.
One minority looks sometimes as if it suffered acutely, the adolescents. They throw themselves about the city, now supersonic, now limp as snails, marvelously unaware of adults or children. Suddenly across their blank faces runs a flash of anguish, of huntedness, of brutal vindictiveness, of connivance — the pangs of reformatory inmates; a caged animal misery. They are known as punks and jailbait and everyone defers to them, everybody spoils them as people do to what they recognize as poetic. They are not expected to make any return.
—Edwin Denby
.
It's hot as hell in New York today and the Jets are itching for action.
All eleven of them are swaggering down West 70th, further on the edge of their territory than they'd normally go, and though Riff hasn't said it, Ice knows it's because the Jet leader hopes they'll find easy pickings trying to poach on their turf. It's the easiest way to keep the rank-and-file happy without picking up the girls, after all, and certain PRs need to know they can't just dance onto Jet territory whenever they feel like it.
But today, the Sharks aren't cooperating, and the Jets—one or two of them in particular—are getting restless.
"C'mon, when're we gonna do somethin'?" demands Action, pounding his fists in the air. "Are we Jets, or ain't we?"
"Cut it, Action," says Riff, wheeling around to give him an unamused stare. "We go lookin' for trouble long enough, trouble'll find us. An' then you can beat the daylights outta it. Dig?" Not waiting for an answer, he resumes his strut, eyes darting around.
Action can't stop moving, and, thinks Ice with a sigh, can't shut his mouth, either. "Aww, Tony ain't comin', Riff!"
Riff actually stops this time. "I said cut it, Action," he barks, glaring at the shorter Jet, who meets Riff's eyes with his own dark, sullen gaze. "'Less ya want me to shut your mouth for ya."
Action is the first to look away. Baby John giggles at this, and Action shoves the younger boy; he's found another outlet for his ever-present aggression. For the time being, anyway.
Riff glances at Ice; his lieutenant nods back, and skips to the rear, behind Mouthpiece and Tiger, to watch their backs. They're out looking for trouble, sure, but the last thing anybody wants is for it to sneak up on them and get them from behind. Neither Riff nor Ice likes to admit it, but the Sharks have been getting awfully pushy lately, and when it comes down to a rumble, as it always does, the Jets are going to need every man they've got.
"Hey, buddy-boys!"
Except that one.
Ice stares as that scrawny little tomboy—Anybodys—scurries past him and up to Riff, who groans. "Kid, can't ya just leave us alone?"
"Riff!" pants the girl, completely ignoring the Jet leader, "look, I saw Bernardo an' a buncha little PRs hangin' round the boathouse in the park! Ya want I should run 'em off?"
A-Rab cackles. "I'd like to see ya try," he snorts, looking her up and down.
She shoots him a dirty look. "Buzz off."
"You buzz off," decides Riff, taking a cigarette from Tiger's ready stash and coolly lighting up. "I don't got time for your games today, little girl."
"But Riff—"
"Scram, kid."
Anybodys stands and glares at them all for a moment before she streaks off like a bullet. Riff takes a long, slow drag on his cigarette. Then he grins.
"Let's go beat some Sharks."
As one, the gang heads in the direction of Central Park.
.
There's no one there except a few couples necking, and Ice glances at Riff to see what he will do. On sweltering days like this when it's hard to keep the Jets—or maybe just Action—in line, the disappointment of no PRs to pound into the ground makes Riff's job even harder. The Jet leader shrugs.
"So they heard we was comin'," Riff says with just the right touch of easygoing ruefulness and scorn, skipping a stone into the lake. "We'll find 'em later." He chuckles. "We always do."
Ice grins. Tough job or not, he thinks, Riff could talk his way out of anything. "Right, Daddy-O."
"Now, ah—let's go grab some Cokes, huh?" decides Riff. "It's hotter'n Pauline's skirt out here."
The Jets trade grins; there isn't one of them who doesn't know, personally, what he means. Except Ice, who winces. And Baby John, of course; the kid's terrified of girls. Ice swings around to see how he's taking the joke, but Baby John's usual spot right behind A-Rab is empty. Damn.
Ice taps Riff on the shoulder with a sigh. "Hey, Riff. We got an AWOL."
Riff stops. "Who're we missin'?"
"Baby John," Ice mutters. Of all the Jets to go off alone, it has to be Baby John, the one who can't take care of himself. Figures.
Riff swears. "Christ. A-Rab, where is he?"
"What, like I'm his keeper?" protests A-Rab defensively. "I don' know from nothin'!"
"I think I saw him split off way back when we was passin' that one lot with all the doors," volunteers Mouthpiece happily as the Jets chuckle at A-Rab's inadvertent admission. "Said somethin' about stickin' it to the Sharks in their own backyard."
Ice stares at him. "Why the hell didn't ya say somethin'?"
Mouthpiece shrugs, the oblivious grin on his face unchanged, and Ice exchanges a look with Riff. If the kid didn't have a punch like a heavyweight champion…
"Okay," sighs Riff. "Move out, buddy-boys. We gotta find him 'fore the PRs do."
Action scowls. "But don't we got better things—"
Riff silences him with an emphatic shake of the head. "Like it or not, little man, kid's a Jet, an' we ain't servin' him up on a silver platter to get munched on by some Shark. Now move out."
Shaking his head, Ice takes off. He's always wondered how Baby John ever got into the Jets—he's a walking 'kick me' sign, and they're always bailing him out of trouble. It's not that he doesn't like the kid, but Baby John is one of the youngest fourteen year-olds he's ever met.
Was he ever like that? Ice wonders as he moves through the alleys, eyes alert for any sign of Baby John's mop of fair hair. He sighs. Well, if he ever was, he can't remember, but Ice thinks probably not. Hell, he can't say any of the Jets were ever like Baby John. Even Mouthpiece, who's missing half the screws in his head, doesn't really need a leash on him like the kid. So why does Baby John?
Most of the Jets have pretty good reasons for being the troublemakers they are: Action's ma is too friendly, A-Rab's old man drinks too much, Riff…well, there's something there about an uncle being the reason he lives with Tony, but nobody really knows. Half of them come from messed-up homes and broken families, and it shows. Baby John, though, he's not quite sure about. All he knows about the kid's family is that he's only got his mom. No dad. Which, Ice thinks, narrowing his eyes, is probably better than having a mom and a—well, less-than-loving father. But in any case, it might explain a few things.
Ice sighs. It doesn't really matter why Baby John is the way he is. All that really matters is that they find him and make sure he doesn't spend the rest of the day hanging upside-down, tied at the ankle to the top of a streetlight, like the last time they lost him. Or worse, thinks Ice grimly, as he picks up speed. The world's a pretty shitty place out there for a kid like Baby John on his own, with no friends and no family to watch his back. Ice shakes his head. Every single one of them knows it, and no one better than he.
.
He's just nearing the back of the playground on 66th when he hears it: "Jets! Jets!"
And within seconds, Ice is off and running, crashing through the gate and skidding over the pavement to the clump of Sharks clustered around a cowering lump that can only be Baby John. Ice doesn't hesitate—he knows his target and he goes straight for him: Bernardo.
Come on, you sonofabitch, he thinks furiously, yanking the red-shirted Shark leader away, pick on someone your own size—
Bernardo doesn't take this lying down; he's fast and slippery and his darting fists dance in and out, landing blows on Ice's chest, ribs, abdomen. But Ice isn't exactly about to give up either: he's got a good grip on the PR, and if he holds on long enough, Bernardo won't be able to do a thing.
So Ice, setting his jaw, keeps his arms locked as more and more Jets and Sharks dive into the fray, cursing and kicking and punching and spitting at each other as their hate spills over onto the playground. Ice can hardly tell who is who in the blur of action, but he knows every one of them is fighting just as hard as he is to take his opponent and smash him into the pavement. It's not about Baby John anymore; it's about the real deal: ownership of the streets, and the right to call themselves men.
But it's a question that will have to wait. Ice just barely hears a shrill whistle before Officer Krupke wades into the gangs, beating and bullying them apart. Ice, realizing what's up, figures that now is as good of a time as any to go retrieve Baby John. Shoving Bernardo away, he knocks his way into the middle of the melee, grabs the kid's wrists, and yanks him out of there.
"Break it up!" roars a voice Ice knows all too well. "Come on, punks, break it up!"
Ice, pulling the youngest Jet over to their side, grimaces. Schrank. Just who they need.
As the gangs reluctantly scatter apart, Ice dumps Baby John on the seesaw and tilts the kid's head so he can see the damage. Jesus, Ice thinks, staring at the livid splotch of red on Baby John's ear, how is this kid going to stay alive without us? Then Tiger leans in like a mother hen, and Ice decides to leave him to take care of Baby John. Ice, as lieutenant, has places to be and leaders to back up.
A baleful Schrank eyes the Jets with dislike. "How many times have I told you kids to cut this stuff out?"
"Why, if it ain't Lieutenant Schrank!" marvels Riff innocently as Ice reaches his usual spot to the right of the Jet leader.
"Top-a the day, Lieutenant Schrank!" Ice choruses along with the other Jets, rolling his eyes.
"And Officer Krupke!" adds Bernardo, mockingly echoing Riff's pleased-as-punch tone. At times like these, when adults intrude on their world, every gang on the Upper West sticks by an unspoken temporary truce, because no matter what arguments or alliances they have with each other, they all know who the bigger enemy is: the police officers and the judges and the social workers who think they understand them. Here's news, thinks Ice, you don't understand shit.
The other Sharks, too, follow suit. "Top of the day, Officer Krupke!"
The big-bellied man is not amused and smacks his nightstick against his palm. "I'll give ya the top-a the head!"
"Hey, you!" snarls Schrank, pointing at A-Rab and Snowboy, who are hanging from the fence. "Get down!"
"But we're havin' such fun!" protests A-Rab.
"We enjoy the playground!" Snowboy chimes in.
"Ah, see, it keeps us deprived children offa the foul city streets," Riff explains very seriously. Ice snorts. He's awfully glad Riff is leader; smartass comments like those are half of what make or break a gang, and Riff swings with the best in that department. Straight-man Ice, on the other hand, is something of a gang joke for his incredible inability to flick the cops off. Lucky for him there are Jets like Riff and Snowboy around, Ice thinks, amused, so he almost never has to.
Schrank's eyes are busy roving around the Jets; meanwhile, Krupke doesn't buy this, either. "Shaddup."
A-Rab, who by now has hopped down and trotted over, puts his hands out. "An' born like we was on the hot pavement!"
He's not any more successful with Krupke than Riff; the big man just turns threateningly to him. "You wanna get your skull broke?"
"Hey, Baby John, c'mere!" Schrank suddenly barks, his gaze having landed on the one Jet he might have a chance at breaking. Ice bites back a groan as a helpless Baby John glances at Tiger and gets up. "C'mere!"
The second Baby John takes two steps forward, Schrank grabs him and shoves him in front of the Sharks. "Now which one-a these Puerto Ricans bloodied ya?"
Ice stares at Baby John's back, waiting to see if the kid will give or not. He's a Jet, sure, but he's also little and scared and mostly in the Jets because if he doesn't get with a gang, some gang is going to get him. He's no foolhardy Action ready to take on the world, that's for sure.
But Riff doesn't give Baby John the chance; the Jet leader moves forward, clearing his throat. "Uh, sir? We, ah—suspicion that the, ah—job was done by a cop."
Trading snickers and smirks, the Jets eagerly chime in:
"Two cops!"
"At the very least!"
"Impossible," scoffs Krupke. Schrank, though, doesn't say anything, and Ice, watching him, knows why: sure, Riff is just playing for time, but everyone on the West Side knows it's more than possible that a cop might go above and beyond the call of duty to pick on some poor sucker like Baby John. Even probable.
"In America, nothing is impossible," says Bernardo sardonically.
"All right, wise guys," Schrank growls at the Shark. "Now, you listen to me." He wheels around to glare at both Jets and Sharks. "All of ya! You hoodlums don't own these streets. An' l've had all the roughhousin' l'm gonna put up with around here. You wanna kill each other? Kill each other! But you ain't gonna do it on my beat. Are there any questions?"
"Yes, sir," Bernardo says immediately, his dark eyes glittering. "Would you mind translating that into Spanish?"
Bernardo, Ice has to admit as he and the other Jets snicker, is a real down guy. Tough. Not scared of the cops at all. A worthwhile opponent, even if he is a Shark. There's always that qualifier on the end, though: even if he's a Shark. Because if there's one thing Ice knows, it's that Jets and Sharks don't mix, and never will.
Ice can't see Schrank's face, but he's pretty sure he knows what it's looking like right now. "Get your…friends…outta here, Bernardo," he snarls, "and stay out." The detective deliberately turns away, shifts so that he's not even looking at them. The message, it seems, is that they're not even worth that much effort. "Please."
As the burly man speaks, Bernardo's face changes, retreats from its proud, hard smile to something that looks very much like defeat. This doesn't last long, though; the Shark takes a deep breath and visibly collects himself. "Okay, Sharks," he says, dark gaze never leaving Schrank, "vámonos."
As the Sharks saunter out of the playground, some of the tension in the air visibly evaporates. Ice watches them go, a grin on his face. It's not like he likes Schrank any better than he likes the Sharks—worse, actually, if it comes to that—but there's just something about watching a rival gang get its ass handed on a platter to them that makes his day a little brighter.
"Boy, oh, boy," Schrank mutters darkly, "as if this neighborhood wasn't crummy enough."
But Schrank's kidding himself if he thinks that just because he kicked out a bunch of PRs, they're suddenly all buddy-buddy. The Jets can look after themselves just fine, thank you very much, and Riff, proving this, calls them into a huddle and swings his arms around Ice and A-Rab.
"Boy, oh, boy," he says with a mocking smirk, "I ain't never seen a cop do a good deed like that before. Check an' see, Mouthpiece, is the sky fallin'?"
Mouthpiece tips his face up, then back down, and blinks. "Gee, I don't think so, Riff."
"Now, look, fellas," Schrank goes on, louder, clearly trying for a friendly sort of tone that doesn't actually work because no one is stupid enough to fall for it, "fellas? Look, let's be reasonable."
Along with a few other Jets, Ice turns around to glance skeptically at Schrank, if only because he feels it's better to keep the cop where he can see him. He's willing to bet all the money he doesn't have that their definitions of 'reasonable' don't exactly mesh.
"If l don't get a little law and order around here, l get busted down to a traffic corner." The cop chuckles. "An' your friend don't like traffic corners. So that means you're gonna start makin' nice with the P.R.s from now on."
By now, even Schrank can tell that even though the Jets are looking at him, nobody is listening. Clearly frustrated, he grabs A-Rab's shoulder and jerks him around. A-Rab, cigarette in hand, just stares at him. "l said nice, get it? 'Cause if you don't—an' l catch any of you doin' any more brawlin' in my territory—l'm gonna personally beat the living crud out of every one-a ya an' see that you go to the can an' rot there!"
No one says a word. After all, thinks Ice grimly, it's not like they haven't heard it all before. Each and every one of them.
Schrank eyes them all in silence for a minute, eyes lingering last on Ice, before sneering. "Say good-bye to the nice boys, Krupke."
"Goodbye, boys," chuckles Krupke as he follows his partner-in-crime back to the squad car.
"Goodbye, boys," mutters Snowboy, imitating Krupke's not-too-bright voice to a T.
"Jail. Gee," murmurs a fearful Baby John.
Action flings his cigarette to the cement and springs up from his seat on the seesaw. "You hoodlums don't own the streets." This one sentence says everything they hate about Schrank and everyone like him: they think they know the streets because they patrol them, and maybe they do, but what they don't understand is everything the Jets know, all too well, about what the graffittied dead-ends and squalid apartments and sky-high roofs hide in their shadows. There is more to the Upper West Side than the cops, in their cute little squad cars, can see in the few hours they are here every day. And if the Jets, who live their lives in the alleys and streets of this place, don't own this piece of the world, then who does? If they don't belong here, then where? The Jets' resentment is simmering, boiling just underneath the surface, and as always, Action is the one who draws it out and fans the flame, returning every grievance with one of his own.
"Go play in the park," parrots Snowboy.
"Keep offa the grass."
"Get outta the house," Ice spits tightly, following Riff's slow, measured steps forward.
"Keep off the block."
A-rab jumps up. "Get outta here!"
"Keep off the world!" snaps Action. "A gang that don't own the street is nothin'!"
"That's it—"
"Guys, we do own it!" barks Riff around his cigarette. He stands restlessly with his fists clenched for a moment, takes his cigarette out and puffs a fast, disgruntled breath of smoke out before whipping around. "Come on, Jets, round out!"
As Ice and the Jets follow him over the seesaws and to the alley behind the playground, a small shadow darts in front of them to hover at Riff's side. And Ice rolls his eyes. How has he not noticed their tagalong before now?
Riff doesn't break stride. "Not you, Anybodys. Beat it."
"Aww, Riff, you gotta let me in the gang," pleads the tomboy, fairly dancing to keep up with the Jet leader. "Didn't you just see me? l was smash, l'm a killer, l wanna fight!"
A-Rab, looking Anybodys's stick-straight body up and down, cackles. "How else she gonna get a guy to touch her?"
Anybodys immediately flings herself at him and hammers on his chest. "You dirty rat!"
Ice can't help but chuckle along with the rest of the gang, including A-Rab himself. Only Anybodys doesn't seem to think this is funny at all.
"The road, little girl, the road!" orders Riff.
Ice agrees. The Jets are having a little too much fun teasing her, and they've got better things to do, so he rolls his eyes and helps to shove her away. "Beat it."
She doesn't retreat willingly, hocking a wad of spit at them, but when the tomboy's gone, the Jets settle down in the alley, Riff at their center.
"Okay, now listen," says Riff, dark eyes intense and alive in his tanned face as Tiger, next to Ice, hands the leader another cigarette. "We fought hard for this turf, and we ain't just gonna give it up. The Emeralds claimed it—we shut 'em out. The Hawks, they tried to take it away, an' we knocked 'em down the cellar!"
"Yeah, but these P.R.s are different!" puts in an anxious Snowboy.
"They multiply—"
Ice slices the air with his hand. "They keep comin'."
The Jets chime in faster and faster; their dislike of the Sharks is just as present, if not as long-lived, as their hatred of the adults of their world, because while there is a clear, defined line between kid and adult turf, the Sharks are crowding in and taking their food and air and invading Jet territory just like the pests they are. And it's not as if they have any to spare.
"Help! l'm drowning in tamale!" clowns Snowboy, clutching at his throat, but nobody laughs, because it might as well be true.
"Hey—an' you heard what Lieutenant Schrank said," Riff says disgustedly, waving his cigarette around for emphasis. "We gotta make nice with them Puerto Ricans, or else. We gotta let 'em move in, right under our noses, an' take it all away from us, or else!"
At this the Jets erupt in fury. Ice, just as irate as the rest of them, clenches his fist and jaw as he turns to glare at his leader. "No!"
Riff's eyes flash. All pretense of joking is gone now, and Ice realizes for the first time that Riff—carefree, never-take-anything-serious Riff—is really angry now. "You're damn right no!" He eyes them all cagily. "So what're we gonna do, huh, buddy boys? I'll tell ya what we're gonna do." Riff gets up, moves forward. The Jets follow. "We're gonna speed fast—we're gonna move like lightnin'! An' we're gonna clean them Sharks up once an' for all, so they ain't never gonna set foot on our turf again!"
The Jets hang there, waiting, before Riff turns around, a hint of a smile lurking around his mouth, and gives them what they've all been waiting for. "And we're gonna do it in one, all-out fight."
Action pumps his fists, excited. "A rumble! Chung-chung!"
"Now cool it, Action-boy," cautions Riff, calm once more and putting his hand on the hothead's shoulder. "The Sharks want a piece-a this world, too! And they're real down boys." Giving them a challenging stare, Riff goes on: "They might ask for, ah—blades—zip guns—"
Ice's eyes widen just a bit. He isn't scared, and he knows that Riff is just trying to test them, but he also knows things could get ugly real fast if they do bring in zip guns and anything more than maybe rocks or belts. He's not the only one with reservations, either.
"Zip guns?" repeated Baby John with a shudder. He gives a weak chuckle. "Gee."
"Well, I ain't finalizin' an' sayin' they will, Baby John," Riff backtracks just a bit, clapping his hand on the kid's shoulder, and looking round at all of them again, "I'm just sayin' that they might! An' we gotta be prepared. Now," he continues quickly, restlessly snapping his fingers, "what's your mood, Jets?"
Ice keeps silent, cupping his fist with his other hand as he works out how they can fight, and how they can win. Eleven Sharks. Eleven Jets. Twelve, if you go out on a limb and count Tony, but that's a stretch; Tony hasn't been around for a month and if you're going to count him on your side, Ice thinks reluctantly, then you might as well count your mother, too, for all the help you're going to get. So with even numbers, there are a lot of options here. Only one thing is for sure: not one of them includes backing down.
Action, as always, is the first to make his opinion known: "I say go, go!"
A-Rab is quick to join in. "I say mix!"
"I say sock 'em!" agrees Tiger.
"Tear 'em!" spits Joyboy.
"Yeah!" Ice cuts in quickly, fiercely, because none of them seems to get that whatever happens, they have to win this fight, and he isn't so sure any of them are ready for what that might mean. Ice is as ready to take the Sharks down as any of the Jets, but that's no good if they just get beat for lack of planning. He shoots Joyboy a steady, warning look. "But if they say blades or guns?"
Baby John shrugs weakly. "I say let's just forget the whole thing!"
As Action sputters at the courage of their resident Captain Marvel, Ice focuses on their leader, who, after all, will be the one to decide. "What do you say, Riff?"
Riff narrows his eyes. "I say this turf is small," he declares, moving forward, "but it's all we got, huh?" He shrugs as the Jets mutter their agreement. "An' I wanna hold it like we always held it—with skin!" Riff holds his fist up for emphasis. Then his eyes darken. "But if they say blades, I say blades. If they say guns? I say guns. I say I want the Jets to be the number one—to sail! To hold the sky!"
Ice, listening, can't stop the grin from coming onto his face, can't help but catch the exhilaration in Riff's voice as their fearless leader thrusts his arms into the air—he's that good, that convincing. Neither can the Jets.
"Then rev us up!" bursts A-Rab. "Voom va-voom!"
The Jets explode in hard-edged enthusiasm. This adrenaline rush, this certainty that there is nothing in the world they can't do, is the root of it all, why they are all here, why they are all following Riff. It's more than this street, it's more than them: if they're Jets, then they have the whole world at their feet. And every single one of them—from beanpole Mouthpiece to tagalong Baby John—knows it.
Riff's excited face mirrors theirs. "Okay, cats, we rumble!" he declares, moving over to the bench. Jumping on top of it, he gestures with his cigarette for emphasis. "Now, protocality calls for a war-council between us an' the Sharks, to set the whole thing up. So, I will personally give the bad news to Bernardo."
"Hey, ya gotta take a lieutenant with ya," Snowboy pipes up through the Jets' chuckles.
"That's me," Action declares, and Ice has to bite back a snort. He doesn't even want to think about how fast Action would get the Jets killed if he were in charge. Besides—
"That's Tony," corrects Riff, and Ice nods. Ice is the lieutenant right now, yeah, but he's pretty sure he's just a fill-in until the real leader gets his head back on straight. And even if Tony hasn't been around in awhile, he's still the guy you'd want backing you up for something like this. The only problem is getting him to show. But, Ice thinks, if Riff can do it, then…
Action clearly doesn't agree. "Who needs Tony?"
"We need Tony," Riff tells him, rolling his eyes. "He's got a rep that's bigger'n the whole West Side!"
But Action isn't ready to give up without a fight. "He don't belong no more!"
"Now, cut it, Action!" snaps Riff sternly. "Me an' Tony started the Jets!"
"So where is he?" demands Action, turning his scornful gaze to the rest of them to back him up. "How come he takes a lousy stinkin' job?"
Snowboy chuckles. "Youth board corrupted him!"
"Yeah, temporary sickness!" Riff assures them. "Wait an' see."
Riff, Ice decides, is right. They'll need every advantage they can get against the Sharks, and if memory serves, Tony will definitely be that. "Man, remember them fists the day we clobbered the Emeralds!"
"Well, he saved my ever-lovin' neck!" Baby John tentatively puts in. Ice turns, gives him a nod. That was Tony, back in the old days—a guy you could really count on. And if Riff could get that Tony to show, they'd beat the Sharks easy.
"Sure; he'll do it again, too!" grins Riff. "He always came through for us, an' he always will! He's a Jet through an' through, buddy-boys, an' you know that when you're a Jet, there ain't no takin' it back—you stay a Jet!"
Tiger holds up his lighter. "From your first cigarette—"
"To your last dyin' day!" agrees a grinning Big Deal.
"Well, gee," pipes up Baby John bravely, "that's what I love about the Jets. You ain't never alone; it's like havin' a real family."
"Yeah, an' when a buddy's gettin' whaled on by a buncha PRs, y'know we'll always come help him out," smirks A-Rab, clapping his beet-red best friend on the shoulder.
"So have a little faith, huh, buddy-boys?" urges Riff confidently. "I said it before; I'll say it again—when you're a Jet, you stay a Jet."
Ice has to smile. That's the thing about Riff—he can talk like one of those TV bigshots and make you believe everything he has to say. Mostly because you know he believes it, too.
"Now, I know Tony like I know me," Riff goes on, moving quickly back through the alley, "an' I guarantee you can count him in!"
"In, out, let's get crackin'!" grumbles Action, defeated for the moment, as they follow Riff.
"Where ya gonna find Bernardo?" Mouthpiece wants to know.
"It ain't safe to go into PR territory!" adds Baby John tremulously.
Riff just waves them off. "He'll be at the dance tonight, at the gym."
The dance. Right, Ice remembers suddenly. He holds back a frown. If Riff makes a splash at the dance tonight, Ice knows a certain someone who is not going to be very happy. But Riff knows what he's doing, he quickly reminds himself. And besides, Graziella will be there, too, to keep the Jet leader busy, so probably nothing big will happen at all.
"Yeah, but the gym's neutral territory!" A-Rab reminds him.
Riff stops and turns around, eyes innocent. "A-Rab, I'm gonna make nice with him—I'm only gonna challenge him!"
Ice, reassured, grins. There it is again—Riff always has an answer for everything, and that is exactly the kind of leader they need. "Great, Daddy-O!"
Riff grins back and puts his hand on Ice's shoulder. "So listen: everybody dress up sweet an' sharp. Meet Tony an' me at the dance tonight after ten." He turns to go, but throws one last parting shot at them. "An' walk tall!"
"We always walk tall!" A-Rab shouts back, kicking the air.
"We're Jets!" pipes up Baby John.
"The greatest!" fires Joyboy.
Snowboy leaps up onto a bench and flexes his well-muscled arms. "Solid gold-medal heavyweights!" he adds, striking a wrestling pose.
"The top cats in town, the swingin'est things!" Gee-Tar warbles, playing a riff on an imaginary guitar before Action, rolling his eyes, throws a rock at him and he has to dodge.
"Jets go straight from little boys to kings-a the streets," Ice agrees, with a rueful glance at Baby John. They're all so jazzed up with anticipation for what is going to happen tonight that everything is sharper, every sense is on edge. If someone came at them now, thinks Ice, looking around at their united front, he wouldn't stand a chance. He snaps his fingers restlessly and motions the Jets across the playground. "C'mon, let's go."
They make their way to the edge of the playground and to the gate, the air electric and crackling around them. There's some teenaged yuppie there, and even though he is nowhere near blocking their way, the Jets stop.
"Step aside, little man," snarls Action.
The kid, though skinny, is hardly little compared to Action. But Action's got a whole crew of his own backing him up, and this makes all the difference in the world. Without a word, the boy scurries away.
A scornful A-Rab snorts. "Look at him run. Lousy chicken."
"Yeah, well," Ice says as they pass through the gates of the playground and into the streets, "he knows the deal: someone gets in our way, someone don't feel so well. We're Jets. That's the way it is."
Big Deal grins. "Wouldn't have it any other way, huh, buddy-boys?"
"An' if those PRs don't get in line," chimes in an enthusiastic Baby John, "we'll beat 'em like we beat every other b—buggin' gang on the buggin' street!"
Ice has to snort. The kid can't even say the damn F-word, he thinks, but he sure talks like he's got balls. Maybe that's why Tony and Riff let the kid in. That kind of foolhardy bravado is exactly the kind of thing that appeals to his friends, because if you can't talk like you're the best, you sure as hell aren't going to be the best.
Action, who's clearly thinking along the same lines, shoves him. "You? Yeah, you an' what army, Baby John?"
Baby John grins as he recovers his footing. "The Jets. The greatest! Right?"
A chorus of laughter is heard as the Jets turn to look at a red-faced Action. "He got ya there!" chortles Mouthpiece happily.
After a pause, Action shakes his head, but even he can't stifle a chuckle. "Right, kid," he says, cuffing him on the shoulder as they continue their way down the street, "right. The greatest."
And come tonight, or whenever it is they finally clean out the Sharks, thinks Ice, squinting his eyes against the brightness of the afternoon sun, they'll prove it.
.
"So what's the deal?" asks Ice, glancing at Riff. It's somewhere between seven and eight o'clock and he and Riff are making their way up to Graziella's to pick the girls up for the big show tonight. A miserable-looking Baby John is trailing behind them, audibly muttering instructions to himself about not messing up his date with Minnie. "Tony comin'?"
Riff nods firmly. "Yeah. Caught him at Doc's. He'll be there."
Ice gives him a sidelong look. "Ya sure?"
"Yeah, yeah," Riff waves him off irritably. They walk in silence up the stairs of the building before he sighs. "Jesus, I don' know what's wrong with the kid nowadays. He's showin', yeah, but I hadda bring out the big guns. I never used to have to ask him for nothin', y'know that?"
"Yeah," nods Ice. "I remember." And it's true. Tony and Riff used to be like peanut butter and jelly—you couldn't have one without the other if you tried. Not that anyone ever did.
"Kept talkin' about waitin' on somethin' big," grumbles Riff as they reach Graziella's door, "an' I told him, what's bigger'n bein' a Jet? Nothin'."
Behind them, Baby John, having completely missed the conversation, is busy hyperventilating as Ice reaches out and punches the doorbell. "Nothin'," he agrees.
And then the door opens and an absolute dream walks out.
"Graz is almost ready an' Minnie'll be out in a sec," she tells Riff and Baby John, before turning to Ice and taking his hand with a smile. "Hi, honey."
There are a lot of things Ice likes about his girlfriend. Velma can really cook, for one thing; she bakes the best cake he's ever tasted. His mother thinks she's a keeper, too, and even though Ice would never admit it, her opinion matters. A lot. But, Ice thinks, the thing that he really likes about Velma is that, for a dame, she doesn't ask too many questions. Graziella, now, there's a broad that'd talk your ear off. Loud. He doesn't know how Riff stands it.
Right now, though, Ice isn't thinking about any of that. Even the earlier fight at the playground has been blown clear out of his mind. He's forgotten about the Sharks, and the war council, and the rumble that is a guarantee because right now, Ice is drinking in the sight of his girlfriend in a pale blue dress that leaves her shoulders bare and traces every curve, and he is thinking, for the millionth time, that Velma is probably the prettiest girl he's ever seen. "Damn," he says with an appreciative smile, because he knows that girls like to be complimented, and because it is completely true, "ya look good, Vee."
Velma grins up at him and winds her arms around his neck. "All for you, Daddy-O," she murmurs, and Ice's eyes are already hazing when she kisses him, long and slow. He has no clue how it happens, but as always, he loses track of time and space when he's with her, and it's only when he hears Riff's impressed whistle and Baby John's embarrassed humming that he comes back down to earth as Velma pulls back with a giggle. Ice's arm goes automatically around her waist; he doesn't want to let go.
Maybe nothing's more important than being a Jet, a dazed Ice reflects contentedly, but he's pretty damn sure he knows something that could give it a hell of a run for its money.