Disclaimer: If I owned Ice...yeah, you'd never see him again.
Note: So here we are with another song-based chapter, heh, and once again, if you have questions or comments concerning the way I chose to novelize this particular song, please let me know. I hope you like it.
For: Jerry Robbins, in an effort to appease his spirit for what I have done, and RhapsodyInProgress, for being so incredibly helpful with feedback on this chapter in particular.
Proper credit: I tweaked two unused lines from the script to appear here, and you should recognize dialogue from the movie/a song.
—viennacantabile
fell the angels
fourteen : no exit
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The four-lettered scholarship that carries a diploma in know-how—how to run, where to hide, how to ride the subway and see a movie and use a pay-phone all without paying—these knowledges that come with a city childhood of block warfare and desperate afternoons when only the cruel and clever, the swift, the brave survive—was the training that gave his eyes their agile intensity.
—Truman Capote, Summer Crossing
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"I think that you know me well enough, Watson, to understand that I am by no means a nervous man. At the same time, it is stupidity rather than courage to refuse to recognize danger when it is close upon you."
—Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, The Final Problem
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It's so quiet.
Ice, unmoving, almost thinks she hasn't heard him. And then he feels the small intake of breath and the slight motion of her body underneath him.
"What?" she asks in the stillness, and Ice swallows, fumbles for his shirt. The uncertainty, the confusion in that word is too hard to face and he doesn't want to watch, doesn't want to see her understand.
"It got outta hand when Tony showed up. An' Bernardo knifed Riff."
When Ice hears himself say it, his chest aches a little. Saying it brings it here. Saying it makes it real. And if he lets himself think about it, he can see their bodies stretched out on the pavement, all over again. He can smell the rust-sharp, iron tang of blood in the hot summer air—it won't leave him, and he wonders how she hasn't noticed—and hear that desperate cry of "Riff, don't!" ringing through the space underneath the highway. If he lets himself think about it.
But Ice's mind is a little clearer now, and he knows what he has to do. There are eleven other Jets out there tonight, and every single one of them has to be found. Every single one of them has to be kept safe, because if the Jets don't look out for their own, no one else will. Which means, he thinks, forcing his mind ahead as he tugs his shirt down and reaches for his belt, that he's got a job to do.
"Oh, God," Velma says. Her voice is hushed, horrified. And Ice, with a sense of resignation, knows now that no matter what else happens tonight, she will never look at him the same way again.
Things change, he thinks as he gets to his feet. Even the things you don't want to, ever. Even the things you thought were always going to be there. Even the things you thought would always be the same.
He doesn't want to let her go with him, but he has to. Once she's heard the details of what happened under the highway, she won't take no for an answer, no matter what he says. And if he's honest with himself, Ice is almost relieved that she mentions Graziella—as long as he's telling the truth, he needs her, too. But the one fact is reason enough to take the risk; the other isn't.
"Stay close," he warns, reaching for her hand. When they get out there, yeah, he'll do his best to make damn sure she gets back home in one piece, but he also has to do the same for the Jets, and Ice is very suddenly aware that his best just isn't enough tonight. Not for Riff. And maybe not for him.
.
It's not until they're in Doc's and under that harsh white light that it dawns on him exactly what kind of situation they're in.
With Riff dead, he thinks, there are three options. One: Ice, the former lieutenant, leads, which he guesses he can do but isn't sure he really wants to. Two: Action, as the only other Jet with a spine and half a brain, takes over, which is absolutely ridiculous and guaranteed to get the Jets knocked flat in ten seconds. And three: well, thinks Ice, in the old days, the answer would have been obvious—Tony.
But it isn't the old days, and as much as Ice doesn't really want to take over, he's not sure Tony has it in him to do it anymore. The Sharks wouldn't be afraid of him at all, not after seeing him beg off from that fight the way he did. And then there's also that horrible, stomach-churning thought that Ice keeps pushing away—that even though he didn't mean for it to happen, Tony had a lot to do with Riff's death. An awful lot.
Not intentionally, of course. But Tony didn't think things through, that's for sure, and that is exactly what the next Jet leader has to do. Think, and figure out what to do to avoid the worst.
But how could they have known? Ice wonders, as his eyes trace the shapes of the tables and chairs the Jets had occupied just hours ago, how could they have known? And he doesn't want to look at Doc, doesn't want to face him, when by the old man's warning it's almost as if he made it happen. How could Doc have known? How could he have been so sure, when none of them ever could have guessed?
"Not now," he says, and he means it. He can't think about what else the old man might know, might understand, when all that matters is where they go from here. "Doc, there ain't no time for this. Not now."
"You're just kids," Doc pleads, his voice old and tired and so raw tonight. "God help me, why can't you understand? You're just kids."
And that's the thing, Ice thinks. But for the one point of warmth radiating from his right hand, he is alone, uncertain, and so very, very cold. Riff is dead, the Jets are scattered, and Ice, on his own now, has never felt so young before. What is he supposed to do now? he wants to know, when everything he ever knew is ashes and dust in the wind?
For the first time in his life, he wishes he had a father.
.
It's somehow easier to push everything away when they get to the alley and the Jets are waiting without purpose, massed around a girl whose bright flaming hair reminds Ice of something; he can't remember what. A girl who can't stop crying because everything she ever thought she knew is a lie. Riff is dead, Ice thinks. And again, it's as if someone else very strange and very foreign is saying it. Riff is dead.
In one swift motion, Velma slips her hand out of his and goes to Graziella. She is doing her duty as his girl and her friend, he realizes with surprise and even pride, because it is not only the Jets who have been hurt tonight, and it is not only the Jets who will have a part to play in what is to come. They are all in this now.
When Tiger shuffles over and holds out a blue jacket, Ice doesn't get it. Riff, he remembers, Riff took off his jacket to fight. But why would Tiger bring it back for Ice when—
Ice stares at Tiger for a second before taking it. He hadn't even noticed, he thinks in a daze, hadn't even noticed he'd left his goddamn jacket back under the highway, where any jumped up police officer could find it and use it to prove he was there, watching Riff fall. That is exactly the kind of detail that Ice, being Ice, has to notice, or they're all dead. That is exactly the kind of detail Ice searches for when he goes over and over the night in his mind, replaying the sequence of events that resulted in a knife sticking out of his best friend's gut. And that, Ice thinks, wanting to slam his fist in the wall, is just one out of the many he had to have missed. Maybe not the one that led to all of this. But it's there, all the same.
Graziella is still wailing; Ice shifts his glance over to where Velma is holding the redhead in her arms.
God, he thinks again, stunned by the blind unfairness of it all, if he'd only just knocked Bernardo out sooner…
Ice sets his jaw and tugs his jacket back on. He is not going to miss anything else. He is the leader now, and the Jets are his responsibility. He has to keep them alive. And, he thinks—that pale moonlight washing over all their faces and glinting off one blonde head—the stakes are too high to fail again.
"Listen up," he says to them, taking a deep breath and squaring his shoulders. "This is what we're gonna do."
.
By the time Graziella has quieted and the Jets have settled into an uneasy silence, the cigarette in Velma's slack hand has faded to ash.
Ice glances at her wan, troubled face. "Everything okay?" He could be talking about the Jets' girls, or this whole night, but he figures she'll know what he means. She always does.
Velma shifts, shivers, doesn't quite meet his eyes. "It's cold," she says, answering his question with one of her own.
"Want me to see ya home?" asks Mouthpiece from just beside her, fidgeting.
Though Velma doesn't look at him, just shakes her head, by now it's instinct: Ice shoots him a glare that sends him scurrying over to the garage for even daring to think about it. The guy just doesn't seem to get that Velma is Ice's girlfriend, not Mouthpiece's, and Jet or no Jet, Ice will still clobber him if he so much as—
And then he starts to wonder.
If she did want to go home, Ice thinks, thoughts coming slower and slower, he wouldn't be able to do it himself. He has to stay here, with the boys. He can't just go off with his girl and pretend like he's got nothing to be responsible for anymore. If Riff were around, sure. Maybe he could do it then. But Riff's dead, Ice thinks grimly, and things change. This is is how it has to be.
Ice takes a long, deep drag of his cigarette and steps back. He is only just beginning to understand how things will change; now, and in the future. But there is no help for it. This is how it is. And this is how it has to be.
.
Ice, pacing up and down the alley, is almost ashamed of the little flicker of hope that runs through him when that sound pierces the air—three quick notes that anyone could whistle but only the Jets recognize as their own. There are only three of them missing, if you count Tony, and as he hurries forward, eager for something, anything to break the blank monotony of just sitting there trying to be okay when nothing is, Ice isn't sure who he wants it to be.
He whistles back, snaps his fingers to give the all-clear, and two small figures pop up over the fence and climb down. A-Rab and Baby John. Ice turns back, claps an edgy Action on the shoulder as the two Jets race over. "Stand down; just the rank-an'-file."
Turning to A-Rab and Baby John, Ice gives them the once-over. It's been at least an hour since the rumble and he'd nearly given them up for stuck in the can overnight, but they're both in one piece, at least. He grabs A-Rab by the shoulders, a little harder than he means to in his relief. "Hey, where ya been?"
"Where ya think we been, the Stork Club?" A-Rab snorts as Baby John trudges to a crate and collapses onto it.
"We thought they nabbed ya!" Snowboy explains.
"Aww, go on," scoffs A-Rab, wiping his grimy face with his sleeve.
Ice's gaze darts to the rest of the alley to confirm empty space and shadows. "Ya didn't see Tony, huh?"
A-Rab shakes his head. "Nah, nothin' but coppers."
Ice sighs and lifts his cigarette to his mouth. Of course. He's about to take a long, deep drag when he hears Action's gruff voice:
"What's wrong with him?"
Ice pivots to see A-Rab rush over to Baby John, who's turned away. "There's nothin' wrong with him, he's okay, ya get it?" the shorter boy snaps at Action. Ice furrows his brow and takes a closer look, lowering his cigarette. Usually, A-Rab gets along better with Action than anyone else does and it's strange to see the two at odds.
The short, burly Jet is surprised, too. "All right, all right!" he retorts, but Ice keeps his eyes on A-Rab. The Jet has his hands on Baby John's shoulders, bracing the kid up. There's something going on there, Ice realizes with a sigh, and it's probably his job now to figure out what.
"Maybe we oughta go home," suggests Snowboy, face despondent.
"For what?" snaps Action.
"Betcha they got him," decides Big Deal.
"Not Tony," Ice says adamantly. Tony might be dumber than he used to be, but there is no way he'd let himself get caught by the cops tonight. At least, Ice doesn't think so. Though at this point, nothing would surprise him.
"Oh, man, he was great," pipes up A-Rab, latching on to their old leader like a lucky rabbit's foot. He turns to his best friend and jogs his shoulder. "Huh, Baby John?"
Baby John finally turns around to face the rest of the Jets, face brightening, and nods. "Oh, yeah," he agrees fervently as Ice turns back to scan the night for Tony again, "he really come through for the Jets."
A-Rab grins. "Just like Riff said he—"
It's like he's fired a bullet. Ice, his back to the rest of them, stiffens, glad they can't see his face because the mention of Riff is suddenly more than he can take right now.
"—said he would," finishes a subdued A-Rab before retreating into silence.
For once, none of the other Jets has anything to say, either, and in the quiet that follows, Ice becomes aware of dry, racking sobs getting louder and louder. He sighs, and turns back around. Graziella.
"Riff," she chokes out, voice climbing into a high, keening wail. "Riff, I want Riff!"
So do we, Graz, Ice thinks grimly as he watches the redhead bury her face in Velma's waist, so do we.
None of them quite knows how to react to this, and Ice is relieved after all that he let Velma come along; there's no way he would have been able to handle Graziella without her. Most of the Jets turn away, but Mouthpiece rushes over, hands outstretched. "Come on, Graziella," he pleads, settling in next to the two girls.
"Gee," murmurs Tiger, glancing fearfully at Baby John and A-Rab over Graziella's sobs, "nobody was supposed to get—killed. It just—" He tosses his cigarette onto the concrete. There is nothing more he can say. What can you say, wonders Ice, turning back around to watch the horizon for Tony, when everything that wasn't supposed to happen did?
"They're gonna pay," growls Action.
"Them stinkin' Sharks," mutters A-Rab.
Ice glances back; he doesn't like the edge to the Jets' voices that says they are ready to go out swinging right now. Sure, Ice wants the PRs to go down, too, but he knows none of them is ready for this. They need time, they need a plan—
"Dirty fighting," agrees Snowboy helplessly.
A-Rab nods. His voice is low and sullen. "They started it—"
"So why don't we finish it?" demands Action, slicing the air with his hands.
Ice narrows his eyes. This is going too far, too fast. "Cool it, Action—"
But Action, it seems, is just warming up. "We gotta show 'em who's on top!"
Joyboy slams his fist into his hand. "The Jets!"
Ice glares at them. "Hold it—"
But it's clear Action isn't listening as the Jets chime in with their agreement. "Let's do it now!"
"Easy—"
"Don't we had enough?"
The question comes from Baby John, who seems half-terrified at his own daring as every single Jet turns to look at him.
Action, in particular, isn't happy, and makes sure to let the kid know. "Whatsa matter, you scared?"
Baby John's lip visibly trembles, but he stands his ground. "Wh—who you callin' scared?"
Ice rolls his eyes as he moves forward. The kid doesn't seem to realize that Action would happily beat him into the ground right now, and it's Ice's job to keep all of them in one piece. Including Baby John. So he grabs the boy's jacket front and pulls him away. "Kid—"
But Baby John isn't paying attention to him at all. His gaze is fastened on the squabble between A-Rab and Action which Ice has just noticed next to him. Jesus, he thinks in frustration, I turn my back for one second—
And just like that, the scuffle has erupted into a brawl, and the two Jets are at each others' throats. Ice reaches for Action. "Knock it off!" And then all of them are pushing and shoving in the chaos, trying to get the two Jets off of each other, and Ice is just wrestling Action back when there is the crash of shattering glass and a scream that Ice recognizes as Velma's.
"Shut up down there, ya dirty buncha good-for-nothings!" snarls a dark-haired, beery-eyed man from a window. "Why don'tcha go home where ya belong?"
Action struggles free and darts forward. "Who ya callin' good-for-nothin', ya loudmouth-crudhead?" Ice, unbalanced and staggering a bit, stumbles as he regains his footing. What the hell? he thinks, angry now. What the hell do they think they're doing at a time like this?
But Action isn't done yet—he- hoists up a broken piece of concrete. "Come down here an' I'll put this through your stupid face!"
And suddenly Ice has had it with this bunch. Don't they want to live past tomorrow? Barreling over to Action, he grabs the shorter Jet by the jacket and all but body-slams him in the direction of the garage, herding the rest of them inside, too. "Get inside! All of ya!"
Shouting and yelling, the Jets and their girls stumble into the darkness as Ice furiously slides the door shut behind them and turns to glare at them. "Shut up!"
But Action still rages as Ice stalks to the nearest van and fumbles through the open window with a soundless curse. "I don' have to take that from nobody! Next creep who sounds on me, I swear, the next guy who gets in my craw—"
"YOU'LL LAUGH!"
Trapped in the glow of blinding white headlights, the Jets fall silent as Ice advances on them, breathing low and fast as he looks each and every one of them in the eye. He has their attention now, and he'll be damned if he's going to waste it. Because this is not a joke anymore, and there is one thing they all have to get straight. "Yeah," Ice goes on, voice tight and deadly serious as he points at Action, "now you all better dig this, an' dig it good. No matter who or what is eatin' you—man, you show it, an' you are dead!"
The noise of a flipped switch, and the garage is bathed in more white light. He looks up and is startled to see Velma at the window of another car. That's my girl, he thinks, but doesn't let himself smile. There is no time for that anymore.
"You are cuttin' a hole in yourselves, for them to stick in a red-hot umbrella, an' open it—wide," Ice goes on. They need to get it, they need to figure the goddamn status quo out, because if they don't, there's only so much he can do. His voice quiets. "Man, you wanna get past the cops when they start askin' about tonight?" He pauses and glances around before straightening up and taking a deep breath. There is only one answer to this. "Ya play it cool." Ice swallows a bitter laugh. "Ya wanna live in this lousy world? Play it cool."
"I wanna get even!" protests Action, chopping the air.
Ice shakes his head. "Get cool."
"I wanna bust!" chimes in A-Rab.
Ice doesn't budge an inch. "Bust cool."
But Action is still rocket-hot, darting forward. "I wanna go!"
Ice grabs his arm, yanks him back. "Go cool!" The air of the garage presses close and warm on his skin and he can feel them ready to explode at any moment. They still don't get it, he thinks, casting his hard gaze around at them. They're just kids—all of them. Little boys. "You're runnin' crazy," Ice hisses at the shorter Jet as he lets him go. "Think for a second, why don't ya? You keep bustin' all your life like a hot air-balloon an' you'll be six feet under in five minutes just like them." Ice doesn't say their names, but he hears a dry sob from Graziella all the same. He's sorry for it, but for the sake of all the Jets who are still alive, it has to be said.
"You—all of you," he adds, looking around at the Jets as he searches for the words that will get through to them— "think about more'n right now, will ya? We got our whole lives in front-a us. High times, man. But ya won't get to 'em, 'less ya take it slow an' cool it."
Action snorts in disbelief. "What are ya, frontin' for Glad Hand?" And he slams his fists onto the hood of a car; the metallic thud echoes in the claustrophobic garage.
Ice whirls on him. "Easy, Action!" he warns, watching the hot-tempered boy with narrowed eyes. When he's sure the Jet isn't going to bolt, he settles back a bit, but doesn't relax his fierce gaze. "Look, ya wanna die an old man all cozy in bed? Or even live past eighteen?" he demands. The dark-haired boy doesn't answer, but Ice takes his silence for assent and, frustrated, snaps his fingers for emphasis. "Then play it cool. They say somethin' stupid? Treat ya like ya don't know nothin'? Don't get hot, man, just keep your mouth shut an' your head down. Live it up, sure—but play it cool."
"So you're sayin' we just sit back an' make like the Sharks didn't just—you know?" asks an incredulous A-Rab, convulsively hitting the palm of his hand with the other fist. His laugh is strangled, spastic, almost a nervous giggle. "I never figured ya for such a lousy buddy, Ice!"
Ice gives a short, razor-sharp shake of his head. "No," he barks, anger flaring. "I'm sayin' we gotta think first, 'fore we run out with guns blazin' an' go down in flames. You think I didn't just see what you saw out there? 'Course I did. An' I wanna get the Sharks just as much as all of ya." He glares around at all of them. "An' we will. Later. But we ain't gonna do it if we yo-yo around like jumped-up snot-nosed little kids first!"
A-Rab looks vaguely reassured—at least his hands pause—but the boy next to him does not. "How're we gonna do it, then?" asks Baby John, voice quavering. "What else can we do that we ain't already done?"
Ice swings around to eye him. "It's gonna take time, an' a plan."
"What kinda plan?" Snowboy asks, hands jammed in his pockets, pacing up and down the narrow path between two cars. He gives Ice a helpless look. "Gee, I don't know what—"
"Well, I do," Ice replies, voice surer than he feels. "An' I'll let ya know what kinda plan, soon's I think of it. Stay loose, buddy-boys, an' we'll fix 'em."
"I don't care what kinda plan it is, as long's ya get them murderers who got Riff!" bursts out Graziella shrilly, her barely-in-check hysteria bubbling over again as she pushes her way over towards him. "He wasn't even s'posed to be fightin', an' he—those knives—you get those dirty bastards, Ice, I don't care how!"
It's not the first time Graziella's said it tonight, and now, as before, Velma turns her eyes to him even as she hurries through the Jets to her best friend, followed by a distressed Minnie, though Bernice hangs back. But Ice avoids her gaze. He knows what she is trying to tell him, and he's not any more convinced than he was out in the humid summer night. Everything looks different from where she stands.
"We will," he repeats grimly, snapping his fingers in an offbeat, restless staccato as his mind darts ahead, trying to think of all the ways this already fucked-up night can get even worse. If he can imagine it, he can prevent it, Ice thinks (which he supposes was the problem before: no one ever would have supposed Tony would show up to do what he did, not in a million years). It's not just the Jets here tonight, there are four girls, too, and Ice has to calculate them into every possibility he thinks up. He's positive he can count on at least two of them to keep it together and stay calm, but fifty percent guaranteed is not good enough tonight. Ice needs to be absolutely sure of all of them.
"Look, all that I just said to them?" he says, pale eyes traveling from Graziella, over to Minnie, back to Bernice, and last of all to Velma. "Goes double for you. Easy does it," he reminds them again. "If they're dumb the coppers'll leave our girls alone, but since this ain't exactly your regular rumble as went down tonight, I ain't countin' on that. They're gonna be askin' ya what ya know about it. 'Specially you," he adds to Minnie, the police officer's daughter, "an' ya gotta remember to play it cool. Don't let 'em think you're rattled. Remember: you don't know anythin'. Got it?"
Silent nods from the four girls. And only Velma's, slow and measured, doesn't look afraid of him. Her gaze doesn't leave him; Ice has to look away first. He wants—well, there's no time for what he wants now.
Graziella's sobs are coming in short, shallow gasps, still, and Ice catches Tiger's eye, jerks his head at the redhead. Eyes widening, Tiger hurries over and puts his arm around Graziella, tentatively murmuring what Ice supposes must be Tiger's idea of comfort. She gives a shaky nod, gulping visibly, and takes a deep breath. She was a Jet's girl, Ice remembers, and even she understands what is expected of that title.
Snowboy, seeing this, taps Mouthpiece on the shoulder and they tag along over to Minnie and Bernice to likewise offer shoulders to cry on. But Mouthpiece bypasses the brunette and makes a beeline for Velma instead. Ice's eyes narrow as the tall, blond, lanky Jet clumsily pats his leader's girlfriend on the back—now, more than ever, Ice heartily regrets his hard-won self-control. But though he'd like nothing more than to slam his fist into Mouthpiece's dopey face for even touching Velma, Ice has been through this before and he knows that now is not the time. The Jets are balanced on a razor-sharp knife edge right now, and if he loses them, everything will go to hell.
So Ice tears his eyes away from his girlfriend, focuses back on the Jets and inhales deep and slow, forcing himself to concentrate on what he has to do. "Look, all of ya—turn off the juice, right now. Think easy, breezy, freezy cool, an' we'll make it through an' live to get 'em later." He glances at a twitchy, jumpy A-Rab. "Got it, A-Rab?"
The younger Jet gives a short jerk of the head, stuffing his hands in his pockets. He gives a chuckle like he still can't believe this whole messed-up night. "Sure, Ice."
Ice turns to silent, stone-faced Gee-Tar and Big Deal in the back. "Buddy-boys?"
Gee-Tar nods, and Big Deal moves over to clap his leader on the shoulder. "Dig, Daddy-O."
The title is his now, Ice realizes. Just another thing that has changed tonight. He glances around. "Joyboy? Snowboy, Mouthpiece, Tiger?"
All four of them make some kind of movement, gesture, sound, that means yes, we are going to follow you, and yes, we are going to do what you say, because at this point, there's not really much choice. That's good enough for Ice, at least for now.
He turns to Baby John, but the kid is already offering up a tremulous nod. Things are really shot to pieces when Baby John is on board, Ice thinks with a sigh, but at this moment, it's better to err on the side of caution. At least until they find Tony and figure out what to do.
Last of all, Ice focuses on a restless Action, who has been quiet for the last few minutes. "Action?"
The Jet avoids his gaze, shifting from side to side. The harsh beam of the headlights throws him into sharp relief. "I don't like—"
"Action," Ice cuts in, his voice like steel. "Ya either got it, or ya don't. An' if ya don't—" He pauses, then forges on, because if the Jets are going to survive, they all need to understand this one simple thing. "You'll get out."
It's the first time Ice—or any of them, really—has laid down the law on Action like that, and the silence is louder than anything he's ever heard before. The Jets are all staring, wondering if Action is going to push back, challenge for leadership not even two hours after Ice has taken it. And Ice, to be honest, is not so sure about this himself.
Action glares at him for a long moment, dark gaze furious and resentful and wary, but at last, he gives a slow nod. "Got it," he mutters.
Breathing a mental sigh of relief, Ice pivots slowly on his heel, glancing one last time at each and every one of them, boy and girl. He is reassured by what he sees. They are—if not exactly cool—not in any danger of bursting like the Fourth of July anymore.
"Okay," he says slowly, deliberately, gripping Action's shoulder. "Let's go."
As he turns and leads the Jets back to the way they came in, Ice's gaze flashes to the letters painted in red on the door in front of him. He has never been superstitious, but the phrase written there is an all too real idea of what they are up against. No exit. No way out. Buddy, thinks Ice with a silent, bitter laugh as the words burn themselves into his mind, you've got that right.
He is the leader, though, and it is his job to make damn sure they find their path out of this mess. And so Ice reaches for the heavy door, pushes it open with the grating of metal on metal, and guides the Jets out of the concrete garage and into the blackness of the summer night, careful steps punctuated by the occasional edgy growl from the boys behind him. But Ice doesn't look back. If they haven't gotten it by now, they never will.
The air outside the garage is cool relief against his damp skin. Ice breathes in, long and slow, and tastes the faint metallic dampness in the air. Judging from the dull glow of the streetlights reflecting off the damp pavement, it has only just stopped raining. Riff or no Riff, best friend or no best friend, he supposes, the world around them keeps moving forward. It's not even two hours past, and already everything looks different.
At the crunch of shattered glass underfoot, he pauses, following the bright gleaming shards' route back up the brick wall and to the unbroken glass above. The Jets, too, stop and stare for a long moment, until Action makes a pistol with his thumb and forefinger and aims it at the window.
"Pow!" he whispers, and Ice, although he wonders uneasily if this is a promise for later, jerks his head and begins to move again.
"Hey, where we goin'?" Baby John wants to know as they spill out from the alley and into the glimmering street.
"Look, if we lay low, the coppers're gonna smell fish," Ice explains, mind racing forward, "so the first thing we do—"
"Hey, buddy-boys!"
Ice glances back and sees a familiar skinny figure chasing after them. Great, he thinks, Anybodys. Just who they need right now.
"Aww, go wear a skirt," Action jeers.
Anybodys will have none of this. "Aww, I got scabby knees. Listen!"
Ice doesn't particularly feel like it. "The first thing we do, we start showin' around, like we got nothin' to hide—"
"Well, supposin' they ask us about the rumble?" A-Rab asks over Anybodys's shouts.
But before Ice can answer, Anybodys finally gets her opening, racing around the Jets to stop right in front of him: "Supposin' they ask ya where's Tony, an' what party's lookin' for him—with a gun!"
At this last word, Ice narrows his eyes. "Hey, you know somethin'?"
Anybodys smirks a little and starts to turn away. "I know I gotta go get a skirt."
Annoyed, Ice seizes her arm and yanks her back. "Come on, Anybodys!"
"Aww, what's the freak know?" scoffs A-Rab.
Anybodys whips her head around to glare at him. "Plenty. I figured somebody oughta infiltrate PR territory an' spy around." Her voice takes on a dramatic cast. "I'm very large with shadows, y'know—I can slip in an' outta them like wind through a fence!"
Ice rolls his eyes, wondering why she is choosing now to test his patience when he has so little of it left. The Jets, from the looks of it, aren't too impressed either.
"Hoo, boy, is she ever makin' the most of it!" snorts Snowboy.
Anybodys whirls around. "You bet your fat A, I am!"
Fed up, Ice grabs the front of her shirt. They don't have time for her little games tonight, especially if she's telling the truth; doesn't she get it? "Spill it!"
"Okay," Anybodys snaps, yanking her arm back. "I hear Chino tell the Sharks somethin' about Tony an' Bernardo's sister. An' then I hear Chino say, if it's the last thing I do, I'm gonna get that Polack. An' then—he pulls out the bad news." She makes a pistol with her thumb and forefinger, the gesture echoing Action's from minutes ago, and gazes at it, blue eyes troubled. Ice stares at her. Suddenly he feels like he's going to be sick. Not Tony. Not him, too.
"Gee," breathes Baby John.
A-Rab throws his hands up. "What'd I tell ya; them PRs won't stop—"
And Action, apparently having forgotten everything Ice said in the garage, voices his agreement. "'Til we stop 'em!"
"Hold it!" Ice barks, gritting his teeth. Not this again, he thinks, frustrated. Right now, they have more important things to think about. Like keeping one of their own alive and bullet-free. "Now, listen—Tony come through for us; we gotta come through for Tony. We gotta find him before Chino finds him."
"And burns him!" Snowboy adds fearfully.
"You guys cover the river!" Ice orders, and Joyboy, Mouthpiece, and Tiger race off into the night. "Snowboy, get over to the docks."
"I'll take the back alleys," volunteers Baby John, dashing away.
"I an' Graziella will take to the streets," Velma tells him. Ice briefly locks eyes with her before she goes, but there's no time for more than a quick, "Right." One by one, the places where Tony might be are divided: Gee-Tar takes the Park, Big Deal the schoolyard, A-Rab and Action the playground. After all the Jets have gone, Ice is breaking into a run when he hears Anybodys's shout.
"Hey, what about me?"
Ice wheels around and advances on the short, skinny girl, looking her up and down. "You?"
She nods almost shyly. "Uh-huh."
Ice lifts his hand and darts a quick, serpentine motion through the air. "In an' outta the shadows. Maybe you'll find Tony in one-a them."
"Right!" Anybodys agrees excitedly, and as she starts to rocket away, it's Ice's turn to raise his voice.
"Hey!"
Anybodys stops, turns around, blue eyes eager for an order.
Ice sizes her up. They're a man down, now, and he has to admit, the kid has a head on her shoulders. Even if it's a girl's head. He gives a short nod of grudging respect. "Ya done good, buddy-boy."
It's probably the first time he's ever seen her smile, and he's struck by how much younger she looks when she's not scowling her head off. "Thanks—Daddy-O!" she breathes, before sprinting off faster than he's ever seen her go before.
He stares after her for a moment. She's a good kid, he supposes, cracking a half-smile, a lot better than she lets on. Which maybe might mean she'd work as a Jet. Maybe. She's no Riff, thinks Ice with a sigh as he lopes off into the darkness, but then, no one ever will be.