Disclaimer: Those WSS copyrighters are more awesome than ever because now the movie is going to be on BLU-RAY with even more goodies than the DVD special edition! Yesss.
Note: If you feel the need for musical accompaniment, I'd highly suggest Dmitri Shostakovich's Symphony No. 5 in D minor, movements 1, 3, and 4. Thanks for your patience, and thank you for reading. :)
Proper credit: The previously mentioned composer, and Stephen King! On Writing is very inspirational.
—viennacantabile
fell the angels
twenty-four : the hands of the clock
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No time to grieve for roses, when the forests are burning.
—Juliusz Słowacki
.
Not just the space we call consciousness, but the space where we retire in order to avoid a feeling, the touch of a lover, the pleas of a friend, the threat of intimacy. Distance. Darkness dotted by stars.
—William H. Gass, Reading Rilke
.
Morning.
Ice sits still and quiet at the edge of the window, peering out into the sky. He's been up for hours, waiting, staring into a dim foggy grayness he can hardly tell from the buildings, but there isn't any sun today. It looks like it might rain later, some distant part of him thinks as he registers the faint noise of cars passing by. He can just see the curve of the highway from here, cutting through the clouds.
Ice isn't a dreamer. In twenty years he's never wanted to know, has never once been the kind of person who dreams of what lies beyond the horizon, like Tony. He can't afford it. But now—now Ice stares out at the open road buried in the sky and thinks about where it leads. Where it ends.
He is not afraid. But still he wonders what it's like, out of the city. He wonders if it's different. He wonders if he could breathe out there.
"Ice?"
Her voice seems so far away that it takes him a moment to turn around and see her, standing like a ghost at his side. "Vee."
"How long've you been up?" she asks, drawing her robe closer to her body and stifling a yawn. "Did you sleep at all?"
"Enough," he shrugs, and glances back out the window, wishing the sun would come out. It won't make a difference, he knows, or shouldn't, but—even so.
"I think my parents're awake," Velma says. "But if ya want somethin' to eat I can—"
He shakes his head. It's hours and hours before he has to worry about full stomachs and punches to the gut but still he doesn't want anything. "Maybe later."
She stiffens, and as her voice goes flat Ice realizes that she's only now remembering what day it is. "Oh. Right."
Ice turns to face her, and studies the way her hand tucks her hair behind her ear, the way her gaze skitters away from his. He's explained the whole thing to her twice since climbing into her room last night, and he knows she understands, or at least as much as she ever will, but it doesn't make leaving any easier. Sunset. The stationhouse. Pipes. The Reds. And Reaper. If any girl really understood all that it'd be a miracle.
"Listen," he says, taking her hand, "don't come by Doc's later. Stay home, or with Graz and the kid or somethin'. I don't want you walkin' around by yourself. Not today."
Velma stares out the window, and he'd almost believe it doesn't matter to her if not for the way she's folded her arms tight against her waist, knuckles showing white. "Okay."
She still won't look at him. He doesn't know if that's better or worse than her trying to talk him out of it, if this controlled resignation she's learned isn't somehow more frightening. Velma might be from the East Side but in the almost two years since she's moved here she's become as good at this as any gang leader's girl as he's ever seen. Maybe better, even, if it comes to that, because in the end, no matter what they say, they never really stop trying to hold you back.
Ice waits for another moment, then figures out she's not going to say anything he wants to hear. "I better go," he says at last. He can't think about this right now, not when so much else is at stake. It's time to go. To plan, and to wait, and later—to win. "The guys'll be formin' up."
He's just landed on the fire escape when a hand on his shoulder pulls him back. Velma, framed in the window, gazes at him, and she says just two words.
"Come back."
"I will," Ice says, his words as strong and sure as he can make them. "I will, Vee, I swear."
"You'd better," she says, and for a moment, her expression wavers and she inhales, biting her lip. "God, Ice, if you don't I swear there won't be enough left for the Reds when I'm done with you—"
He kisses her then, and rips himself away almost as soon as he does, and it's not until he's down the fire escape and around the corner and out of sight of her window that Ice stops and clenches his teeth, fists, heart thudding in his chest. He will. He will. He has to.
"See ya," he says to the air.
And for the first time in almost two years there is no answer.
.
"Nothin'," reports Anybodys at noon, her mouth twisted up into a frown as she hurries into the candy store. "Went over the whole place with a fine-tooth comb, yesterday an' this mornin'. They got nothin' up there 'cept some junk piled up by the walls."
"Nothin'," repeats Ice, turning this over in his mind. He doesn't buy it. Not with this gang. He glances around Doc's at the Jets. Everyone but Tiger and Baby John is already here, lounging on chairs and stools, waiting out the hours. If not for the occasional show of nerves, it could be any other day, any other moment.
"That's almost worse," Big Deal says, his voice cautious. "These guys, I'd rather know what they was up to."
"You'n me both, buddy," says Ice, furrowing his brow. The roof of the police station. It's too good a location, and the reasons for picking it make too much sense. He doesn't quite trust it. And he definitely doesn't trust the Reds, let alone Reaper.
Reaper.
Why? he wonders, his mind coming back to the question that has occurred to him more and more over the last month. Why did Reaper eliminate the other two gangs if all he wanted was the territory? Why didn't he just let the Jets, the Musclers, and the Vipers fight and finish each other off? Why didn't he just take Ice out to begin with? It's what Ice would have done. Why did Reaper wait?
It shouldn't matter, he thinks, passing his hand over his eyes. It shouldn't, except that none of it makes sense, any of it, and if there is some clue to the way the Soviets work that will help the Jets win, then Ice will take it.
"Ya think they're gonna shove us off the top or somethin'?" asks Snowboy, tipping back his chair and unwrapping his lollipop.
"I would," snickers A-Rab, aiming a kick at the chair. Snowboy makes an impressive show of flailing around before just barely regaining his balance. Joyboy takes the opportunity to swipe the lollipop right out of his twin's hand and pop it in his own mouth.
Snowboy, feet tipping back onto the floor, glances at his empty hand and blinks. "Yeah, well, you'd probably land in the garbage can doin' it," he says, giving a philosophical shrug. "Anybody got some comics?"
"Where's the kid, anyway?" asks Action, rubbing his fist against his palm. He's as tense as ever, and Ice hopes, against all odds, that they make it through the next half-day without him exploding. They'll need him later. "He playin' hooky, or what?"
"Prob'ly with Minnie," Mouthpiece says cheerfully. "Playin' mice or somethin'."
Action snorts. "He would. Jesus, I bet he's off autographin' PR alleys again."
Ice stares at the table. PR alleys. It seems so long ago, he thinks, that they were setting up big plans for the Sharks. And it was, he realizes, startled. Ten months now. He glances around at the Jets, clumped around in their usual groups, seeing them with the eyes of a year ago. Mouthpiece, Tiger, and Gee-Tar in the back. Action, A-Rab, and Anybodys between the dartboard and the pinball machine. Snowboy and Joyboy at the counter. Ice and Big Deal at the corner table. All their names written up on the walls. Nothing's changed, everything's changed.
"Least he'd be doin' somethin'," says Anybodys, "not like some people who're sittin' around just talkin' about it."
Surprised, Ice looks up to see her narrow her eyes at Action, a flash of resentment in her gaze. Sure, she's used to talking that way to A-Rab and whichever Jet will let her, but even Anybodys knows better than to set Action off like that. Especially today.
The boy wheels around and starts for the girl with a growl. "Listen, you little—"
"Cool it," Ice says, getting to his feet as a defiant Anybodys holds her ground. "Both-a ya."
Action glares at him. "Just 'cause you let her hang around don't mean she can talk to me like that!"
"Yeah, well," says Ice, staring right back as the rest of the Jets sit up, "I let her hang around 'cause she's a Jet. Same for you." He glances at Anybodys. "Action's here 'stead of out causin' trouble 'cause that's where I told him to be. He followed orders, so did you."
Anybodys looks down at her feet. "Yeah, so?"
"So," says Ice, "since you're both Jets, the only people you're gonna be fightin' today are Reds. Got it?"
Neither of them move. And Ice shakes his head.
"You act like that, an' the Reds'll get ya for sure," he says. "An' 'less you get that, you're skippin' the rumble."
Action lets out a snort. "Like hell we're skippin' the rumble. You'd be two men down, an' they ain't no pushovers. You ain't that stupid."
"I mean it," Ice says, his voice grim. His gaze doesn't waver. "Ya gotta keep your heads, no matter what happens. If ya don't, it's too much of a risk, takin' ya."
Action, after a moment, is the first to give in. "Fine," he mutters, and stalks off to yank the darts off the board as the other Jets lose interest. Anybodys, on the other hand, looks wary.
"Fight the Reds later. Them's marchin' orders, right?"
"Yeah," says Ice. "An' look out for the other Jets." He waits for another retort from the girl, but she just looks away.
"Okay."
"You forgot one," growls Action, and Ice looks up just in time to see him take aim.
"Yeah?" asks Ice. "What?"
The dart rams into the bulls-eye.
"Win."
.
About an hour or two after noon Big Deal nudges Ice. "Lunch?"
Ice shrugs. "Yeah, if ya think we can leave 'em."
This isn't as ready a yes as he'd like. The Jets, cooped up in the dark candy store, have gotten edgier since Action and Anybodys's near-fight. Snowboy's jokes are sounding forced. A-Rab's cackle is a little too loud. And Action's darts are starting to bury themselves into the wall.
Big Deal nods. "Maybe half an hour. They wouldn't mess around too much in Doc's. He's the only one older'n twenty who don't chase us off with a stick every time we come by." He glances around. "Where is Doc, anyway?"
"Don't know," says Ice, but he does. The old man isn't dumb, after all, and it wouldn't be too hard to figure out what's going to happen tonight. Maybe he just doesn't want the reminder. "Okay, we'll go someplace close."
They leave Action and Joyboy loosening the screws on their pipes. The idea, Snowboy has explained, is to get them to stick up, like nails. The hit'll hurt even more but still count as just pipes. Bending, not breaking. Even though it doesn't seem like the Reds care much about rules anyway.
"So," Big Deal says once they're settled in at his brother-in-law's restaurant, "what d'ya figure them for?"
Ice doesn't have to ask who. "Hell if I know. They're crazy Soviets; that's bad enough."
Big Deal takes a bite of his burger. "Why here, though?" he asks, dipping a fry into ketchup. "Mosta them don't go to our school, an' the docks ain't too close, neither. Why bother?"
Ice shakes his head. "Wish I knew why. They don't go by the rules, though, so I guess poachin' on some territory they don't need makes some sorta sense." He thinks for a moment, surprised. "Even the Sharks followed the rules."
His lieutenant snorts. "Sure. They wanted to be Americans, right? The Reds don't." He gestures with his burger. "You gonna eat or what?"
Ice, looking down at his full plate, shrugs. "Guess I ain't that hungry."
"Suit yourself," his lieutenant says, and tosses a fry back. "We got ages 'til it gets dark."
Ice half-smiles. "I can't ever figure out if the day goes quicker or slower when there's rumbles later."
"Both," says Big Deal, wiping ketchup off his face. He hesitates. "I guess it don't matter. Since it always ends up gettin' here the same way anyway."
Ice thinks of shivering in the heat of the garage and takes a long sip of water. "Jesus," he says, shaking his head. "I hope not."
.
By the time they get back, three girls are sitting around Doc's.
It's just Pauline, Clarice, and Minnie today. Graziella and Bernice are probably on baby duty, and Velma, well—
He's glad he told her to stay away, Ice thinks, because if he hadn't, it would have been so much harder acting as though nothing is wrong. And it is wrong. He doesn't want to do this. He doesn't have a choice, though. And if they back out now—
For the other Jets, anyway, the girls are a welcome distraction. Clarice busies herself with Big Deal, and Pauline, being Pauline, takes care of the rest while a disgusted Anybodys makes faces at them. It takes Ice a moment, though to realize that Minnie is standing in front of him, her face worried.
"Ice," she says, "I haven't seen Johnny all day."
The Jet captain stares up at her. "Ya haven't?"
"No," she says, twisting her hands. "Not once. You don't think one of the Communists—"
"Ain't no reason to," says Ice, his voice firm. He assumes Minnie knows about the rumble, though it wouldn't be unlike the girls to try and hide it from her. By now, though, Ice is pretty sure Minnie gets that life isn't all sunshine and roses and he figures she's here for the same reason Clarice is. "Not when they've got tonight. He's probably just off doin' somethin' for his ma or Doc or someone."
"Oh, yes," Minnie says, her gaze falling. "He—he'll be all right tonight, though, won't he? You'll take care of him?"
"Sure," he says, turning up the corners of his mouth. "He won't need it—but he's a Jet an' we take care-a Jets around here, Minnie."
The smile on his face feels pasted on and wrong, but Minnie, who has perked back up, doesn't seem to notice. "Thank you, Ice."
She believes him, he thinks, amazed, she really believes him. Well, that's one person, at least.
"You'll win," she says. "I know it."
Ice picks up the deck of cards and shuffles before he looks up and tries to remember the endless optimism of that summer.
"Yeah," he says, his gaze drifting to the cellar door. What he remembers, now and always, is the flicker of a cigarette lighter in the darkness. "Count on it."
.
Around five-thirty, Tiger comes panting in, offering excuses about work and his kid and it's not that Ice doesn't believe him, but—
"Hey, Tiger," he says after the seventh apology, stopping him mid-sentence. "We got a rumble comin' up. Right, buddy-boy?
The redhead frowns. "Right, Daddy-O."
"So look, it ain't that I don't get it," Ice tells him, although that's stretching it a bit, "I do. It's just if you keep goin' over about all that other stuff while you're fightin', it'll slow ya down. Distract ya." It's as much a reminder for himself as it is for the other Jet. "You can't think about nothin' but the Reds from now on. Not work, not Graz, not your kid. Okay?"
Tiger looks confused for a moment, then nods, slowly. "Okay, Ice."
"Trust me," Ice says, thinking of the way Tony's fists shook under the highway that night. "You're better off."
"You believe that?" Big Deal asks in an undertone as Tiger plops down next to Mouthpiece.
"Yeah," says Ice. If he didn't it wouldn't be this hard. "I gotta."
.
He remembers this, too, Ice thinks a little while later as the girls flirt and the Jets crack jokes. The waiting, and the talking, and the laughing. Whiling away time, trying to hurry it up and slow it down all at once. And the tension threatening to boil up underneath it all.
"Will you cut it out?"
Ice, glancing over to where a livid Action is dumping a snickering Pauline out of his lap, sighs. He's been wondering how long Action would take her sudden habit of twirling her fingers in his hair. Not long, apparently. In any case… Ice checks his watch. It's probably time for the girls to be going, anyway.
When he snaps his fingers they huff and make faces but they don't argue. None of them, after all, is Graziella and by now they know that Ice means both what he says and doesn't say. Only Minnie lingers, for a moment.
"Good luck," she says, looking him straight in the eye.
"I'll tell him," says Ice, his mind already skipping ahead. "Don't worry."
"Oh, no," she says, then blushes when Ice glances at her. "I mean, yes, please do, but I mean you, too, Ice. Good luck."
Ice stares at her. He doesn't know how she does it, how she cares about absolutely everyone all the time. How it doesn't break her in half. "Yeah," he says slowly. There is another girl there in his mind, now. Another girl who used to be like Minnie, but lost all of that with a gunshot. "Thanks."
He can say all he likes about it not happening again, he thinks, but in the end, it would only take a moment. And all he can do is hope that this time, luck is on their side tonight.
.
Baby John finally makes it in at a quarter to seven. He's not alone.
"So," Schrank says, towing the youngest Jet, who looks a little banged up, behind him. "Taking on the Commies, all by yourselves. How about that."
Ice's gaze darts to Baby John, who gives a covert shake of the head as Schrank dumps him onto a stool. I didn't say nothin', he mouths, looking painfully earnest as ever, and from this the Jets take their cue.
"Why, it's our civic duty, Lieutenant!" Snowboy answers with a saintlike smile, then pauses. "If we was to be doin' somethin' about the dangers of communism, sir. Which we wasn't. Was we, Jets?"
"Yeah," A-Rab cackles. "We're good little boys. We wait for permission to do our good deeds, see? Now how's about givin' it to us? We clean up real nice, y'know."
Schrank isn't amused. Leaning forward, he speaks through gritted teeth. "What I'm doing is giving you permission to spill your guts before the Commies do it for you." He shakes his head. "What, you think I want more dead kids? Soviets taking over the beat? Tell me what you're planning, and I'll clear the Reds outta here for you. Scout's honor."
If Ice were a different kind of guy—someone like Schrank, someone who never belonged in a gang at all, never understood what it meant—he'd sing like a bird right now. Tell him about the Soviets. About Reaper. Shift the blame. Let the cops take care of a gang that wants to take care of the Jets.
But he's not, and if there's only one thing Ice has learned from his years in the gang, it's that you can't trust a cop. So he just shrugs.
"I never met a decent boy scout in my life, Lieutenant. So I don't know what you're talkin' about." He doesn't even try to extend his smile to his eyes. "I don't guess you do, neither."
Schrank's jaw clenches, and Ice can tell just how much the detective wants to hit him. Go ahead, he thinks, the blood rushing through his veins as he realizes what it must be like to be Action all the time. You punch first, and it's just self-defense, right?
But the lieutenant doesn't. Instead he leans forward, snarls through gritted teeth.
"You kids," he says, looking around at all of them, voice rising. "You goddamn kids. You have knives and guns, sure, but you don't have brains, do ya? Because you never learn. Fine," he spits, "fine. I've been too soft with you hooligans, anyway. You'd better watch it tonight," he says, eyes narrowed, "because if I find you and those Commie kids doing anything more than playing hopscotch? I might just help finish you off myself."
And he stalks out of the candy store. Ice, watching him go, keeps his face still until he's sure the lieutenant is gone.
"Geez Louise," says Anybodys with a snort. "What crawled up his ass and died?"
"Sure we can't go for him instead, Ice?" asks A-Rab, a sullen look on his face. "Commie or not, none-a those Reds got a mouth like Schrank."
Ice shakes his head. "He's just tryin' to scare us, is all. Baby John, what happened?"
"He picked me up this morning," the kid says, wiping some of the dirt from his face with his sleeve. "Said he wanted to know why we was suddenly gettin' all patriotic. I didn't tell him nothin'," Baby John adds quickly. "He already knew."
Ice sighs. It's not unexpected, given the increase of police activity lately, but it does complicate things a little. "Looks like the walls do got ears. Some do-gooder musta seen us down by the docks an' gotten suspicious."
"It don't matter," says Action, shoving his last dart into the board as he hurries over. "Schrank just better hope he don't come near us tonight."
"He definitely don't know the place," Baby John says, brightening. "He was radioin' Krupke 'bout covering the docks an' the Park on the way over."
"Whaddaya know," says Anybodys, and Ice could swear he sees a tiny gleam of triumph in her eyes. "He was off bein' useful."
"Yeah," says Ice, before Action has time to do anything, "an' now he's here, so let's talk the rumble."
All across the room, the Jets sit up and scoot forward with interested gazes.
"Yeah? What's your plan, big man?" asks Action, cracking his knuckles. Ice gives him a sharp glance, then decides to let it slide. At any other time it'd sound like a challenge, but even Action wouldn't pull a fast one right before a rumble. He's nervous, they're all nervous. It's to be expected.
"Right. Here's what we do," Ice says, leaning forward. "Action, I want you an' Big Deal on Claw. Do whatever ya gotta do, but get him outta commission so's he can't sneak up on us later. Snowboy, Joyboy, you take Razor. I hear he's real smart, but he's skinny, too, so I figure he ain't a match for you both."
The twins nod, trading identical grins, and Ice glances toward the back, toward the Jets whose size will match their opponents'. "Tiger and Mouthpiece get Saber and Blade. Those Reds are good, but they don't got a lotta practice fightin' you two an' that'll keep 'em guessin' long enough for you to take 'em out. Tiger, you used to play baseball?"
"Yeah," says the redhead. "Long enough to learn how to swing a bat, anyhow."
"Close enough to a pipe. Give Mouthpiece a couple pointers," orders Ice, satisfied, and turns to Gee-Tar. "Pick's yours. He's little, but I've seen him with that ice pick he got his name from an' I don't guess he's gonna leave that thing at home today. You got the better reach. Don't let him close enough to use it."
Ice turns to the kids. "A-Rab, you do what you do best. Go for Snapper an' mouth off, get him so mad he can't see straight, let alone land a punch on ya, an' then get him. Anybodys, Baby John—you take care of Pinch an' Switch, in that order."
Anybodys slumps against the pole. "Aww, Ice, can't I go for Claw, too? Whalin' on that mouthy little brat's almost as bad as whalin' on the girly blond one!"
Baby John looks offended. "Hey!"
"Not you, the Commie kid you're s'posed to be gettin'," Anybodys says, rolling her eyes as A-Rab cracks up and even Action snorts. "C'mon, Ice!"
"No," says the Jet captain, shaking his head, amused in spite of himself. "That kid's small enough to run around an' cause trouble for all of us while we're tryin' to fight. He's done it before. I ain't gonna let us go down just 'cause we didn't take care-a him, too." He half-smiles. "Anyway no one else's quick enough to keep up with him."
"Well—what about you?" asks Anybodys swiftly, sounding a little less miffed. "You just gonna sit around smellin' roses or what?"
"I'm gonna take out Reaper," Ice says, determination flooding him. "One way or another."
Big Deal lets out a low whistle. "Cap, I think you oughta be more worried about that Claw character," he says, looking uneasy. "Reaper's bad, sure, but Claw's got a couple screws loose, the way he runs around takin' whacks at us. He don't even notice when he gets hit."
Action snorts. "Well, if you're chicken, I can take him."
"I ain't chicken," Big Deal says, shaking his head. "I just don't wanna end up with more smile than I already got, is all."
"No," says Ice, keeping his gaze level. He's gone over and over this, and keeping to the plan is how they can win. He's sure of it. "Claw's a piece-a work, but he ain't nothin' without Reaper. Does whatever he says. We get Reaper outta the way, an' Claw an' the Reds'll be runnin' scared." He clears his throat. "An' between the two of you, Claw don't stand a chance."
Ice watches as the Jets absorb this, trading chuckles and glances. Most of them don't look any more worried than they did before their last rumble, he thinks. They believe they'll win. Just like he always used to.
"One question," says Big Deal, who looks mostly reassured. "We stickin' to pipes an' only pipes?"
Ice has thought long and hard about this, and though it doesn't sit well with him he knows there's only one answer.
"No," he says. "I ain't dumb enough to think they will, so we ain't gonna neither. But," he says, sharpening his voice, "same as always. It ain't gonna be us who starts it. Once they do, we'll get 'em hard an' fast, Jets," he says, "an' we'll take 'em out."
Ice glances around. "We clear? About that, an' the plan?"
Ten heads nod, and the Jet captain gets to his feet.
"Now," he says, jerking his head toward the door, "we load up."
They don't go through the stairway down into the cellar. Instead, as they have always done, the Jets tramp outside, through the alley, and around the back to the rear entrance to their armory. Doc doesn't stay in the front so much, anymore, and he probably wouldn't hear them on the stairs from his room above the store, but even so, old habits die hard.
Ice waits til the other Jets have busied themselves in filling their pockets with weapons before asking. "What's goin' on, buddy-boy?"
Baby John looks up at him, a flush of guilt staining his cheeks. "Whaddaya mean, Daddy-O? I told ya everything that happened."
"Not that. You know what I mean," says Ice. He hasn't been able to put his finger on why, but Baby John has been acting different lately. It's not just that the kid didn't give up the dirt on the rumble, or that he's been holding his own against Action's taunts. Something else, too. "Doc been gettin' to ya or somethin'?"
Baby John jerks his head up. "He say somethin' to ya?"
In spite of himself, Ice is amused. "Nah. Just a guess."
The boy shrugs his shoulders, a helpless look on his face. "So I help him out at the store sometimes. He's old, Ice. An' he pays. Not much, but I get free Cokes," he adds. It seems almost an afterthought. "What's it matter?"
"It don't, I guess," says Ice, although for some reason—it doesn't bother him, exactly. It just makes him uneasy, especially when he remembers that Tony started out the same way. "Anyway I just wanted to know."
"Say, Ice," Baby John says, blue eyes wide. "Are you scared?"
Ice glances at him. He remembers wondering, a lifetime ago, whether he was ever like Baby John. And now he thinks he was, more than he or anyone else ever would have guessed.
"No," Baby John answers, his voice confident. "No, I know you ain't scared, Ice. You're the captain."
"Captains don't get scared, huh," Ice says with a half-smile. "Guess that's a good thing."
"Yeah," says the kid, sincere as ever. "Else I don't know what we'd do."
Ice hides a wince. "Well," he says, "that's fine. Just—" He hesitates. "Remember we're countin' on you too today, buddy-boy. You an' everyone else." He half-smiles. "Minnie, too. She stopped by to wish ya luck."
Baby John turns red, but gives a stout nod. "Don't worry, Ice. I won't let ya down."
Ice gazes at him and sees how Baby John's face has lost some of its roundness in the last year, how his eyes have grown older. Baby John, too. No matter how similar it all seems to the last rumble, here is a reminder that for better or worse, some things have changed.
"Yeah," he says at last, looking away. "I know."
.
Ice is the last to grab his weapon, and just before he leaves the cellar he sees Doc's bent silhouette on the staircase.
Ice stops, half-hiding the pipe behind his back. But Doc has never needed his failing eyes to see what is right in front of him.
"Don't do this, Ice," he says, his face twisting.
And Ice lifts his shoulders and drops them again, helpless, because no matter what he does, no matter what he says, there is nothing he can do to stop it now.
"It's done, Doc."
"No," says the old man, shaking his head as Ice stares at him. "For you and the Jets, it never is."
Ice shifts his gaze to the wall across from him. "Bye, Doc," he says quietly, because he has no other answer. "See ya later."
As he backs into the alley, shuts the door, and rejoins the Jets, Action scowls.
"What took ya so long?"
"Nothin'," says the Jet captain, willing his mind past the underside of a highway and forward into the night. "Let's go."
.
They take the back alleys, skirting known patrol routes as they get closer and closer to the stationhouse. It's the perfect place for a rumble, sure, but the last thing they need is to walk right up to an officer and present themselves gift-wrapped for arrest. Brass knuckles, belts, and knives are easy enough to hide, but the Jets are young and they look like trouble, even without the pipes stuffed up their jacket sleeves. Even Snowboy wouldn't be able to talk his way out of that, Ice figures, and makes sure they keep to the shadows.
He can smell thunder in the air, and it makes him uneasy. Regardless of what he's told the Jets, he doesn't believe this will be the cut-and-dried fight he's given them. The Reds just don't work that way, and Big Deal is right: not knowing what Reaper's planning is worse.
They come soon enough to the place, one street over from the stationhouse, where Anybodys has assured him that the cops never check. The Jets stop, and as Ice turns to face them he takes in their bright, avid gazes and the air in his throat dies. Because this—this is the time when the captain is supposed to talk. Say something, anything, to fire up his gang and let them know this is their time, their place, their now. Their victory. And they are looking at him, expecting him to do it, and all Ice can think is that this was never supposed to be his job.
He swallows hard, trying to think. Riff. And Tony. How did they do it? How did they always know what to say?
In the end, he can only tell them the truth.
"I could tell you how the Reds've been sneakin' in, one by one," Ice says, his voice low and hard. He remembers a lighter, and two cigarettes. "Yeah. I could tell you how they've broken every gang rule in the book. I could tell you how they think everything is theirs. Especially everything that's ours." He remembers the worst fear he's ever had, and drives his fist into his palm. Never. Never.
"But in the end it all comes down to this: there ain't room enough here for the both of us. One gang is going down. Us, or them." He pauses, locks eyes with every Jet. They're tense, pale, nervous, and sweating at last, waiting to hear what he has to say. What they have to do.
And in the end he doesn't even recognize the snarl that comes out of his throat:
"So make it them."