at the boy crossing the street. But she did it.
He was taller than the others, and although he was thin, Arleen could sense the wiry strength that was in him. Dark, curly hair gave him a boyish look which his mocking, scornful eyes and bitter mouth belied.
Her fingers touched the door handle. She opened it, and forced herself to climb without haste behind the wheel. Equally without haste, as if she were not aware of the boy walking toward her, Arleen turned the key in the switch.
She thought, “How in the world can I act unafraid, when I’m scared to death?”
The dark-haired boy’s voice was a drawl of harshness. “You going somewhere, lady?”
Arleen made herself look up at him. He was perhaps eighteen . . . nineteen. It was hard to tell, she thought. He was one of the old-young. She’d seen far too many of them in the seven weeks she’d worked in the Leland Street slum area.
“Yes,” she said, “I’m going back to the county health department; I work out of there. Then this afternoon I’m going to make more calls on sick and convalescent people who can’t afford a regular nurse.”
She was surprised to find how steady and calm her voice came out.
The boy looked undecided. He frowned, scrubbed the toe of his shoe against the side of the curb and said harshly, “They shouldn’t send women around places like this by themselves.”
Arleen said quietly, “I’m a nurse. Nurses have to go where they’re needed.”
The boy scowled at her, kicked at the gutter, then turned away. “You’d better get out of here,” he flung at her over his shoulder. “Get that heap of yours going and get out of here!”
The switch key was on, but the motor hadn’t started. Arleen’s foot trembled as she pressed it down on the starter. The motor began purring smoothly. Across the street, Arleen decided an argument was going on, and she had the uncomfortable feeling that she was the cause of it.
She shifted into low and was ready to take off when Mark Wynter’s low, pleasant voice greeted her.
“You’re gunning the motor, Miss Anderson—Arleen for short—and that’s no way to drive. Hasn’t anyone ever told you the facts about cars?”
Arleen thought she had never in her whole life heard anything more wonderful than the sound of Mark Wynter’s voice at that particular moment.
She turned to look at him, and the trembling she’d kept from her voice until now was evident as she asked, “Do you always show up at the right moment?”
His gray eyes scanned her face. “I try,” he said.
Although he did not turn his head, Arleen knew that he was aware of the three across the street. “Trouble?” he asked, his voice quiet.
Arleen still felt shaky. She said, her voice unsteady, “I was afraid there was going to be. This . . . this dark-haired boy came over to the car, but all he did was to tell me I shouldn’t be around here by myself, and I should take my car and get away from here. I don’t think the others liked his just walking away from me like that.”
Mark said slowly, “Probably not. But they’ll listen to him. Peter—that’s the boy—Peter Rossi is the leader of the Roosters, and so long as he’s their leader, they’ll do what he says.”
His voice softened. “The Roosters aren’t women attackers,” he said. “Probably what they had in mind was a little excitement for a hot, dull day. If Peter had got you scared—riled up—crying—why, it would have given them a couple of laughs.”
Arleen stared at him, shocked. “What dreadful minds they must have!”
Mark Wynter shrugged and said slowly, “What dreadful lives they have to live.”
Arleen, looking beyond the car, saw Rose Luigui swing out of the doorway of the apartment building and stroll, hips swinging in the tight skirt, across the street toward the poolhall. Immediately there was a chorus of whistles as the boys turned their full attention on her.
Arleen shook her head. “Her mother said Rose didn’t come in until four this morning. I don’t know if. . . .”
Mark cut in savagely, “It’s probably not the first time, and it won’t be the last. Rose is intelligent. She’s got it in her to make something of herself, if she had the chance. But she won’t get the chance, and she’ll go down and down.”
He straightened his shoulders; sighed. “Peter Rossi is intelligent, too,” he said. “He wanted to go to high school, but he couldn’t make it. Now he doesn’t care—about anything or anybody. His father is a drunkard. When Peter was small he’d beat him until he was senseless. He’s afraid to beat Peter now, and he doesn’t beat Peter’s mother if Peter’s around. It’s left its mark on the boy. He’s never been in court yet, but that’s only because he’s never been caught. Some day he will be, and that’ll be the beginning.”
He sounded savage and angry and bitter. Arleen said, curiously, “Why didn’t he do what the others wanted him to? Why did he just walk away from me? Perhaps, deep inside of him, he doesn’t want to do any of these things, Mark.”
Mark shrugged. “That’s probably very true. But Peter will do them, because he has to show the world that he doesn’t care.” His eyes were warm on Arleen’s face. “Something about you got through to Peter,” he told her. He looked away from her quickly, as if there were something in his face he did not want her to see.
There was a lump in Arleen’s throat. She said, past it, “Why, Mark? Why do people have to live like this? Poor Neelie Ryan up there in that stifling room, bedridden, with a weak, drunken husband; the Luiguis . . . poor Rose . . . this Peter Rossi?”
Mark Wynter said tightly, “Ah, now, there’s a question. If you find the answer, my dear Miss Anderson, please give it to me. I’m curious. A lot of people are curious about the whys and the wherefores of this particular kind of misery.”
He opened the car door and told Arleen to slide over. “I don’t have my car,” he said, “so I’ll drive yours. We’ll have a cup of coffee at Barney’s.”
Arleen knew she shouldn’t take the time, but she also knew she was going to. She said lightly, “Hot coffee on a day like this?”
He said firmly, “A hot drink is good for you on a hot day.”
Arleen laughed. “You’re the doctor,” she said.
Across the street, Rose Luigui was strutting along, with the three boys following her.
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