would call—“Hey, Genius, I saw a funny bird, right on Ellis Avenue.” And, falling for it, “What was it like?” “A Crazy Bird!” and the comedian would be pointing at him, and the whole gang howling. The punks, the snots! Why, even at that time he could name and identify over two hundred species! Judd saw himself, Crazy Bird, hurrying, scuttling across the street, to get away—away from everyone, away from the shrieking, flapping, shoving crowd. He saw himself, that spindly-legged, large-headed kid, and he loathed that genius kid. Yes, Crazy Bird would have been a victim easy to pick off, one kid all by himself on the street.
And maybe picking up one of these punks today would be a kind of revenge for his miserable years in this miserable school. Today’s flock, or the flock around him four years ago—all crowds were the same, raucous humanity, stupes . . . .
But coolly, Judd checked himself. What he was doing today was not for revenge. He must have no feelings about those days. Even then, as a kid, he had known that he must not feel anything. That way, nothing could hurt. The stupes couldn’t hurt you.
Therefore, no revenge. No emotional connection. This was an exercise in itself, a deed like a theorem, begun and carried out according to its own premise.
“Hey, ixnay.” Artie gestured for him to drive on. Too many of these kids were coming toward the car. Some might know them. Artie slid down in his seat, while the car rolled around the block. By then the flock was already broken up. A few kids walked with maids who always called for them, and some lingered in small groups, girls especially, twittering, stopping, starting. Several big cars rolled past, each with a kid or two in the back seat. Then Artie nudged, pointing his chin. “Richard Weiss.”
A good one. A cousin of their pal Willie, and a grandson of Nathan Weiss, the biggest investment banker in Chicago, the financier behind all their family fortunes, the Strauses, the Hellers, the Seligmans. Little Richard Weiss was turning into 49th Street; the entire block ahead of him was clear. “After him!” Artie tried to grab the wheel. It took a moment to make the U-turn, and by the time they came to 49th Street, the kid was not in sight.
“Where does he live?” Judd asked. “In this block?”
“No, on Greenwood, I think. Maybe he cut across someplace.” Artie leaned forward. “Step on it. Let’s double ahead of him.” They cruised on Greenwood. Their prey had vanished. Cursing, Artie hopped out at a drugstore to look up the exact Weiss address.
In that momentary interval, the whole thing went down again in Judd. Perhaps losing the kid was an omen that it wouldn’t really be done. But Artie came loping out, waving for him to move over from the wheel, then shooting the car three blocks down, on Greenwood. “Where could the little punk have gone?” he muttered angrily, as if the kid had double-crossed them by failing to play his part of the game. They coasted up and down. “The hell with him,” Artie said. “Let’s go back to the school.”
If by now the school street was clear, then today’s chance would have been lost, and tomorrow Judd could say he really had to get ready for his exam.
“Hey!” Judd followed Artie’s glance. Across from the school, on the play lot—a whole flock of them. “Watch me!” Boldly, Artie walked across to the lot. Judd sat staring, feeling a kind of awe. This was the way of a man entirely above normal fears and rules. So bold an impulse would never have occurred in himself, Judd knew.
Artie walked casually onto the lot. Judd saw him stop and put his arm around his kid brother, Billy. Would he really bring Billy! Not with everybody watching!
He was leaving the lot alone. Judd pulled the car ahead a short distance to get out of sight of the kids. Catching up, jumping into the car, Artie said excitedly, “There’s a whole bunch of good ones. Mickey Bass.” His old man owned the South Shore Line. “And the Becker kid—but he’s pretty husky.”
“How about Billy Straus?” Judd suggested. “His old man is the richest Jew in town.”
Artie grinned. His knee swung back and forth. A cinch to get that kid into the car. Then he shook his head. “How would we collect? Cops would be all over the house; I couldn’t make a move.” He looked back toward the lot. “I’ll tell you. Let’s make it the first good one that leaves the ball game.”
They waited. Artie became restless. Motioning Judd to follow, he dodged around behind the play lot; from the alley they could watch the kids—birds with their random movements, stirring on the vacant lot. One runs suddenly. Others hop. They hop and run about on the flat open area, and there seems a kind of pattern, a ritual. Now they all stand attentively. One circles his arm. Another waves a stick and runs. On the field, another may run, while a few move restively on their legs, or stoop and touch the ground. Then a whole little group will converge, join together, and move toward the end of the field, while another group will run out over the field, scattering. To detach a specimen . . .
Artie dodged forward to a closer telephone pole. He was getting dangerously close. And yet not near enough to recognize one kid from another, especially those at the distant end of the field. They seemed to go on endlessly with their ball game. Wait—one kid was leaving. “I think it’s Mickey Bass.” No, Mickey was still on the field. “Damn it,” Judd said, “you need field glasses.”
“Hey! You’re a genius!” Artie squeezed his arm. “Let’s go!”
“What?”
“Let’s get your goddam glasses!”
Fleetingly, Judd wondered, was even Artie at that moment giving the whole plan a chance to collapse? Allowing a chance for all the kids to disappear while they went back for the field glasses?
The house was quiet. Up in Judd’s room, Artie went straight for the Bausch and Lomb, grabbing the case. “Take it easy!” Judd cried. “They’re delicate!”
Standing by the window, Artie focused. “This is the nuts!” You could see part of the playground. “Christ, you could reach out your mitt and grab one of them!”
Judd stood close to Artie. It was one of those moments, perhaps because of being safe together in the room, and yet in the midst of their wild game—one of those moments when he could almost groan with excitation.
Artie turned to let him use the binoculars. And from the look in Artie’s eyes, that almost mocking look, Judd knew that Artie knew. “Come on!” Artie laughed, bounding for the stairs. “We’ll miss them!”
Into the car again, and back beneath the tree. They took turns with the field glasses. It was so strange, watching a kid as he bent to tie his shoelace, then stood up, waiting. Like a bird, preening, lifting his head, listening.
Artie said, “One’s coming!” Judd started the motor. Then Artie shook his head. “No. I dunno.” They waited, the motor running. Judd felt Artie’s hand on his thigh, warm, tense, ready. Anything, anything to have times like this with Artie.
A squeeze would be the signal.
On the field, the boys had formed in a knot; it was an argument. Perhaps the game was breaking up.
“The ump,” Artie muttered. “I think the ump quit.” Then, elatedly: “He’s coming! It’s the little Kessler punk. Hey! He’s just right!”
“Who is he? You know him?” Judd’s voice went suddenly high. “They got dough?”
“They own half the Loop. Old man used to be a pawnbroker.”
Somehow,
