Date: Sun, 3 Dec 2006 11:03:27 -0500
From: carl_mason@comcast.net
Subject: STREETS OF NEW YORK - 9

Copyright 2006 by Carl Mason

All rights reserved.  Other than downloading one copy for strictly personal
enjoyment, no part of this story may be reproduced or transmitted in any
form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, except for reviews, without
the written permission of the author.  However based on real events and
places, "Streets of New York" is strictly fictional.  Any resemblance to
actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely
coincidental.  As in real life, however, the sexual themes unfold
gradually.  Comments on the story are appreciated and may be addressed to
the author at carl_mason@comcast.net

This story is indebted for both its inspiration and many of its ideas to
several books, especially Tyler Anbinder's FIVE POINTS, Jacob Riis's HOW
THE OTHER HALF LIVES, and Luc Sante's LOW LIFE.

This story contains descriptions of sexual contact between males, both
adults and teenagers.  As such, it is homoerotic fiction designed for the
personal enjoyment of legal, hopefully mature, adults.  If you are not of
legal age to read such material, if those in power and/or those whom you
trust treat it as illegal, or if it would create unresolvable moral
dilemmas in your life, please leave.  Finally, remember that maturity
generally demands safe sex.


CHAPTER 9

(Revisiting Chapter 8)

"Well, I didn't tell you last month," Tom responded, "but I went home at
Thanksgiving to tell my parents that I was gay.  Guess how they responded?"
"Well," Dross drawled, "they said you were a sinner and to get your mangey
hide out of the house?"  "Dross!"  Tom exploded, "Hell, no!  They said they
had known for years, that it didn't matter, and that they loved me.  More
than that, they said my partner would be welcome in their house...when I
found him," he added with a Dross-baiting grin.  "Humph," the white- haired
one offered.  "Guess it's going to be a long, cold winter."  "Dross!" his
mate yelled again, tackling him and dragging him down onto the floor.
"You're going over to Jersey Sunday to meet my folks!"  Dross looked up at
him, his face calm, but his heart racing at flank speed.  Calmly, he bent
forward, extended his long tongue, and wetly licked Tom's face from the
bottom of his chin to the hairline on his forehead.  With a wicked grin, he
asked, "Guess where I'm going this Sunday?"  "Dross!"

(Continuing Our Story - Westward Ho!)

As the new year (1894) progressed, Tom became increasingly convinced that
the only hope for the Subway Gang was to get them out of New York.  He
talked to the Agency people, he talked to the older members of the Subway
Gang, he talked with youngsters who were scheduled to go West on an
Orphans' Train.  Obviously, there were "minor" problems, e.g., raising
about $730.00 needed for their tickets and additional money for their food
and supervision, plus some clothing.  There was also the need to identify
as many prospective foster parents in the West as possible.  The Agency
said that it could probably find a supervisor and work on finding foster
parents, but funds for transportation, food, and clothing were simply
beyond their budget for the foreseeable future.

Tom remembered that Colonel Marsden was in railroads and had promised to
provide any service he might need on request (see Chapter 6).  Further,
when their relationship was at an end, he had firmly told the young man
that he would honor every promise made to him, for "his word was his bond"
(see Chapter 7).  Tom had never made a request of Marsden, nor, for that
matter, had he ever intended to do so.  In this case, however, he was not
talking about his own welfare or advantage, but the future of nearly 30
young boys who deserved a chance to live and grow.  He would speak with the
Colonel.

Entering the lobby of the midtown building, Tom indicated that he wanted to
make an appointment to see Colonel Marsden.  When the receptionist called
the Colonel's office, however, he was told that he might come upstairs
immediately.  Seeing him coming, the Colonel's secretary simply smiled and
reminded him of the correct door.

As Tom entered the inner sanctum, Marsden stood and smiled affably.  "I'm
glad to see you, Tom.  You are looking well.  What can I do for you?"
Briefly reminding him of his promise, Tom briefly reviewed the Subway
Gang's problems.  He emphasized that he was asking nothing for himself,
only for the children.  Asking what was involved, Tom provided him with the
data.  He admitted that the transportation was beyond him, but said that he
would do his best to provide the money for food and clothing.  The Colonel
simply said, "Yes, I'll take care of it...gladly.  Whom do I contact?"  Tom
mentioned the name of the supervisor at the Agency.  The Colonel added,
"Better let me take care of the food and clothing as well.  It will be
easier on all concerned.  Contact the Agency in about two weeks.  They
should have arrangements by then to share with you.  Is there anything
else, Tom?"

Tom stood...voiceless...confused.  "Thank you, sir," he managed haltingly.
(Pause.)  "I shan't contact you again, but you should know that I think you
have proved yourself to be an honorable man.  Also, I value what you
brought into my life and will always remember you affectionately for it."
Marsden began to lose his composure and moved as if to come out from behind
his desk.  A slight shake of Tom's head, however, stopped him.  "Good day,
sir," Tom said quietly, turned on his heels, and left the office.  He never
again had direct contact with the Colonel.

Nearly a month later, Tom and Dross saw the latest Orphan's Train off from
Grand Central Station.  The Agency had indeed provided a most pleasant
supervisor and had already identified several foster families and
individuals.  The boys of the Subway Gang rode in their own car - and it
was one of the very best in the entire train.  Food had been brought aboard
for them, and the supervisor had received additional money to purchase
anything else they needed.  Each boy wore a new outfit of serviceable
clothes and carried a small pack with extras.  The Colonel also watched the
train depart, though he did so from the vantage point of the Station
Master's office.  In truth, a tear appeared at the corner of his eye as he
watched the little ones mob Tom and Dross, hugging and kissing them
good-bye.

(Down on the Docks)

Tom was tired...bone tired.  Physically and psychologically, his
magnificent constitution had gradually been drained by the constant demands
for energy in a basically unsupportive environment.  Then, too, major
crises had appeared in his life, crises that had not easily been
surmounted.  Rather than allow it to tear him apart unexamined, Tom had
finally accepted his homosexuality.  The psycho-physiological need of those
in their early twenties to find "the One" was well on its way to being
satisfied.  The main group of people - the Subway Gang - for whom he had
personally accepted responsibility was on its way west, hopefully to a
better life.  In other, less successful efforts, e.g., restoring Tony
Prieto, he had clearly fulfilled the obligations of a friend.  Whatever the
achievement, however, the price had been high.  The young man desperately
needed to relax his body and his mind...if you will, to let down his hair
for a bit!

It was late June again in lower Manhattan and the mounting heat cruelly
pressed down on the tenements and their inhabitants.  Further, before the
summer was out, Tom would face major changes in his life.  The time had
come, he and Dross concluded, to throw a party to end all parties.  Where?
The boys were disinclined to hold it in a saloon; parks and playgrounds in
that part of town were a few years away.  The best bet seemed to be one of
the closed private East River wharves where their friends could gather,
swim, eat, drink, and generally enjoy their company.  One was selected and
rented for a pittance.  Were a little money to find its way into Officer
McGuire's hand's, it was even possible that a permit could be had that
would allow a carefully tended fire.  And so it was decided.

The day of the party had dawned viciously hot and the temperature had never
let up.  Adding to the misery, it was so humid that the sun appeared to be
circled by a ring of shimmering moisture!  Nevertheless, by seven o'clock,
the grills for cooking food were in place.  A mouthwatering collection of
German sausages and deli delights could reach the site within ten minutes
when the fires were right, sodas and a some beer were cooling in buckets of
ice, and a small, protected fire had been set around which they could
gather later in the evening to sing and have fun.  Tom and Dross were
delighting in the fact that twenty or so friends, many of whom they not
seen for some time, had made their way up the wharf towards them.  Oh,
yeah!  Bernie, Phil O'Connor, two of the Columbia footballers who helped
with the outing on Morningside Heights (the third had graduated), Carlo (a
teen-aged cousin of Tony's whom they met on the search), a couple of
Dross's friends from school, two of the younger technicians from Serge
Morstein's photography shop, Sergei Petrov, and on and on.  A few of the
guys had accepted the invitation to bring their girls.

Partying was already underway when they suddenly heard yells and a
screeching sound of metal on metal as the gate was torn apart at the street
end of the wharf.  Almost immediately, a dark, fast-moving wall of people
swept up the wharf and into the party area.  Their party had been crashed
by perhaps three dozen hoods.  Several women were with them, women who
appeared to be every bit as hard as they.  Before the two groups
encountered each other, Manny Landau (whose younger brother the boys had
saved from the reformatory) gave Tom a hurried summary of what he faced.
"It's 'The Goat Horn Boys', Tom - one of the worst gangs in the area," he
said.  "You'll not find a choicer band of thieves, murderers, muggers, and
extortionists this side of hell.  Right now they're constantly fighting
Chinese gangs for control of the local drug business.  Merchants and single
men and women on the streets - male or female - are terrified of them.
They teach young kids how to use blackjacks, heavy boots, guns, knives, and
brass knuckles.  (I had one hell of a time keeping my brother Isaac and his
friends away from them.)  Several of the biggest criminals use them as
'muscle', and there are rumored ties to Tammany Hall itself.  Most of them
are in their 20s, though there are a few big teens.  The boss?  Well, Grant
Horn - if that's his real name - is quite a specimen.  See for yourself.
He's on his way over."

"Arnold, I'm Grant Horn.  I see that you found our wharf."  "Your wharf,"
Tom said coolly.  "Yeah, they never rent it out to anyone but us - and this
is our party night.  The cop at the gate said he didn't know what had
happened, so we opened it up and came on in."  (The gang boss let out a
loud, rather obscene snort, somewhere between a guffaw and a bray.)  Tom
noticed that the lead ranks of the bowler-clad toughs and their women were
approaching his friends.  Stalling for time, he asked Horn what he thought
should be done. Somewhat taken aback, Horn paused and then struck an
imperious pose...rather like Napoleon surveying the battlefield at
Waterloo.  Loudly, he trumpeted, "Well, you could take your stuff and
leave."  For some reason hesitating, he turned down the volume and added,
"No reason, though, why we should spoil your party, or you ours.  We'll
share if you'll share.  Could be fun...if you're not Chicken."  Tom cooly
replied that he would speak with his friends.

The general opinion was that the Goat Horn Boys were bad news, but that
they had looked forward to their party, had made their arrangements
properly, and didn't feel like being driven off.  Thus, they would stay.
When Tom informed the gang chief of their decision, he seemed vaguely
disappointed, but guessed that there was plenty of room for everyone.  His
boys had a lot of food and drink that they would now start bringing onto
the wharf.

Tom watched with some amazement as their boss shouted his directions and
gang members began to drag a large cart down the wharf.  Its contents were
even more amazing: a table, a full keg, several cases of liquor, and
assorted glasses, food containers, and other party stuff.  "Obviously, they
know something about how to party," Tom laughed to Dross.  Catching a
strange look on Dross's face, Tom thought for a moment and then asked if
the white-haired one were suggesting that "one should be wary of Greeks
bearing gifts" - if they were Greek, that is?  Dross snickered and said,
"Well, I guess they ARE educating you up at that school of yours!  Let's
just be careful."

All things considered, things were going pretty well.  There was plenty of
room for all the food on the grills Tom had brought; Horn's boys were
invited to cook their food on them.  In turn, the gang members were soon
sharing their suds with the others - and they found plenty of happy takers.
Tom got a little nervous when the toughs started drinking boilermakers
(whiskey with a beer chaser), but they soon began sharing their bottles of
whiskey as generously as they had shared their beer.  Before long, no one
was feeling the slightest pain!  The water of the river felt good; the food
and drink felt good; it was a good party!

It was perhaps a couple of hours into the party when a few cracks began to
appear.  For instance, several of the gang women became quite interested in
some of Tom and Dross's friends.  Their boyfriends made it clear that they
did NOT appreciate it when they discovered them in dark corners on the
wharf! Conversely, several of Tom's friends were gay.  As alcohol loosened
their inhibitions, the call of some prime-beef-in-bowlers became more and
more difficult to resist.  (In at least two cases, there seemed to be some
interest on the other side!)  Also, many of the gang members seemed to
becoming increasingly resentful of the inroads Tom's friends were making in
their alcohol.  Sniffing the increase in tension, Tom wandered over to
speak with Grant Horn.

Tom found Horn lying on a blanket, getting a little head rub from his woman
de jour.  There was something in his eyes that told him to let gang chief
speak first.  "You know, Arnold, you had plenty of polite warnings: Don't
become too visible.  Don't stir up a hornets' nest.  Don't interfere with
the gangs.  Isn't that true?"  "Yeah, I guess," Tom responded, perhaps just
a bit emboldened by the alcohol and testosterone.  "Did you know that we
let Tony Prieto into the gang not long before he had his latest trouble -
and that made him our responsibility?"  Wondering what "his latest trouble"
was, Tom admitted he hadn't heard about that.  "Did you know that the group
of kids you call the 'Subway Gang' lived in our territory, and that we
planned to recruit them?  Don't you see that you are interfering in our
business - and that we can't possibly allow that to continue?  As a matter
of fact, you've got to be punished for what you've already done.  I'd have
a blade between my ribs if I let it go."  Tom looked at Horn without
flinching and said nothing.

"Arnold, I want you to meet someone, someone real special," Horn said
quietly.  "Cass...Cass Scully!  Get over here!" he yelled in the general
direction of the fire.  As Scully trotted over, Tom had to admit that he
made quite a picture.  Looking more like a steel worker than a hood, the
enforcer appeared to be in his mid 20s and perhaps 5'11" tall.  Tom guessed
that he carried 195 lbs or a little less on his fireplug frame.  In any
case, there was a spark of intelligence in his otherwise cruel eyes and he
didn't look as if he carried an ounce of fat.  He was just solid, fully
mature muscle that had been honed to a killing edge.  Just twenty-one,
standing at 6' tall, and weighing in the neighborhood of 168 lbs, Tom
didn't look small, but his body was still far from being fully developed
physically .

"This is that Arnold guy," Horn snapped as his boy arrived - "the one who's
been sticking his nose into our business.  I'm going to ask you to teach
him that this was a really bad way to go."  Scully grunted, adjusted his
bowler, and sneered at Tom.  His eyes reminded Tom of a rattlesnake that he
had once caught in his barn at home.  "Ok, Scully, that'll do for now.  Get
yourself ready."  The bullyboy grunted again and headed back to the fire.

"What makes you think I'd fight this cretin?" Tom asked.  Ignoring his
vocabulary, Horn paused and turned towards the footballer with a glare so
malevolent that a shiver ran up and down his spine.  "Let me see, Arnold,
you'd like your friends to get out of here alive...no matter what happens
to you?  If you won, you'd like to walk out of here alive yourself?  That
answer your question?"  "You'd hurt them?" Tom murmured.  "Try me!"  the
gang leader snapped.  "Try to run and the cops will be pulling dead bodies
out of the river for days.  Believe that they'd never spot the Mickey Finns
we gave them before packing them into that boat and sending it out into mid
river to sink!  You have my word, though.  Put up a good fight and, win or
lose, and I won't lay a hand on them...nor will any of my boys."  Tom stood
up at his full height and nodded.  "Ok," Horn muttered.  "It'll be
bare-knuckles, Greek-style, London Prize Ring rules!  In twenty minutes..."

As best he could, Tom filled Dross in on what had transpired during his
conversation with the gang chief.  "Don't worry, Dross, I don't intend to
lose.  Just be in my corner - and do your best to protect our friends if
things don't work out."  A red-faced Heinie looked as if he wanted to read
Tom the riot act, but he helped him strip and get ready.  Just before it
was time, gang members roped off a 24-foot-square ring and one of the gang
climbed into the space.  "Ladies and gentlemen," he shouted, "gather 'round
for the entertainment of the evening!"  Moments later, he continued:
"London Prize Ring rules: no gloves, wrestling is ok, biting, headbutting,
and hitting below the belt aren't.  A round lasts until one fighter is
knocked down, and a fight lasts until one fighter is unable to get up off
the floor within 30 seconds and return to the 'scratch' [a mark in the
center of the ring].  In this corner: the mighty Goat Horn champion, Cass
Scully; in the other corner, Tom Arnold.  May the best man win!"

Stripped, i.e., in the Greek style, Scully looked even more formidable than
he had earlier.  Swathed in black hair, he sported a barrel chest with
heavy pecs, arms that looked strong enough to crush a bull, surprisingly
squat legs that resembled tree trunks, and equipment that had the gang
molls squealing.  By comparison, Tom appeared to be a callow youngster.
Yes, he had a powerful, muscular body, but shorn of most of his body hair,
he lacked Scully's appearance of brute force and danger.  True, those of
his crowd who had never seen him stripped - e.g., the girls and a few of
the gays such as the fourteen-year-old dancers Davy and Pat - began rolling
their eyes and grinning lustfully at their partners.  Finally, the fighters
were called to the center of the ring and all was ready for that which
Grant Horn had planned as the main event of the evening.

Tom was no boxer, but he had never allowed himself to be bullied in school
or around the neighborhood.  As his dad had taught him, the main thing you
had to remember with the bullyboy was not to allow him to corner and pound
you.  He'd had a few lessons in "manly defense" up at college.  Thus, sans
gloves, mouthpiece, or referee, he concentrated on avoiding Scully's
bull-like rushes, blocking, slipping, countering, and wrestling.  The Goats
Horn champion showed early that he would not wage an honorable fight.  When
breaking one clinch, he delivered a passing blow to Tom's genitals with his
knee.  In a second case, an elbow dug deep into younger man's lower
stomach.  In the third round, Scully drove him to a knee with a flurry of
blows to his face and abdomen.  The superbly conditioned youngster easily
returned to the scratch, however, and in the fourth landed one solid right
that broke Scully's nose and sent blood splattering across the ring and
down his body.  Shifting his attack to his opponent's body, Tom began
burying lefts and rights in his midsection.  After another five or six
rounds of that, the Goats Horn champ had slowed appreciably, but Arnold
knew that he remained deadly.  One of Scully's blows could end the fight.
Were Tom to ask too much of knuckles that were scarcely battle hardened,
something could easily break, leaving him at Scully's mercy.  By the
fifteenth round, Tom had a bad cut on his right cheek, his nose was
bleeding steadily, and his lips were split.  Scully had a black eye, his
battered nose continued to bleed on and off, both hands were swollen to
twice their size, and his ribs had taken a steady pounding.  Both fighters
were covered in blood and sweat.  And so the epic battle continued: Tom
escaping major damage, Scully taking everything that his opponent could
dish out and shrugging it off as he would the irritating attentions of a
horsefly.

Beginning in the twentieth round, Scully began to tire visibly.  In the
twenty-third, Tom unleashed a whirlwind of punches that staggered the
champion.  Bleeding and battered he retreated to a corner where a right
hand dropped him to his knees.  Gamely, he tried to rise, but a crushing
combination of blows pitched him forward on his face and chest.  Finally,
he was counted out.  As his friends rushed into the ring, Tom stood up
straight and looked at Grant Horn.  With a gesture of disgust, the gang
leader motioned for Tom and his people to leave - something that they did
neither silently nor humbly.

(Author's Note: Everything in this world seems to reflect cause-effect
rules.  Unfortunately, it is almost impossible to predict which will be
positive effects of any one cause and which will be negative.  In this
case, Tom and Dross's friends suffered no retaliation on the streets, but
his startling victory in the ring had a certain negative effect on Tom.
That is, his victory brought with it a certain feeling of invincibility, a
sense reflected in the part he was about to play on the gay scene and even
in other events of the final chapters of our story.  Read on.)


To Be Continued