that swept around his head. But he had been watching and seen it all: the streets, the cemeteries, the trees, the fine houses, the waters of Long Island Sound, and the clean arc of the bridge over those waters to the Bronx.
War-Counselor was busy going over the arrangements. Therewere so many things to keep in mind: some gangs had chickened; unexpected representatives were coming; could they be put in the same place as the canceled soldiers? He kept looking at maps and consulting notebooks. He wished he could have thought of it all himself, but that was why he was the Counselor and Ismael was Presidente. It was that way since he had been with Ismael, five years now.
Secretary, who sat beside the driver, had been looking out the window at wonderful and unaccustomed sights, goggling at the splendor of the city, dreaming dreams, hoping for things he might have someday, given a few breaks. Certainly, he understood, if things went well with Ismaelâs big planâand when had Ismael ever failedâhe might, just might, make it. âMan,â he said, âthatâs the way to live. I want one of them,â pointing to a half-timbered house they were passing.
War-Counselor looked at Ismael, nodded, and said, âYou should want to throw rocks at it.â
Secretary understood what Ismael meant and his resentment that always lurked beneath his surface surged. He saw himself tearing it down with his hands. Still, secretly, he wished Ismael had found it good and he couldnât help longing again, wistfully, and dimly seeing himself in the coolest, most expensive clothes, lounging around in a vague, but impressive house with a rich T.V. interior. Outside, there would be a long, long car to leap into, gleaming and heavy with a lot of chrome. He would have a slender, huge-breasted wife, a blonde, encrusted with shining stones; she would shimmer in shining dresses; she would have many childrenâboysâfor wasnât he a man, didnât he have
machissmo?
But she would remain always desirable. Much money would be present, piles of bills and precious stones. It was all unclear and satisfying.
âBut you have to admit, man,â Secretary said to Ismael, âthat they know how to live.â
âThis is the nearest you are going to get to it,â War-Counselor said for Ismael, who knew how to keep them hating.
They turned along the sweeping, graceful approach ramp that bowed over everything as it led to the bridge.
It grew dark. They were all assembling, reaching the ends of the transportation lines, converging on Van Cortlandt Park. They came by subway, cars, buses; some walked. They followed Ismaelâs schedule and they followed Ismaelâs guides who wore white ice-cream pants and were stationed at the jump-off points. They avoided the usual park entrances. If the cruising cops noted a lot of white pantsâwell, it was hot, wasnât it, and it was this yearâs style. The cops had enough to do taking care that the celebrations didnât get out of hand. One boy was already in the hospital because some firecrackers went off in his face, and it was still early.
Warriors poured in from every part of the city, from New Jersey and Westchester. They were met and directed along chosen routes that led, wherever possible, along hidden paths through forest, between hills, wandering among bushes, always away from the promenades. When two gangs were known to be at war, they were given separate routes as far apart as possible. Ismaelâs couriers escorted them, passed them from one liaison man to another along the lines of communication, directing them carefully through the dark cover in which only the white pants of Ismaelâs men were visible.
As they moved uneasily along invisible roads through black fields they were comforted by the knowledge that all around them plenipos from most of the city gangs were converging on the meeting ground.
Benny the scout, Ismaelâs man, stood
War-Counselor was busy going over the arrangements. Therewere so many things to keep in mind: some gangs had chickened; unexpected representatives were coming; could they be put in the same place as the canceled soldiers? He kept looking at maps and consulting notebooks. He wished he could have thought of it all himself, but that was why he was the Counselor and Ismael was Presidente. It was that way since he had been with Ismael, five years now.
Secretary, who sat beside the driver, had been looking out the window at wonderful and unaccustomed sights, goggling at the splendor of the city, dreaming dreams, hoping for things he might have someday, given a few breaks. Certainly, he understood, if things went well with Ismaelâs big planâand when had Ismael ever failedâhe might, just might, make it. âMan,â he said, âthatâs the way to live. I want one of them,â pointing to a half-timbered house they were passing.
War-Counselor looked at Ismael, nodded, and said, âYou should want to throw rocks at it.â
Secretary understood what Ismael meant and his resentment that always lurked beneath his surface surged. He saw himself tearing it down with his hands. Still, secretly, he wished Ismael had found it good and he couldnât help longing again, wistfully, and dimly seeing himself in the coolest, most expensive clothes, lounging around in a vague, but impressive house with a rich T.V. interior. Outside, there would be a long, long car to leap into, gleaming and heavy with a lot of chrome. He would have a slender, huge-breasted wife, a blonde, encrusted with shining stones; she would shimmer in shining dresses; she would have many childrenâboysâfor wasnât he a man, didnât he have
machissmo?
But she would remain always desirable. Much money would be present, piles of bills and precious stones. It was all unclear and satisfying.
âBut you have to admit, man,â Secretary said to Ismael, âthat they know how to live.â
âThis is the nearest you are going to get to it,â War-Counselor said for Ismael, who knew how to keep them hating.
They turned along the sweeping, graceful approach ramp that bowed over everything as it led to the bridge.
It grew dark. They were all assembling, reaching the ends of the transportation lines, converging on Van Cortlandt Park. They came by subway, cars, buses; some walked. They followed Ismaelâs schedule and they followed Ismaelâs guides who wore white ice-cream pants and were stationed at the jump-off points. They avoided the usual park entrances. If the cruising cops noted a lot of white pantsâwell, it was hot, wasnât it, and it was this yearâs style. The cops had enough to do taking care that the celebrations didnât get out of hand. One boy was already in the hospital because some firecrackers went off in his face, and it was still early.
Warriors poured in from every part of the city, from New Jersey and Westchester. They were met and directed along chosen routes that led, wherever possible, along hidden paths through forest, between hills, wandering among bushes, always away from the promenades. When two gangs were known to be at war, they were given separate routes as far apart as possible. Ismaelâs couriers escorted them, passed them from one liaison man to another along the lines of communication, directing them carefully through the dark cover in which only the white pants of Ismaelâs men were visible.
As they moved uneasily along invisible roads through black fields they were comforted by the knowledge that all around them plenipos from most of the city gangs were converging on the meeting ground.
Benny the scout, Ismaelâs man, stood