The Wanderers

Title Page

Table of Contents

Copyright

Dedications

Epigraph

1. The Warlord

2. The Party

3. The Game

4. The Roof

5. The Love Song of Buddy Borsalino

6. Super Stud

7. The Death of Hang On Sloopy

8. Perry—Days of Rage

9. The Funeral

10. The Hustlers

11. Buddy Borsalino's Wedding Day

12. Coda: The Rape

First Mariner Books edition 1999

Copyright © 1974 by Richard Price

All rights reserved

For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book,
write to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Company, 215 Park Avenue South,
New York, New York 10003.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Price, Richard, date.
The wanderers : a novel / by Richard Price.—1
^st
Mariner Books ed.
p. cm
"A Mariner Book."
ISBN: 978-0-395-97774-3
I. Title.
PS
3566.
R
544
W
3 1999
813'.54—dc21 99-15175
CIP

Printed in the United States of America

09 10 - D O H - 10 09

Roachman, Santos, Stieny, Lance,
and the others

Dion, The Four Seasons
Alice
Margo
Garry
Judi

I would like to thank the Mary Roberts
Rinehart Foundation for the grant
and the validation.

"
I shall search my very soul ... for the Lion
"

— Van Morrison

"
Good Times
O children think about the good times
"

— Lucille Clifton

T
HERE HE WAS
in Big Playground. Richie Gennaro. Seventeen. High Warlord of the Wanderers. Surrounded by the Warlords of the Rays, Pharaohs, and the Executioners. Touchy allies. Tense convention. Issue at hand —

"We gotta stop them niggers."

"Do you think the Fordham Baldies would fight wit' us?"

"Man, if we get them Baldies it's all over."

"Yeah, but don't forget them Wongs. Them Chinks know judo."

"No Chink judo chop can stop this!"

"Hey, put that back! Jeez, you wanna get us busted!"

"Hey—how about them Lester Avenue guys?"

"Nah, they're fuckin' killers."

"They jus' as soon kill one a us as a nigger."

"I heard the Del-Bombers is comin' in wit' the Pips 'cause Clinton Stitch got a cousin in the Bombers."

"Ever notice how spades got two million cousins all over the country?"

"Del-Bombers ... shit ... that's bad."

"Now we
gotta
get the Baldies."

"Antone—you know Joey DiMassi, doncha?"

"Yeah."

"Whyncha go over to Fordham tonight with Gennaro an' see if you can get to talk wit' the Baldies."

"Awright."

Richie felt uneasy with Antone. The Wanderers and the Pharaohs often rumbled, and this emergency peace was only temporary. What if Antone, tonight, while they were waiting for the train pushed Richie on the el tracks? The Pharaohs knew that Richie was the vital spark, the cold logical mind behind the Wanderer war machine. Richie knew that if
he
was a Pharaoh and
he
had the chance he would surely push the Wanderer Warlord into the path of an oncoming train. Maybe they should take a cab.

The meeting was adjourned.

"So you wanna go wit' me to see DiMassi tonight?"

"Awright."

"I'll meet you here about ten, O.K.?"

"Sure, you wanna hop a cab?"

Antone shrugged, he eyed Richie suspiciously. "Ah look ... I dunno if I got the dough for a cab."

"Awright, we'll see."

"Later."

"Later."

After everyone had gone back to their candy stores, deserted lots, or playgrounds, Richie sat down on a bench and scribbled out a score sheet.

Except for the Lester Avenue boys it was pretty even. Richie had to figure out how to get them involved without having them turn on the allies. They hated the niggers but they also hated everybody else. The Lester Avenue gang was older. Maybe twenty-one on the average. Comparing the other North Bronx gangs to the Lester Avenue boys was like comparing the Coast Guard to the marines. The other gangs had a few rumbles; every once in a while some guy would have his jaw busted or need a couple of stitches, but the guys on Lester Avenue were all ex-cons or Mob punks. Last year the heads of their gang, Louie and Jackie Palaya, were up on murder raps but had Mob lawyers fix a deal.

The only other gang worth being scared of was the Fordham Baldies, who were
so
fucking insane that they shaved their heads so their hair wouldn't get in their eyes in a fight. They were older too. About eighteen on the average. The toughest guy in the Baldies was Terror, a huge cross-eyed monster who even beat up on his own gang when they weren't fighting anyone else. But even
he
knew better than to fuck with the puniest guy on Lester Avenue. They'd come down like vigilantes and tear up the whole Fordham area, and they'd go down like that night after night until Terror gave himself up. Then a kangaroo court in some basement and even money Terror would be found in the trunk of a deserted car out in Hunt's Point the next week.

Richie thought about the opposition. Most of the time he couldn't figure niggers out. He once took a prejudice quiz in a comic book, and he had all the right answers except for the question, "Do Negroes smell different?" He checked yes, and the upside-down answer key said the answer was no. But that was bullshit because he knew they did. As long as he could remember his mother had warned him about coons and razors and knives and going into empty elevators with niggers because niggers would just as soon cut your balls off and pawn them for dope or booze as look at you. One fact that he knew was true was that if you go into a building where most of the tenants are niggers, either the hallway or the elevator is going to smell of piss. One time he went uptown to the Gun Hill Projects to get the homework from a kid in his class and the piss-stink in the elevator made him throw up before he got to the kid's floor.

He could understand them getting all the gangs together because essentially niggers were cowards unless there was a big gang of them. What he couldn't figure out was why the Wongs would team up with them. They were people from two different worlds. They never fought in school, but they never were chummy either. The Wongs were the insanest people of all Not only were they all Chinese but they were all related. Twenty-seven guys with the last name Wong. Each guy had a dragon tattoo and rumor had it they all knew jujitsu and could kill someone with a judo chop.

Except for the Reds, Richie thought most Chinks were pretty harmless, and he liked Chinese food, but these characters were something else. He'd heard that their great-grandfather was a real Warlord—of the Tongs down in Chinatown around World War I—and who'd brought up his family to keep the Tong terror alive. From what Richie understood, the Tong still existed down there, although they were nowhere near as powerful as the Mob—but who really knew what the hell was going on down there, or who was coming off those boats from the Orient every day and slithering into Mott Street. In school, the Wong gang was inseparable. Silent, even among themselves, they walked through the halls like the Imperial Guard, giving off a glow of royalty, a unity that raised them above all other gangs.

"Hey."

"Hey." Richie looked up. C was peering over his shoulder at his notes. C was Richie's girl friend, fifteen, with hair teased into a beehive. She covered her pimples with what appeared to be flesh-colored mud. The C stood for comb—she always carried around a large pink comb and a crumpled Kleenex in her hand.

"What's that?"

"Nothin'."

"If it's nothin' how come you're coverin' it up?"

"Because it ain't none of your business."

"You gonna rumble wit' the Pharaohs?"

"No."

C sat down next to him. Richie folded the score sheet and slipped it into his back pocket. He tensed his chest muscles under his sky blue muscle shirt to catch C's eye. C's jaws worked furiously, popping her Bazooka, which gave her sugar breath. She wore a hot pink rayon blouse, revealing the tiny puckers in her oversized bra. Richie knew she stuffed Kleenex, but always looked the other way when she sneaked the wads out before he felt her up.

Richie's garrison belt had RG & C in a heart followed by TRUE LOVE WILL NEVER DIE. C carved it in with a nail the night she gave him his first hand job in Big Playground. Richie had really wanted a blowjob because he'd heard some guys say that getting a blowjob was better than getting laid, but C had steadfastly refused. Finally after a few weeks of fighting and head pushing, C agreed to give him one the next night. The following day he took two showers, inspected every inch of his prick, and bathed it in some strong cologne. That night when the big moment came, C tentatively gave it a preliminary lick and almost gagged on the cologne. They dropped the subject after that.

C put her leg over Richie's leg and winked. She had on black imitation leather pointy ankle boots. Richie wore roach killers—pointy as a dangerous weapon, curving high over his ankle and low over his heel.

"Whatcha doin' tonight?"

"I gotta go to Fordham."

"How come?"

"I gotta see somebody."

"Can I come?"

"No."

"You seein' a girl?" Her eyes promised violence.

"No, I ain't seein' a girl," he mimicked. "I gotta see this guy"

"About what?"

"About a job."

"Bullshit."

"Bullshit yourself, I ain't kiddin'."

"I need help wit' my homework."

"Whatcha got?"

"Math and social."

"I'll come over about eight."

"Seeya then." She ruffled his hair and walked off.

The sunlight turned to a neutral gray. Six-thirty. Dinnertime. Big Playground was deserted except for the parky in his olive uniform collecting basketballs and spongy red kickballs. Richie Gennaro walked through the housing project to his own building.

His father was already home—which meant Richie was late. He washed quickly and sat down. His mother sliced a cantaloupe in fours and sat down with them.

The dinner table—one bowl mashed potatoes, one bowl broccoli, one plate with four steaks, garlic bread wrapped in silver foil, one bottle Hammer lem'n'lime soda, one bottle Hammer mellow-cream soda, one salad bowl, one jar Seven Seas French Dressing, one unlit candle, one Richie Gennaro—seventeen, one Randy Gennaro—twelve, one Louis Gennaro—forty-one, one Millie Gennaro—forty-one. In the comer, one television, on channel nine—one Dick Van Dyke.

Richie's father produced a paperback—one
Lady Chatterley's Lover.
"Is this yours?"