Cage the Park

It came to this.
Such a place tears away everything that can be torn away, and in its wake, men and boys are stripped to their basic primeval passions. In such dark spaces, lives are casually bartered or discarded.
At the ball field around seven the assembling began. David Land’s guys arrived just after Jean Paul and his crew, bringing the sweetest cars the Projects had ever seen: 57 Chevy, 56 Merc, 61 Dodge and an Edsel, which looked more like a tank than a car. Johnny and his Disciples arrived last. They had their usual weapons except Madman Mike who added a fearsome motorcycle chain to the gang’s arsenal.
Armstrong’s legions were at the ready. Sullen and determined, cloistered anxieties were brandished: some with skin of cool pale blue; most with claret-like ruddiness; each man flushed with soured sweat, flared nostrils, shallow breathing, racing hearts. Antediluvian endocrines provoked each man to retreat into a private battle trance: Amos and his brother whacked one another; Creep rubbed his hands intensely; others paced, except Big Frankie who sat in a cloud of tranquil silence. Knives and bats were attentively, intimately, stroked. One by one, as if by contagion, small groups formed and dissipated; nasty and horrid plans hatched, promises made.
The Gibsons resided in a North End community huddled along one side of a massive slate outcropping. The neighborhood was higgledy-piggledy: streets followed the irregular contours of that rock wall creating jumbled pockets of houses, churches and businesses. The Gibsons lived on the corner of Merigomesh Road and Cliff Street. Their closest neighbor, a down-on-its-luck boarding house festooned with peeling paint and cracked windows was located next to the Gibsons’ duplex. Directly across Cliff Street, a convenience store sold confectioneries and work clothing. Behind the duplex, a matching set of eight row houses desperately in need of carpenters abutted the sidewalk. The five Gibson brothers lived on the main floor with their mom while their two cousins lived upstairs in a smaller flat.
Based on David’s survey of the neighborhood, Jean Paul hastily designed a plan of attack. Even with their numbers, they needed the element of surprise. As his mother often said, “Leave nothing to chance.”
The convoy moved out in two batches. Johnny and two of his best guys joined Big Frankie and Jean Paul in Bernie’s shit-wagon. The Edsel and Merc carried the rest of Armstrong’s crew. They parked at a pocket park around the corner from the Gibson’s place, out of sight. The Dodge and Chevy carried Johnny’s Disciples. They parked on the far side of the convenience store.
Jean Paul had Bernie drive by the Gibsons’ place real slow. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Bobby Gibson stand up, glaring at the car. Several of his brothers gathered together on the top step.
A few minutes later, Bernie turned around and cruised slowly back towards the duplex. This time, they parked across the street. Taking his sweet time, Jean Paul stepped out of the front passenger seat, crossed his arms and leaned back against the car. Johnny and the other boys joined him, all feigning a look of cool, casual calm.
“Hey Bobby,” Jean Paul yelled.
“Well, well, lookie who’s here. It’s Boy Wonder and his mutts. Where’s your boss, Boy Wonder? Oh, I forgot, he got hurt walking where he didn't belong. I see you brought Johnny to help. Hey Johnny, I got some weed here. Want me to throw you a bag? No hard feelings.”
Jean Paul scanned the area carefully. All five Gibson brothers stood up flitching and shuffling from side to side, putting on their best scowls. One of the cousins burst out of the upstairs doorway carrying a crowbar. The oldest Gibson brother was big and liked to use a baseball bat. He stood right behind Bobby. Jean Paul turned to Big Frankie and said, “When the rumble starts, you hit that big son of a bitch as hard as you can and get him to the ground.”
Jean Paul saw a couple of other guys inside Bobby’s building, looking out onto the street. He couldn't tell if they were Gibsons or not.
“Creep, see that little bastard on the end. Take him out. Be careful, he’s tougher than he looks.”
“I got him.”
Bobby yelled to Jean Paul, “Hey frog, time to get in that piece of crap and drive away before you get hurt.”
Bobby was just making things worse. Nothing pissed off Jean Paul more than being called a frog. Anyone who had tried that slur on for size received a proper shit-kicking.
Bobby continued, “Get the …”
Just then, Jack Beaton and his two enforcers strolled down the street big as life. Jack looked like some wizened, hot-tempered Doc Holliday going to the O.K. Corral with the Earps. Bobby’s attitude changed quickly. Everyone knew that if anyone carried a gun, it would be Jack. He had nerves of steel and was afraid of no man.
Jean Paul didn't know if Jack would come when he had spoken to him last night, but Jack would be the deal changer. He was always the deal changer.
“Jack. This here ain't no concern of yours. It’s just between me and these dickheads.”
“Bobby, I just came up here to have a little look around. Now, you don’t have any problem with an old friend droppin’ by, do you?”
“Of course not. You’re always welcome here.”
“That’s nice to hear Bobby. Jean Paul tells me that Armstrong got a beatin’ by you boys. Now, Armstrong’s a good friend of mine. Did anyone ask my permission to beat on Armstrong? Bobby, did you ever stop to think that Armstrong was with me? Now, Jean Paul came to see me last night, real polite-like, to tell me about this little discussion we’re about to have tonight. Bobby, before you open that big fuckin’ mouth of yours again, I’d like to hear what Jean Paul’s got to say.”
On Jean Paul’s signal, the rest of Armstrong’s gang started walking up the street. They positioned themselves behind their leader as he deliberately, methodically, moved to the middle of the road, his fists clenched. Johnny raised his hand and the Disciples, armed to the teeth, joined them. Land and his boys came down a side alley behind the store. The Gibsons were surrounded and visibly scared.
Jean Paul said, “Okay Bobby, here’s the deal. You hand over—to me personally—the guy who ambushed Armstrong and put the boots to him, give Johnny here his money back, in full, and turn over half your dope business to Jack and me. You agree to my terms and we’ll walk away. If not, it’s on and that’ll be the end of you Gibson brothers. I want to be clear; it’s not up for any fuckin’ discussion. Take the deal or take the punishment.”
Bobby replied, “I’ll never give up one of my brothers.”
“I was hoping you’d say that.”