This time she guessed right, racing past the bodega and snatching the ball out of the air on the fly. Back at home base, T.Y. groaned. Loup laughed and hurled it back. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a skinny figure duck out of sight down the cross street.
“Shit.” She gave a sharp whistle. “Lookout posted!”
“Alone?” T.Y. called.
“Yeah!”
A lone lookout at one end of the street was probably watching for patrols. It meant the gang would approach from the other end. T.Y. trotted toward the south corner, then pivoted and came back at a run. “Salamanders!”
They gathered their balls and retreated, grumbling, behind the wrought-iron gate. The Salamanders converged and thronged the gate, hooting and yammering, rattling it on its hinges.
“Hey, santitos! Whattsa matter? Scared to play?”
There were only six of them, none older than sixteen. Loup stared at the nearest one through the bars without blinking. He had a shaved head and a crooked nose. He grinned at her and made kissing sounds. “You like what you see, mija? Come see me in a few years!”
“Don’t talk to them,” Diego said in a low tone.
“Whattsa matter, big boy?” Shaved Head laughed. “You look too old to be babysitting the kiddies! You a faggot, huh? You wanna suck my dick?”
“C’mon.” Diego turned his back on the Salamanders and made a shepherding motion in the direction of the church. “Let’s get out of here.”
“Diego!” Maria clutched his arm and pointed.
At the far end of the street stood Dondi, skateboard under his arm, looking small and lost, still the baby of the lot at almost nine years old. The Salamanders whooped and raced after him, running him down in seconds. “Okay!” Shaved Head said cheerfully. “We gonna party now, santitos!”
“Maria!” Diego said. “Get Father Ramon!”
The Salamanders dragged Dondi into the middle of the street. One snatched the skateboard from him, hopped aboard it, and went weaving away. A pair of them yanked Dondi’s pants down, then, to double the indignity, hoisted him by his ankles and held him upside down. Dangling above the concrete, Dondi squirmed and hollered. Shaved Head began unfastening his belt. “Hey, santitos!” he shouted. “We’re gonna give your little buddy a whupping! Ain’t any of you got anything to say about it? Are you all pussies or what?”
A rare fury washed over Loup, rising like flames. She reached for the gate’s latch without thinking.
“No.” Mack caught her wrist.
In the street, the first smack of the belt sounded. Dondi cried out with genuine fear and pain. The Salamanders laughed. The one who’d stolen Dondi’s skateboard attempted to pop an ollie along the curb.
“Mack.” Loup forced his name out past the odd sense of weightlessness in her chest. The belt smacked. Dondi hollered.
Mack met her eyes and nodded. “Watch my back. Try not to show off.” Without waiting for a reply, he grabbed the broomstick from T.Y. and slipped the latch, then ran into the street with Loup at his heels. He swung the broomstick like a bat, cracking it across the back of Shaved Head’s skull.
Shaved Head went down like a sack of potatoes. The Salamanders dropped Dondi and circled Mack, who lashed out in all directions with the broomstick. Loup picked the nearest one with his back to her, lowered her head, and drove her right shoulder into the small of his back. He pitched forward, sprawling face-first on the pavement. She knelt astride him, grabbed his hair, and banged his forehead on the concrete.
There was more whooping and shouting as more orphans piled into the street. A Salamander kicked Loup in the ribs, trying to dislodge her from her victim. Pain blossomed, fueling the fire in her veins. She narrowed her eyes, watching the sneakered foot return on its vicious arc, then rolled out of the way, catching the foot at its apex and shoving hard. The boy toppled over backward, arms windmilling. C.C. Rider leaped atop him and began to pummel him, laughing.
Loup bounced to her feet.
Three Salamanders were down. Mack was holding off two. The kid on Dondi’s skateboard was hurtling toward him, looking pissed. Loup moved to intercept him. He didn’t even bother to look at her. She stomped hard on the upturned nose of his skateboard and sent him sailing.
“Asshole!” Crazy Jane kicked the kid in the side of the head when he landed, then sat on him.
Diego waded into the fray to retrieve a dazed Dondi. One of Mack’s attackers peeled away and went after him, but Jaime jumped on his back and got him in a relentless choke hold. The Salamander staggered, trying to pry his arms loose.
“Hey!” T.Y. nudged Loup. The Salamanca lookout posted at the north end was pelting toward them at a dead run. “Wanna double-team him?” He puffed out his thin chest. “You gotta be careful. I’ll step up.”
Loup glanced at Mack. His last opponent was down. Mack had one foot on his chest and the butt of the broomstick planted on his throat. “Do it,” she agreed, sidling to one side.
The lookout flailed, stopping. “Outta my way, bug!”
T.Y. punched him in the belly.
“Fuck!” The lookout punched T.Y. in the nose, then yelped as Loup circled behind him and kicked him in the butt. “Shit!” He whirled on her. Loup skipped backward, beckoning to him. Over his shoulder, she saw Mack coming, raising his broomstick and preparing to swing. She blew the Salamander a kiss.
The broomstick connected.
One more down.
“Hey! Hey! Patrol!” The Salamanca lookout left to keep watch on the south corner raced down the street, sneakered feet slapping the pavement. He skidded to a halt, looking dumbfounded. “Guys! We gotta beat it.”
Mack cocked his broomstick over one shoulder. His gray eyes were as cool as cool could be. “Take ’em.”
The Salamanders were efficient. They’d lost fights before, though never with the little saints of Santa Olivia. They gathered their wounded, and in the case of Shaved Head, their unconscious, and hurried with alacrity toward the north end of the street, rounding the corner and disappearing. By the time the two soldiers appeared, the Salamanders were gone.
When the orphans of Santa Olivia turned to make a retreat of their own, they found Father Ramon standing in front of the gate, arms folded, shaking his head at them.
“Oh, shit,” T.Y. muttered.
The soldiers strolled down the street, then stopped and planted their hands on their belts, gazing at the motley collection. Blood was dripping from T.Y.’s nose onto his shirt. Jaime’s glasses were askew. Mack had a knot on one cheekbone and was doing his best to hide the broomstick behind his back.
“Uh-oh.” One of the soldiers took out his baton, tapping it against his palm. “You kiddies been brawling?”
He looked official and menacing in his desert fatigues, but his face was young. Katya sidled over to him, tossing her hair. “It was just a silly fight over a game they were playing, Officer. Kid stuff, you know?”
“Oh, yeah?” The soldier smiled at her. “Sure they weren’t fighting over you, sweetheart?”
Katya sniffed. “They’re just boys.”
“Little boys grow up fast.” He fished a pack of gum out of his shirt pocket. “Spearmint?”
She took a piece. “Thanks.”
“Hey there, Padre.” The second soldier caught sight of Father Ramon behind the gate. “These your kids?”
“In a manner of speaking.” Father Ramon’s voice was as dry as dust.
The soldier eyed Mack. “What’re you hiding there, son?”
“Nothing.” Mack showed him the broomstick. “We were playing stickball.”
“Stickball, huh?” His expression lightened briefly, then hardened. “How come I don’t see any balls?”
“That’s why we were fighting,” C.C. explained, bouncing up and down.
Both soldiers eyed him. “Why’s he doing that?” the first asked.
“He just does,” Katya said.
“It was my fault,” Jaime said in a mournful tone. He took off his glasses, trying to twist them back into shape. “I lost our last ball. Hit it onto the roof of the bodega. Now everyone hates me.”
Loup, doing her best to remain unobtrusive, snuck a glance toward the gate. Father Ramon took a smooth step sideways, the skirts of his cassock hiding the dirty tennis balls they’d piled there when the Salamanders had arrived.
“Yeah?” The second soldier smiled unexpectedly. “Tough luck, kid. I been there. We used to play stickball in the Bronx. Sucks to be the one to ruin everyone’s fun.”
“Yes, it does,” Jaime agreed.
“Okay.” The soldier tousled his hair with an older brother’s rough affection. “Play nice, huh? Stay out of trouble.” He regarded his companion. “You about done making time with the jailbait, Jeff?”
“Just about,” Soldier Jeff said amiably, winking at Katya.
The other nodded to Father Ramon. “See you, Padre.”
With that, they continued on down the street. T.Y. breathed a sigh of relief, snuffling through his bloody nose. “That was close.”
Father Ramon opened the gate. “Oh, believe me, children, it’s not over.”
Dinner was late that evening. All of them but Dondi, who had been taken to the dispensary, waited in the rec room, rehashing the details of the fight with a mixture of covert pride and creeping anxiety. When the bell finally rang, there was no food on the table and Dondi was still missing.
“Sit,” Father Ramon said.
They sat.
He stood at the head of the table and surveyed them, his face unreadable. Sister Martha and Anna flanked him, and even Anna’s sweet, pretty face was a cipher.
“I’ve spoken to Dondi and I understand why you disobeyed,” Father Ramon said. “That’s not why I’m still angry. It’s not because you endangered yourselves, or even the church. Do you know why?” His dark gaze swept over them as they shook their heads, confused. “Children!” He raised his voice. “Because of the way in which you rushed to Dondi’s defense, those unruly boys dropped him on his head in the middle of the street. Do you know what could have happened?”