They crossed the sixth street, mounted the last sidewalk. On the next corner they would turn left into their block. Newman saw the yellow glow of the store beckoning like the open end of a corridor in a dream. The glow invaded his head, blinded him with hope as the steps tapped on behind him. They were going for Finkelstein. They must be. This would be as good a place as any to jump him if it was him they were after. Or back there further where half the block was empty lots. It was Finkelstein tonight. Poor fella … well, he shouldn’t have moved in where he wasn’t wanted. It would be bad, though, if the little girl was still in there, but it was late and she was probably in bed by now. Thank God for Finkelstein. Supposing there wasn’t anyone like him on the block … He would have to run for it now, run as fast as his legs could go … Poor man, poor Jew … They were strong, those boys, with their muscles curving under their sweaters that way – football kids. Who was the older man with them? That’s the way they must be doing it. An older man for the strategy to keep the kids in line. Brother, they were quiet! Marching, almost. Why didn’t they go faster, catch up and pass him and go on? Smart. Probably waiting behind him to let him get home before they went to work. No good if they had to loiter around close to the store. Arrive, and then, bang. Sure, just the right time. Nobody around on the streets. Maybe he ought to stop and let them pass, they were coming up much closer now, not more than fifteen yards if that. No, he couldn’t stop in the dark here. Keep a good stride. Don’t get them going with even a word said. Keep moving along. God, but Gert could walk. Her arm like a stone. Her heart … her heart oughtn’t to thump like that, he thought … Why is her heart thumping like …?

The corner arrived and they hardly slowed in turning it, kept moving on up their block. They were on the other side of the street from the store. The gang behind would be crossing just about now, crossing over … just … about … now.

Now.

Now.

Now!

‘Hey, Sammy, where you goin’ so fast?’

It was the older man … a bass, phlegmish voice. He never faltered, strode on, Gertrude pulling him faster. It was undignified. In all his terror he refused to go any faster, it was fast enough; if it were only raining then he and Gertrude could have run all the way home.

Running behind him. One laugh of a boy. They appeared in front of him … around him. Through the corner of his eye he saw that the street lamp had been smashed. Only the light from the store cast a sheen over the handsome face and the green sweater of the tallest boy … something glittered around his left fist. There were five of them. Two behind his shoulders, three in front. The older man stood beyond the periphery of the circle wiping his nose and watching.