Newman felt the shoe against his stomach, a heavy-soled shoe, and sprang back with the kick and could not let his belly out. The clacking of high heels. He jerked his head to the side. She was running … Gertrude … Gertrude! They were fencing him away from Finkelstein now. He sensed their change of concern now that the bats had come swinging onto the street. They were not angling any more but wanted it finished, and he rushed around them toward the sidewalk, stopped short as one of them scaled a hedge to head him off, and he went straight on toward Finkelstein, yelling for recognition. Finkelstein never turned to him, but the left bat stopped swinging and extended to him. He grabbed the head of it and felt the terrible bony knock of brass against the side of his head and danced sideways half across the gutter and stumbled to his hands over the curb. ‘Son of a bitch!’ he screamed in soprano, his voice coated with slime as he ran headlong away from the light, crouched over, hearing the feet behind him. And then when he had his balance and the bat was solid in his two hands he swung himself around as he ran and felt the soft solidity of the shoulder he hit. A giant wall seemed to tilt over inside of him and a great stream of silver light scoured his body. His pants were wet and he knew it and yet he swung again and damned himself as he missed, cried out ‘You son of a bitch’ and headed after the boy in the green sweater who backed away … The older man was shouting now. Newman turned toward the shout and ran as though he had been made lighter, even imagining that he had only now gotten rid of his coat, and the older man ducked away and he did not pursue him but kept on running toward Finkelstein. There were only two at Finkelstein now, but the blood was slopping out of his nose as he flung his stocky body behind every flight of his bat. They stood together now, one facing each way. The four remaining boys sparred in two at a time toward the bats, and backed up as their hands cracked against the hard wood …

‘Hold it.’

Not even a shout. It was so astonishingly well rehearsed that the older man only said hold it and the boys relaxed, watchfully, kept their guard up, and moved out in a careful circle.

The older man was near the store, full in the light. He realized it and stepped to the side and into the darkness. His voice called, ‘All right, you Hebrew bastards. This is the warm-up. Let’s go, boys.’

The one in the green sweater, almost weeping, called, ‘I’m stayin’.’

The older man crossed into the street and headed for him. ‘We’re going, come on.’

He took hold of the boy’s arm. Mr Newman and Mr Finkelstein stood sucking in air in the center of the street. Their backs nearly touched and they still held the bats with two hands, like fishing poles. They watched as the circle around them drew off toward the corner. They could hear their own breathing now and they could hear the breathing of the boys and of the older man, who held his nostril shut and snotted onto the sidewalk. At the corner the five stopped walking backwards and turned away and went into the parkway and disappeared.