“I’m speaking to you in confidence,” Tony said.

Riff felt heartened. “Which means that we’re still friends?”

“Right down the line.” Tony smiled, then became serious. “I’ve been doing an awful lot of dreaming,” he began. “I’m always standing someplace and reaching out for something.”

“What’re you reaching for?” Riff asked with a diplomatic show of interest.

“That’s hard to say,” Tony continued. “At first I thought it was going somewhere. Not a mile away or a hundred miles but thousands of miles. To places on the map.”

“So join the navy,” Riff scoffed, “if you want to get screwed and tattooed in every port. What’s the production? You can get the same thing here and make believe it’s a thousand miles away. You wanna see Chinks, go to Chinatown. You wanna see Africa, it’s two-three subway stations up. You wanna see Italy, how the hell far is Mulberry Street? But if you want to see Puerto Rico, go to Puerto Rico. That’s one thing I don’t want to see around here.”

Tony waved his hand to dismiss the narrowness of Riff’s logic. “I don’t have to go a thousand miles to find what I’m looking for—maybe. It could be right around the corner, outside the door.” He pointed at one of the dark windows in the building that loomed overhead. “It could be right there.”

Riff leaned back “What’s up there?”

Tony’s tongue felt swollen as it did when he dreamed. “I don’t know.” It was an effort to speak. “Some kind of kick, I guess. More than a kick,” he continued, “but I don’t know how to say it any other way.”

“Are you becoming an addict?” Riff was horrified. “You listen to me!” he pointed at Tony. “If I ever find out that you…”

“Forget it,” Tony reassured him. “I’m looking for something that will give me the same kick I used to get… out of being a Jet!”

Riff thought for a moment. “I get my kicks out of thinking that we’re still buddies.”

“We are,” Tony said and reached for Riff’s hand to shake it hard. For a moment they Indian-wrestled, then with a quick flick, Tony jerked Riff off balance. “Beat’cha again.”

“And glad to be beaten, so long as it’s by you. The kick comes from people, Tony,” Riff explained.

“Yeah,” Tony agreed. “I got a lift out of seeing you. But if you’d come here with A-Rab, Diesel, any of the other guys”—he shook his head—“I don’t know. I’m thinking, right now, Riff, about being a Jet.” Again he shook his head. “Sorry, no kick.”

“Boy, you sort of forgot the facts of life.” In his disgust Riff stove in the side of another crate. “Kick or no kick, without a gang to call your own, boy, you’re an orphan. Around here you need a gang more than you need your old man and old lady. I’m not saying anything about your mother,” Riff added hastily, “not after the way she’s treated me. But Tony, facts is facts. If you don’t belong, you’re nowhere, and belonging to the Jets puts you on top of everywhere.”