With increasing frequency Action had begun to wonder if he ought to challenge Riff for the leadership of the Jets. But if he did, and was successful, he would have to tell the Jets what to do, really lead them; this way he could beef about everything that was done and keep Riff on his toes to prove his leadership.

Because Riff had to work at being leader, the Jets were a close, well-knitted bunch and none of the white gangs on other blocks wanted to tangle with them. Even the dinges knew enough to keep out of the neighborhood. Only the PR’s were around, more and more of them every day, and if the damned cops and the mayor and everyone else didn’t have enough sense to do something about it, the Jets did.

Maybe, Action thought as he continued to rub his knuckles, the mayor might get around to giving them a medal; there would be a great ceremony, lots of speeches, plenty of booze and broads, and at the end when they were given the medals, would they surprise the creeps by telling them what to do with the medals, and how!

“I don’t know,” Diesel said, after he flipped erect from a handstand, “but this seems like the slowest night I can remember.” He looked overhead at the stars, then at the street lights. “I’ve got no inspiration,” he added. “And I’m not tired enough to lay down somewhere and sleep. All night movies, anyone?” he suggested.

“Knock it off,” Riff said. “We’ll take a walk and see what develops. You… you”—he pointed to Mouthpiece and Tiger—“keep your eyes peeled for trouble.”

Shoulders squared, both thumbs hooked behind the heavy military buckle of his belt, moving with stiff exaggerated steps, Riff walked with both eyes fixed at some far point. Anyone in his way would have to move, because this was their turf.

Behind him, the Jets moved in twos and threes, with Baby-John walking as close to Riff as he dared, imitating him as much as he dared, and hoping no one would notice, especially Riff, that he too had his thumbs hooked behind his belt buckle. Now Action, A-Rab, Big Deal, Snowboy and Gee-Tar were also walking in this manner. It was meant to tell everyone that the Jets were on the prowl, ready to take on anyone for anything—you name it—and anyplace, right now.

In appearance, manner, determination, the Jets were indistinguishable from thousands of other gangs that roamed the boroughs, and the most frightening aspect was that they had no targets for their hatred. By look, word and deed—even thought—they hated everything and everyone in their path. Without direction, they roamed the city, bent on destruction. Nothing was safe because everyone and everything was their enemy. Therefore, with the viciousness of blind, brainless beasts, the Jets fell upon anything they came across.

Their victim or target could be a man with whom they had been friendly the day before, a boy or girl they had joked with minutes earlier, a storekeeper who had always allowed them credit, a vacant building with a window yet unbroken. Dedicated to blind destruction, incapable of evaluating people and institutions, the gangs destroyed, and when they found no one else to destroy, they turned upon each other.