“Shut up, Action,” Riff said quickly. “We’ve got a gentleman caller. Get the door open.”

Detective Schrank eased himself into the luncheonette as the counterman returned from the back room and looked unhappily from the boys to the detective. “Good evening, Detective Schrank. I was closin’ up as soon as the boys got finished.”

Schrank leaned across the counter to take an almost full pack of cigarettes from the counterman’s shirt pocket. “Mind?”

“Why should I?” the counterman said. “It’s been that way all my life.”

Schrank slowly lit the cigarette, took several hard puffs, and flicked the burned-out match into the nearest mug of coffee, which was Tiger’s. “I always make it a rule to smoke in the can,” he began slowly. “But what else is a room with half-breeds in it, eh, Riff?”

He paused and saw that Bernardo’s move toward him had been checked by Riff, and this gesture proved what Glad Hand had told him—the boys were going to rumble and this was a war council.

“Clear out, spics,” he said pleasantly to Bernardo. “Sure, it’s a free country and I ain’t got the right to order you out of here. But I’ve got a badge and until you take it to court, you do like I say.” He pointed at the door with his cigarette. “Beat it. And that means off the street.”

Schrank watched the Sharks file out in cold silence and gather around Bernardo. Before Krupke could get out of the prowl car the Sharks split up and scattered in all directions. It was impossible to follow them and Schrank gestured to Krupke to remain in the driver’s seat.

“Well, Riff, where’s the rumble gonna be?” He paused for a reply, nodded at several of the boys and saw how they turned away. When he took a step toward Baby-John and Anybodys, both became busy with an adventure in the comic book. “Ah, look, I know regular Americans don’t get together with the gold teeth unless they’re gonna rumble. The river? The park?”

When he continued his voice was tighter, with more bite in it. “I’m for you,” he said. “I want this beat cleaned up. So do you. So why don’t we help each other? Where’re ya gonna rumble? The playground? Sweeney’s lot?”

He mentioned another battlefield, and waited for some response. “Dirty little hoodlums,” he exploded in rage, “I oughta drag ya down to the station house and have your skulls mashed to pulp! You and the tin-horn immigrant scum you come from! How’s your old man’s d.t.’s, A-Rab? How’s the action on your mother’s mattress, Action?”

Schrank moved lightly on the balls of his feet, as his right hand went for the blackjack. Ready now, he waited for Action to leap toward him, but Riff and Gee-Tar had moved to pin the raging boy between them.

“Let’m go, buddy-boy, just let’m go,” Schrank suggested. “Because one of these days, there won’t be nobody to hold him.” Keeping his eyes on the boys, his hand on the blackjack, Schrank retreated toward the door. “I’ll find out where you’re gonna rumble,” he promised them. “But be sure to finish each other off before I get there. Because if you don’t, I will.”