Riff pushed Tony behind him. “Cut it,” he warned Bernardo.

But Tony refused to line up with the Jets. He could see now how serious an error he had made.

It would have been better—no matter what he told or promised Maria—to have let them have it out. If Diesel had taken Bernardo, everything would have been settled, and he could then have made a real grandstand play by offering to take on Diesel to prove to Bernardo that he wanted peace between them.

If ’Nardo had taken Diesel, he could have offered to shake hands with his future brother-in-law, and if ’Nardo had refused, and pushed him around, tried for a clean shot at Bernardo. Then when he came to, he could have offered to shake hands or put him away again.

It was too late to do any of these things now, and Tony trembled as he felt Bernardo’s cold hatred. There was nothing he could do now. It was too late. But for Maria, he had to try; he was even willing to crawl.

“Bernardo, you’ve got it wrong.” Tony kept his voice low and steady.

Bernardo shook his head. “I’ve got it right. You’re chicken.”

“Why won’t you understand?” Tony asked, as he signaled for Action to keep his mouth shut.

Bernardo stepped in, one hand cupped at his ear, as the other flicked Tony’s nose. “Can’t hear you, chicken,” he taunted Tony. “What did you say? A-Rab wants you to get me. But you’re too chicken.”

“Bernardo—don’t.”

Delighted with himself, Bernardo danced around Tony to flick at his nose, his chin, to slap him across an ear, to pirouette like a bullfighter. “I can’t call him toro because he’s a chicken,” he told the delighted Sharks. “Come on, chicken,” he continued to taunt Tony. “What have you got to say before I start making you lay eggs?”

It was too much for Riff to take. He thought with shame of all the times, the days and weeks and months, he had spent in defending Tony, his best friend, against Action and Diesel, even against Baby-John and Anybodys. It didn’t make sense. No white man who had any pride would take what this spic was dishing out. Was Tony sick in the head or something to take crap from a goddamn spic? Maybe Tony didn’t feel ashamed, because someone who was sick, or without guts, couldn’t, but he did. He touched his hip pocket and felt the reassuring bulk of his switchblade knife.

Bernardo slapped Tony again. “Yellow-bellied chicken…”

“For chrissake, Tony!” Riff shouted in anguish. “You crazy son of a bitch, are you crazy! Don’t let him do that!”

“Murder him, Tony!” Anybodys screeched.

Baby-John hopped up and down. “Kill him!”

“Kill nobody,” Bernardo mocked. “You dirty, lousy…”

With a cry of rage, Riff pushed Tony aside and leaped for Bernardo’s throat. He knocked him off balance, reached down, yanked him to his feet, and pounded his fist squarely into Bernardo’s mouth.

Bernardo felt his mouth fill with blood, but lowered his head to butt Riff squarely in the face, and as Riff lost his grip and stumbled backward, Bernardo had his knife out. As he wiped his mouth, he saw the glint of Riff’s blade. This was it, the way it should be. He ordered the Sharks to stay back, that was what he wanted. From the corner of his eye, he saw Tony start forward but Action and Diesel grabbed him.