Jockeying for position, feinting, moving the knives in defensive circles, both leaders decreased the distance between them. Each had had enough experience to know that this kind of fight never lasted long. It might be over with one thrust; it never took more than two or three.

Around them the perimeter constricted, and as Diesel and Action moved forward they loosened their hold on Tony for a moment, which was enough time for him to break free.

The action was a blur. He heard Riff shout at him to get back, goddamnit, and as Riff gestured to make the command more emphatic, he swept his left arm wide. It provided the few seconds Bernardo needed to come in fast and swing the knife upward in a hard lethal arc that ended in Riff’s ribcage, just under the heart.

Riff was dead before he fell, and with a cry of anguish, Tony scooped the knife from his limp hand and charged forward with such sudden speed that Bernardo was caught unprepared. Unable to shift his feet properly to defend himself, all ten inches of the blade pierced his side, and dying, he fell to the ground.

The rattle and gasp of death, the darkening earth, the limp forms so suddenly cut off from hatred, violence and life, seemed too awful to endure. Then the howl of a siren, a police prowl car screaming to a stop above them, a searchlight beam probing the side of the highway, scattered the Jets and Sharks.

Diesel grabbbed Tony’s arm and as Tony ran, his eyes blinded by tears, his world going up in flames, he called her name again and again and again, but only the wild despairing sound of the siren answered him.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The transistor radio was tuned to a station that prided itself on playing only fast, driving records, with a simple primitive beat and senseless lyrics. The girls on the roof moved their feet and their shoulders, as they stared impatiently off into the darkness. Why, it was nine-thirty already, and this could only mean real live strong action. Oh, they were impatient—the loving was going to be furious tonight.

Consuelo looked at herself in a pocket mirror and decided she preferred her left profile—longer false lashes, and larger falsies. “This is my last night as a blonde,” she announced.

“That’s no loss,” Rosalia said.

“A gain!” Consuelo returned the mirror to her large purse. “The fortune teller told Pepe a dark lady was coming into his life.”

“So that’s why he’s not taking you out after the rumble!” Delighted with her wit, Rosalia crossed the roof to tell Maria in detail how she had just told off Consuelo, who was even more stupid than she admitted to.

The criss-crossing sounds of racing sirens in the streets below made Maria shudder. There were certain sounds she disliked, hated, even feared, and the sound of sirens inspired in her all three reactions. Sirens almost always meant trouble—illness, an accident, death, fire. Still these sirens had nothing to do with her.