He understood them all right, and if he had been able to get his hands on the boy who had thrown the stink bomb he would have rubbed his nose in it. Schrank exhaled soulfully and saw that Krupke nodded because the officer understood that both of them had thankless jobs—dangerous, too.

But a cop had no time to think of the danger. If he did, it meant that he was becoming frightened, and to stay on the force these days demanded an absolute indifference to fear. Jets and Sharks. They were only two of the gangs that infested the West Side. Sometimes it seemed to him there were more gangs than roaches. But gangs and roaches, both had to be squashed.

“Where to now?” Krupke asked.

Schrank sighed again. “To see if we can find the Sharks. I’ve got a little talking to do to Bernardo.”

“Tough kid?” Krupke asked.

“He’s just like the rest. Speaks English with an accent, but a good fist in his mouth is a language he’s sure to understand. Everyone does.”

They watched the Jets move along the street and hated the boys for their fighting strut—stiff legs, heels striking the pavement hard, shoulders rotating, thumbs hooked into their belts.

“Think we ought to go back to that grocery store and see if we can get a description of the kid?” Krupke suggested.

Schrank crinkled his nose. “No, I can’t stand the stink.”

“Of the bomb or the grocer?” Krupke asked.

Schrank’s laugh was short and bitter. “No comment.”

From the way his boys walked, the way they whistled, laughed and bragged, Riff knew the Jets felt they had gained a full victory, and over the cops at that. People had seen the cops talking to them, had seen the way he had stood up to punishment, and the word would get around to the PR’s. Word might even get back to Tony, and it might bring him back to the Jets.

If Tony wanted to take over again it was all right with Riff. Smiling secretly to himself, Riff knew this would really tear up Action, but that was all right. Action had seen him take it from the dick—man, but the dirty bastard had a grip. He wanted to rub his aching shoulder but refused to do so because he wanted the Jets to believe that it hadn’t hurt him a bit. No one could say he hadn’t stood up to punishment like a leader.

The street clock above the barred windows of a credit jeweler told Riff it was almost ten o’clock. Things had happened mighty fast; and back at their corner the boys might spend another hour, talking it over, playing up their roles, telling each other what they were about to say to Schrank and Krupke, what they might have done if the lousy cops had swung even one punch. Then it would be eleven o’clock.

Still too early to go home, but not too early to go looking for the chicks. There were too many hours ahead until morning—hours of just nothing to do—and all that energy inside him ready, aching, to explode.