Therefore, no revenge. No emotional connection. This was an exercise in itself, a deed like a theorem.

“Hey, ixnay.” Artie gestured for him to drive on. Too many of these kids were coming toward the car. Some might know them. Artie slid down in his seat, while the car rolled around the block. By then the flock was already broken up. A few kids walked with maids who always called for them, and some lingered in small groups, girls especially. Then Artie nudged, pointing his chin. “Richard Weiss.”

A good one. A cousin of their pal Willie, and a grandson of Nathan Weiss, the biggest investment banker in Chicago, the financier behind all their family fortunes, the Strauses, the Hellers, the Seligmans. Little Richard Weiss was turning into 49th Street. It took a moment to make the U-turn, and by the time they came to 49th Street, the kid was not in sight.

In that momentary interval, the whole thing went down again in Judd. Perhaps losing the kid was an omen that it wouldn’t really be done. “The hell with him,” Artie said. “Let’s go back to the school.”

If by now the school street was clear, then today’s chance would have been lost, and tomorrow Judd could say he really had to get ready for his exam.

“Hey!” Judd followed Artie’s glance. Across from the school, on the play lot – a whole flock of them. “Watch me!” Boldly, Artie walked across to the lot. Judd sat staring, feeling a kind of awe. This was the way of a man entirely above normal fears and rules. So bold an impulse would never have occurred in himself, Judd knew.

Artie walked casually on to the lot. Judd saw him stop and put his arm around his kid brother, Billy. Would he really bring Billy!

He was leaving the lot alone. Judd pulled the car ahead a short distance to get out of sight of the kids. Catching up, jumping into the car, Artie said excitedly, “There’s a whole bunch of good ones. Mickey Bass.” His old man owned the South Shore Line. “And the Becker kid – but he’s pretty husky.”

“How about Billy Straus?” Judd suggested. “His old man is the richest Jew in town.”

Artie grinned. Then he shook his head. “How would we collect? Cops would be all over the house; I couldn’t make a move.” He looked back toward the lot. “I’ll tell you. Let’s make it the first good one that leaves the ball game.”

They waited. Artie became restless. Motioning Judd to follow, he dodged around behind the play lot; from the alley they could watch the kids – birds with their random movements, stirring on the vacant lot. Artie was getting dangerously close. And yet not near enough to recognize one kid from another, especially those at the distant end of the field. They seemed to go on endlessly with their ball game. “Damn it,” Judd said, “you need field glasses.”

“Hey! You’re a genius!” Artie squeezed his arm. “Let’s go!”

“What?”

“Let’s get your goddam glasses!”

Fleetingly, Judd wondered, was even Artie at that moment giving the whole plan a chance to collapse? Allowing a chance for all the kids to disappear while they went back for the field glasses?

The house was quiet. Up in Judd’s room, Artie went straight for the Bausch and Lomb, grabbing the case. “Take it easy!” Judd cried. “They’re delicate!”

Standing by the window, Artie focused. “This is the nuts! Christ, you could reach out your mitt and grab one of them!”

Judd stood close to Artie. It was one of those moments, perhaps because of being safe together in the room, and yet in the midst of their wild game – one of those moments when he could almost groan with excitation.

Artie turned to let him use the binoculars. And from the look in Artie’s eyes, that almost mocking look, Judd knew that Artie knew. “Come on!” Artie laughed, bounding for the stairs. “We’ll miss them!”

Into the car again, and back beneath the tree. They took turns with the field glasses. It was so strange, watching a kid as he bent to tie his shoe lace, then stood up, waiting. Like a bird, preening, lifting his head, listening.

Artie said, “One’s coming!” Judd started the motor. Then Artie shook his head. “No. I dunno.” They waited, the motor running. Judd felt Artie’s hand on his thigh, warm, tense, ready. Anything, anything to have times like this with Artie.

A squeeze would be the signal.

On the field, the boys had formed in a knot; it was an argument. Perhaps the game was breaking up.

“The ump,” Artie muttered. “I think the ump quit.” Then, elatedly: “He’s coming! It’s the little Kessler punk. Hey! He’s just right!”

“Who is he? You know him?” Judd’s voice went suddenly high. “They got dough?”

“They own half the Loop. Old man used to be a pawnbroker.”

Somehow, with that, the boy seemed exactly the right one.

The squeeze came, on his thigh. Let out the clutch, slow, easy, crawling. Let the boy walk ahead a bit, lead your bird.

Artie climbed over to the back seat. They had four blocks to work in, he said; the kid’s house was near his own. “Street’s clear,” he observed.

Now they were almost even with the boy. Judd waited for a truck to pass, then coasted along the curb. “Let me handle this. He knows me,” Artie whispered. “Don’t honk.” And as they drew abreast: “Hey, Paulie.”

The kid turned. Judd slid the car still nearer to the curb.

Judd’s father’s voice cut in, “Thinking about your exam?” The memory images braked, halting sharply. Judd looked up. “I guess I’ll do Harvard the honour of glancing at my notes,” he said, rising.

Upstairs, he even took out the typed notes. His hand fell on the Bausch and Lomb, brought upstairs last night; Artie had neglected to put it back in its case. Even in Artie, sloppiness irritated Judd. As he arose to set the glasses away, he thought of the boy they had watched through these sights. Was the image still on the lens? Like the story about the last image on the retina of a murdered man…

Judd tried to bone again, and then the sexual excitement came. Always, always when he sat trying to study. He was oversexed, he was sure. Images intruded: a slave, a slave rewarded by his master.

With a little gasp, almost a groan, Judd gave himself over to the fastasy. His master was extended on a stone couch, drinking from a silver cup. His splendid muscular torso was bare, the skin golden, glistening, not oily but luminous.

The slave was no common slave, but had been purchased because of his learning. He was crouched, reading to his master, and the master laughed at the tale, a witty account of an ass, making love to a woman.

As Judd read, he looked up to his master, and saw the half smile, the beginning of excitation. The master’s arm lay free, and a short whip dangled from Artie’s hand. Artie caught his slavish eyes, and laughingly commanded him, “All right, you bastard, you sucker,” and flicked the whip. The slave put aside his parchment and…

Then a tumult. An attacker plunged into the room, more, three, five, a dozen assassins. Judd leaped up, defending his master, with his bare hands wresting the sword from one of the villains, charging them, forcing them backward, plunging the sword.

Excited beyond endurance, Judd arose, circled the room, trying to keep away from the bed. It would be an hour before Artie came. Then, making sure the door was closed, he lay down.

He let himself slide completely into it, without fixing on any one image, letting the images come one upon the other: a street in Florence, and a young man, blond – Artie – rushing into a shadowed alleyway, a grinning backward, inviting glance, and then it was yesterday and the little girls scattering in twos and threes on the street, and why had Artie always been against making it a girl? Maybe that would finally have rid him of the need, but now he still had something left over that he must do. The girl… and there came the image of the Hun and the girl, the war poster in the hallway when he was at Twain – the young Frenchwoman with the dress half torn crouching against a wall, her arm up in defence, and the Hun with the slavering mouth coming toward her, then grabbing her by the hair and doing it to her…