From Here to Eternity_ The Restored Edit - Jones, James [237]
Maggio looked at him, and then Prew could see the tears running down his cheeks.
“Oh, fuck,” Angelo said. “Runnin like a goddam criminal. I’m sick of it. All the time scared to fart for fear an MP’ll hear you. I’m sick of it. I aint going to take it, see? The bastards, the dirty motherfucking bastardly bigfooted apeheaded cocksucking motherfuckers. I aint, I say.”
“All right,” Prew said. “Take it easy, Angelo. You dont want to get picked up. You’re still drunk.”
“Sure, I’m drunk. Sure I am. So what? Cant a man get drunk? Cant a man do anything? Cant a man even put his goddam hands in his goddam pockets on the goddam street? Why not get picked up? You might as well be in Leavenworth, anyway, instead of always on the outside looking in and never getting past the glass front, like a kid outside a candy store. Why not get picked up? I aint no coward, to be running from them. I aint yellow. I aint no coward. I aint no bum. I aint no scum.”
“Okay, okay, okay. Just take it easy. You’ll be all right in a minute.”
“All right? I’ll never be all right again. Its all right for you, if you’re a thirty year man. I aint. I dont give a fuck for them, see? Not a single goddam solitary frazzle-assed fuck. I—just—got—my—belly—full.”
“Breathe deep, Mack. Take ten, and breathe real deep. I’ll be right back, soon as I ditch these trunks.”
He stepped down to where the water was still lapping, very softly, an inrush and a froth and then a dripping back. He threw the trunks out into the water and stepped back to where he’d left the boy from Brooklyn. Maggio was gone.
“Hey,” Prew said softly. “Hey, Angelo. Hey, buddy. Where are you?”
When there was no answer he turned and started running up the street, up Lewers Street, up towards the light, running hard, very lightly on his toes.
When he got to the edge of the pool of light from the streetlight he stopped and slid back off the sidewalk out of sight.
On the curbing at the corner, in the same pool from the streetlight, little Maggio was fighting the two big MPs from Shafter.
He had one of them on the ground and was hanging crablike on his back, punching with all his wind at the MP’s head that was pulled down between his shoulders. While Prewitt watched, the other MP clubbed him on the head and dragged him off the first one’s back. He clubbed him again, Maggio holding his hands up over his head, the club hitting skull and fingers, and Maggio went down. He crawled up on his hands and knees and was going for the MP’s legs, but slowly now, and the MP clubbed him as he came.
“Go ahead,” Maggio said. “Hit me again, you motherfucker.”
The first MP was up now and stepped over and began to club him too.
“Sure,” Maggio said. “Come on, both of you. Is that the best two great big strong men like you can do? Go ahead and hit me. Come on, hit me. You can do better than that.” He tried to get up and was knocked back down.
Prew moved then, back on the sidewalk and into the light and was running up the street at them, running lightly, figuring his footing and the steps before he jumped.
“Get back,” Maggio yelled. “I’m handling this. This aint your affair. I dont need no help.”
One of the MPs looked around and started down toward Prewitt. On the ground Maggio moved, crablike, and tackled him. As the MP fell, Maggio was on his back, bouncing his head against the street, punctuating his words there was not breath in him to say.
“Sure. You big jokers. And your clubs. Whats the matter. Cant you take it. You can dish it out though. Cant you.”
“Go on, take off,” he yelled at Prew. “You hear? You keep out of this.”
The MP on the ground rose up slowly, Maggio riding his back punching at his head, and arched his back and bucked the demon off, like a horse will toss its rider.
“Go on,” Maggio yelled. He lit on his hands and knees and came back up. “Get goin. This aint your