Out_of_the_Devil_39_s_Cauldron

flights to our apartment, which had no running water, and return to make the same trip six or seven
more times until there was enough water for the evening. I pretended not to hear him . . . maybe he
would go away.
“Yo, kid, I said, you listening to me?” There was no way I could ignore him now. I looked
him straight in the eyes, a flat expression on my face.
“A rumble’s going down tonight with the Flying Dutchmen, so get your chores done and make
sure your family’s inside by eleven o’clock. You hear me? We don’t want nobody gettin’ hurt—
except the Dutchmen.” He cackled at his joke and slid his hand along his slick black ponytail, a flash
of silver showing from the thick, studded rings he wore on his fingers—the better for fighting with.
I nodded and went back to my chore, but I could feel my heart pump faster. Rumbles were
frightening, no doubt about it. But they were also exciting. As soon as the Nova roared around the
corner, I shouted to Julio.
“Julio, there’s a rumble tonight! Tell Mom, George, and Eustaquio!” My little brother was just
emerging from our building with two empty buckets in his hand, ready for the next refill and trip back
up the five flights to our apartment.
His eyes widened. “Really? What time?”
“Eleven o’clock. C’mon, go tell Mom so she can run to the market. I’ll get this round.” Taking
the empty buckets from my brother, I watched as he shot like a cannonball back toward the front stoop
of our building and disappeared inside.
A weird, almost tangible vibe ran up and down the streets of the neighborhood. Like an
electric current, news of the rumble spread. Mothers did last-minute shopping at the battered
storefront shops along Deli Avenue and 179 th Street. Little kids playing by the street jittered in a
crazy hop-skip dance, and horns blared from cars, as if signaling the coming showdown between the
rival gangs.
And at eleven o’clock, we would be ready for them. My brothers and I leaned on our open
bedroom windowsill like we had ringside seats to a championship prize fight. “George, Julio—make
sure Eustaquio doesn’t lean out too far!” I commanded protectively, assuming the role of little father
figure in the absence of our real dad. In every direction we could see, people hung out their windows
like we did. The only thing missing was the popcorn and Coke. A murmur of voices zigzagged across
the streets and alleyways, now strangely empty except for the rats that scurried along behind the line
of overstuffed garbage cans.
As if on cue, the Reapers took up their posts along the streets, inside alleyways, and up on the
rooftops of the buildings, toting bats, chains, knives, machetes, guns, and trashcans full of bricks. As
the Flying Dutchmen rolled into our neighborhood, a war whoop sounded from the rooftops, where
they rained bricks down onto the rival gang members’ cars while the Reapers on the street level
dragged them out of the vehicles and beat them mercilessly. The Reapers came out like savage
animals, and suddenly the streets below us churned with bodies and blood and the screams of broken
men.
Confined to a one-block radius, the rumble roared on, and my brothers and I watched
fascinated from five stories high. Close to five hundred gang members tore up the street below,
jumping all over the cars, thrashing rival members, and firing gunshots into the night. Others were laid
out in the street—the ones who might not make it home tonight or live to see another day. Not a cop
was in sight. The police both feared and respected the gangs and had a sixth sense about when a
rumble was going down. After an hour or so of brutality—their bloodlust spent for the night—the