The Trouble Boys by E.R. Fallon

Author:E.R. Fallon [Fallon, E.R.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Bloodhound Books

Johnny stepped toward 143 East Fifteenth Street at five-fifty on Friday night. Ten minutes early. But he couldn’t wait inside the coffee shop across the street, where he’d been slowly drinking a cup, for any longer than he already had. He knew he had to get himself out of there and across the street right then or he might never go.

Already he could hear the music booming from inside of the building. He pondered if he should wait outside for another few minutes or just go in.

He went inside.

Tito Bernal greeted him at the door. “I am glad you’ve made it.” He smiled.

“Thanks for inviting me.”

To Johnny’s surprise, the room was already packed. People were scattered across the gymnasium of the local school, where Tito had mentioned club meetings of LESCA were held. The people were seated in folding chairs at the tables around the dance floor or leaning against the walls in groups or by the refreshments table. They were chatting, laughing, and moving to the sound of the musicians warming up on the stage. Colorful ribbons hung from the ceiling.

“You can take off your coat and give it to the lady over there.” Tito pointed to a small woman with white hair who was managing the coat-check. “The music will begin shortly. Please grab a drink for yourself.”

Johnny thanked him again and then looked around the bright room. His shoes squeaked on the waxed wooden gym floor as he walked to the coat-check area. Everyone in the room looked like him. After he handed his coat to the woman and received his ticket, another woman accosted him from behind.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you before. What street do you live on?”

Johnny turned around to see a young woman standing behind him. She had short, curly black hair and deep brown eyes. She appeared to be no more than eighteen or nineteen years old, with a body still that of a girl’s, straight and thin. She had on a simple black dress embroidered with small white flowers.

“I don’t live in this neighborhood. I live a few streets away.”

“So do I. You were born in New York?”

“Yeah.” Johnny started to walk away from the girl—she seemed too young for him—but she called after him.

“Same here. My parents are Cuban, though.”

He turned around. Johnny rarely met somebody growing up whose parents weren’t from Ireland or Italy. “Really?”

She walked to where he now stood a little farther from her. “Yes. You sound surprised. Why are you surprised?” Her eyes brightened with curiosity.

“To tell you the truth, I grew up in a mostly Irish and Italian neighborhood, and my mother, she’s Irish. My father was the one who was . . .” He struggled to finish the sentence.

“Cuban?”

Johnny nodded. “I didn’t grow up around Cubans.”

“Now you are with us.” She finally smiled. “What’s your name?”

“Johnny Garcia.”

“I’m Lila.” She held out a delicate hand.

Johnny took her smooth hand and didn’t ask for her surname. “Would you like a cola?” She stared at him with her pretty eyes.

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