They called themselves the Street Kings, for they were rulers of the rubble piles and the railyards. Makers of mischief. Sultans of the goddamned West Side. “… I heard dere’s a cellar ’round here where dey take snitches,” one of the boys crowed. “I heard ’a floors is covered wit teeth ’at you can pry da gold right outta and sell it over to da pawnbroker on Eighth and Forty.” “You’re as full of it as yer old man.” “You take back what you said about my da.” “Yeah, the only thing his old man’s full of is Owney’s whiskey!” The two boys fell on each other with fists and curses, more out of habit than a sense of honor, until Paddy Holleran broke them apart. “Save it,” he ordered. “We might need our knuckles for what we’re doin’ tonight.” Paddy was fourteen and already running some small rackets for Owney Madden’s gang, so the boys followed him without question, shouting “Street Kings!” and toppling garbage cans and throwing rocks at windows.
