The Hoods by Harry Grey

street. We watched with interest as he cornered her among the garbage cans. She yowled with pain and pleasure as he jumped on her back and sank his teeth into her neck, forcing her into a submission.
    We piled into the Caddy, laughing, feeling a vicarious thrill. Maxie sang a risque parody to “Everybody's doing it, doin' it.”
    Cockeye at the wheel turned to look at Maxie for instructions.
    Max looked at his watch and said, “Three a.m., plenty of time left for a bath to really pick us up.” He rubbed his chin reflectively. “Yep. And at the same time, we'll fix up the alibi with Lutkee.”
    Cockeye turned the key, kicked the starter, shifted into first and swung the car uptown on South Street. Those are the motions he actually went through, but it seemed as though all he did was to slip behind the wheel and the big car responded to his slightest wish, like Aladdin's magic lamp.
    With Cockeye at the wheel the Caddy was alive. It was a “she,” and in an emergency, when we were in a tight fix, he would talk to her affectionately. He called her “Baby” in the tone of voice a fervent lover uses. He was what we called a “bitch at the wheel.” He could do tricks with that car a Hollywood stunt driver would never dream of doing. He had developed into the most skillful driver on the East Side. He had something solid to handle, for the Caddy was a special job, bulletproof throughout, and geared to do one hundred twenty-five miles an hour.
    We hummed speedily and quietly through the night. The big, black car like a chameleon blended into the darkness of the deserted streets. Abruptly, we were in the midst of bright lights and a beehive of activity.
    “Ah!” Cockeye exclaimed as he breathed in deeply. “Chanel number five.”
    Maxie leaned forward, digging his fingers deep into Cockeye's back, and said, “Hey, Cockeye. How many times have I told you to close your window when we're driving through the Fulton Fish Market?”
    Cockeye laughed at our discomfort. We were holding handkerchiefs to our noses.
    “You guys are too sensitive. To me it smells delicious. Just like overripe pussy.”
    We breathed in deep as we left the market behind. The stinking East River air smelled good by comparison. We glided swiftly through the labyrinthine streets of the lower East Side.
    Then, in the distance, a dim electric sign shone, “Lutkee's Turkish Baths.” Cockeye kicked the gear into neutral and taxied smooth as silk under the sign. He turned the purring motor off. We walked into the baths.
    There was a peculiar combination of fear, respect and pleasure in Lutkee's manner as he smilingly shook our hands. He escorted us personally to the choicest rooms in the place. We undressed and walked naked toward the hot room. As we swung through the baths with Big Maxie in the lead, the soft padding sound of our bare feet on the stone floor and the sight of naked, hairy bodies, gave me the odd thought: Darwin was right. I bet we have more wild beast than homo sapiens in our make-up. I could not help imagining we were a ferocious animal pack traveling through a hot, steaming jungle. Big Max was sleek muscled in his dark nakedness, his catlike gait covering the length of the long hall with the speed and grace of a man-killing tiger. Patsy walked a step behind, his long legs and arms moving in fine rhythm. His powerful muscles flowed in an easy ripple beneath an abundant growth of dark body hair. His slinking movements were a vicious black panther's on the prowl. Cockeye, somehow, reminded me of a leopard. I chuckled to myself, wondering what animal I resembled.
    We pushed through a swinging door into the dry heat room. The sudden heat hit our cool bodies like a gust from the terrific heat of a blast furnace.
    The floor was burning hot. Cockeye hopped around from one foot to the other. I still felt a little high.
    I said, “What's the matter, boy? Too hot for you? Better get used to it. You don't want our friend Mephistopheles laughing at