A New Way of Living

Chapter Twenty-Four

Author's Note: I do not own West Side Story

January

"Riff, are you fuckin' crazy? You called a truce with the PRs?"

Riff stood his ground, the rest of the Jets staring, some glaring at him with disappointed faces. He crossed his arms, standing tall, remembering who he was. And he would be happy to remind those who forgot.

"Not a truce, just an understanding," he clarified. "They get to expand their territory and they'll keep outta ours. For good, this time."

"I dunno, Riff," Ice replied, reaching up to scratch the back of his neck. "Sounds like bull to me. How do you know they're gonna stick to it?"

"They will. I know it."

Of course, Riff didn't know it. Not for certain. But all he had to go off was his gut, and the memory of the dark look in Bernardo's eyes. The desperation and regret. And for him, it was enough. 

"What a bunch a shit," Action scoffed, kicking at the dirt.

"Easy there buddy boy," Riff scowled at him. "Don't forget, you'd be trampled into the dirt if it weren't for Bernardo savin' yer ass. Or did you already forget?"

Action went to speak, but decided against it. Perhaps the humiliation of having to be saved by a Shark was bad enough without further embarrassment from Riff. Besides, he knew it was true. They all did.

"Look, ain't this what we wanted in the first place? For them to keep off our terf?"

"We wanted them gone," Tiger jumped in. 

"Well, you guys now as good as me that ain't gonna happen. Besides," Riff said, starting to move around the group of guys as he spoke. "What do you think's gonna happen when they go? Another group is just gonna go and move right on in their place. We've had it before. The Emeralds, Bishops, Egyptian Kings...they're all the same."

"Then weren't it all for nothin'?" Diesel asked, his voice flushed with frustration. "What happened to you, what happened to Tony...we just give up?"

"It ain't givin' up," Riff said firmly. "We get our streets. They just have a little patch of their own. And it's still little. Besides, what are we gonna go with a bunch of run-down Puerto Rican stores anyhow? These streets, right here..." He stomped his foot on the ground for emphasis. "...These are ours. Ain't it enough?"

The Jets grew silent. He watched them exchange glances. 

"At the end a' the day, we shook on it," Riff added, his voice low and authoritative. "We owe him one on account of what he did for Action. If they ever step into our territory, then by all means, feel free to start somethin' with 'em. But nothin' until then. No crossing the line. If anyone disagrees, then come and show me."

He held his arms out in a gesture of challenge. He waited, but nothing happened. He knew nothing would. He was still the leader, and had earned their respect over years of gaining it. Through mistakes that eventually turned to good decisions, every time. From years of giving secret advice, from holding secrets. For showing that he was quick on his feet, good with a knife, and could hold his own, even against the bigger guys. 

Especially now, when he had basically risen from the grave, none of them would dare touch him.

He let his arms fall. The air had shifted, and Ice looked at him, giving him a nod of affirmation, of support. The rest seemed to silently fall in line. All except for one:

"You're full of fuckin' shit, Riff."

Riff turned, seeing Baby John standing behind him. His face was set into a glare, his hands fisted and almost shaking at his side. It was such a strange image, that Riff was hardly sure if he was seeing things right. But he looked at the others, saw their confused faces, and realised they all saw the same thing.