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Tribal Rites of the New Saturday Night

Defeated, the Faces stood around in the hallway, feeling vaguely foolish. At first their instinct was simply to wait it out, keep a vigil till Benny came home. But within a few minutes, hanging about, doing nothing, that plan lost its attraction. The hall was deserted, there was no sign of action. Just standing there grew boring, and they started to fret.

Loitering outside the front doorway, aimless, it was Eugene who came up with the solution. “I don’t care. No sweat,” he said. “Somebody’s going to pay.”

“Mothereffing right,” said Gus, and he slammed his fist into his palm again; he threw a right cross into space. “Those greaseball bastards.”

“Mothers,” said the Double J.

“Those mothereffing freaks,” said Gus. “We’re going to rip them apart.” And the man in the tweed suit, who had been watching, was forgotten. The Faces looked past him, hardly seemed to recognize his shape. “We’re going,” said the Double J.

“Where to? Odyssey?” asked the man.

“Hunting,” said Gus.

They moved back to the car, they clambered inside. Of course, the man in the suit wanted to go along, wanted to watch, but they wouldn’t let him. They said that he didn’t belong, that this was no night for tourists, spectators. He tried to argue but they would not hear him. So he was left behind on the sidewalk, and they traveled alone.

But just before the Dodge moved off, Vincent rolled down his window, looked out into the dark. His face was immobile, frozen, in the best style of Al Pacino. “What is it?” asked the man in the suit.

Vincent laughed, exulted. “Hombre, you will die,” he said, to no one in particular. And the Faces drove away, off into Saturday night. Horsemen. A posse seeking retribution, which was their due, their right.


  • Archive: “Cover Story
  • From the Jun 7, 1976 issue of New York
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