V.

Profane loping unathletic into trash cans and Coke machines. Kook broke away and tore broken-field through the noon crowd. 'Luis Aparicio,' he screamed, sliding for some private home plate: 'Luis Aparicio,' wreaking havoc through a troop of Girl Scouts. Down the stairs, over to the uptown local, a train was waiting, Fina and the kids got in; as Profane started through the doors closed on him, squeezing him in the middle. Fina's eyes went wide like her brother's. With a frightened little cry she took Profane's hand and tugged, and a miracle happened. The doors opened again. She gathered him inside, into her quiet field of force. He knew all at once: here, for the time being, Profane the schlemiel can move nimble and sure. All the way home Kook sang Tienes Mi Corazon, a love song he had heard once in a movie.   They lived uptown in the 80's, between Amsterdam Avenue and Broadway. Fina, Kook, mother, father, and another brother named Angel. Sometimes Angel's friend Geronimo would come over and sleep on the kitchen floor. The old man was on relief. The mother fell in love with Profane immediately. They gave him the bathtub.   Next day Kook found him sleeping there and turned on the cold water. 'Jesus God,' Profane yelled, spluttering awake.   'Man, you go find a job,' Kook said. 'Fina says so.' Profane jumped up and went chasing Kook through the little apartment, trailing water behind him. In the front room he tripped over Angel and Geronimo, who were lying there drinking wine and talking about the girls they would watch that day in Riverside Park. Kook escaped, laughing and screaming 'Luis Aparicio.' Profane lay there with his nose pressed against the floor. 'Have some wine,' Angel said.   A few hours later, they all came reeling down the steps of the old brownstone, horribly drunk. Angel and Geronimo were arguing about whether it was too cold for girls to be in the park. They walked west in the middle of the street. The sky was overcast and dismal. Profane kept bumping into cars. At the corner they invaded a hot dog stand and drank a pina colada to sober up. It did no good. They made it to Riverside Drive, where Geronimo collapsed. Profane and Angel picked him up and ran across the street with him held like a battering ram, down a hill and into the park. Profane tripped over a rock and the three of them went flying. They lay on the frozen grass while a bunch of kids in fat wool coats ran back and forth over them, playing pitch and catch with a bright yellow beanbag. Geronimo started to sing.   'Man,' Angel said, 'there is one.' She came walking a lean, nasty-face poodle. Young, with long hair that danced and shimmered against the collar of her coat. Geronimo broke off the song to say 'Cono' and wobble his fingers. Then he continued, singing now to her. She didn't notice any of them, but headed uptown, serene and smiling at the naked trees. Their eyes followed her out of sight. They felt sad.   Angel sighed. 'There are so many,' he said. 'So many millions and millions of girls. Here in New York, and in Boston, where I was once and in thousands more cities. . . It makes me lose heart.'   'Out in Jersey too,' said Profane. 'I worked in Jersey.'   'A lot of good stuff in Jersey,' Angel said.   'Out on the road,' said Profane. 'They were all in cars.'   'Geronimo and I work in the sewers,' Angel said. 'Under the street. You don't see anything down there.'   'Under the street,' Profane repeated after a minute: 'under the Street.'   Geronimo stopped singing and told Profane how it was. Did he remember the baby alligators? Last year, or maybe the year before, kids all over Nueva York bought these little alligators for pets. Macy's was selling them for fifty cents, every child, it seemed, had to have one. But soon the children grew bored with them. Some set them loose in the streets, but most flushed them down the toilets. And these had grown and reproduced, had fed off rats and sewage, so that now they moved big, blind, albino, all over the sewer system. Down there, God knew how many there were. Some had turned cannibal because in their neighborhood the rats had all been eaten, or had fled in terror.   Since the sewer scandal last year, the Department had got conscientious. They called for volunteers to go down with shotguns and get rid of the alligators. Not many had volunteered. Those who had quit soon. Angel and he, Geronimo said proudly, had been there three months longer than anybody.   Profane, all at once was sober. 'Are they still looking for volunteers,' he said slowly. Angel started to sing. Profane rolled over glaring at Geronimo. 'Hey?'   'Sure,' Geronimo said. 'You ever use a shotgun before?'   Profane said yes. He never had, and never would, not at street level. But a shotgun under the street, under the Street, might be all right. He could kill himself but maybe it would be all right. He could try.   'I will talk to Mr. Zeitsuss, the boss,' said Geronimo.   The beanbag hung for a second jolly and bright in the air. 'Look, look,' the kids cried: 'look at it fall!'       Chapter Two       The Whole Sick Crew       I   Profane, Angel and Geronimo gave up girl-watching about noon and left the park in search of wine. An hour or so later, Rachel Owlglass, Profane's Rachel, passed by the spot they'd abandoned, on her way home.   There is no way to describe the way she walked except as a kind of brave sensual trudging: as if she were nose-deep in snowdrifts, and yet on route to meet a lover. She came up the dead center of the mall, her gray coat fluttering a little in a breeze off the Jersey coast. Her high heels hit precise and neat each time on the X's of the grating in the middle of the mall. Half a year in this city and at least she learned to do that. Had lost heels, and once in a while composure in the process; but now could do it blindfolded. kept on the grating just to show off. To herself.   Rachel worked as an interviewer or personnel girl at a downtown employment agency; was at the moment