Stefanos did not respond. He picked up another tomato, began to slice it thin.
“You hear about Lady Day?” said Williams to his friend.
“Yeah, they caught her last night in Frisco with that opium in her room. Got her dead to rights!”
“You think she did it? Her manager said it was some kind of plant.”
“What her manager said don’t matter no way. They gonna get that girl whether she guilty or not. Shoot, boy, you ought to know that.”
The record had stopped. Florek went to the radio, pushed its plug into the wall. “Dance Party” was on WOOK, and Williams head-motioned Florek to let it ride. Florek wanted to hear more about this opium thing, but he decided to leave the men alone. Oscar Williams always had a good selection of Billie Holiday’s records on hand. Opium or no, that Holiday gal, she could really sing.
Karras came through the front door, hung his topcoat on the tree by the booths, had a seat across from the policeman. Florek took a cup of coffee to Karras, who introduced him to the pale, overweight cop. The cop’s name was Jimmy Boyle. The two of them looked to be friends, so Florek left them to their conversation. Six came in soon after that, sat down on his chair by the front door.
Florek said to Stefanos, “You gonna need me tonight, boss?”
“What’s tonight, Tuesday? Milton Berle’s on tonight, huh? I’m tellin’ you, that Texaco Star Theatre’s killed my Tuesday business. This town’s dead now, Tuesday nights. No, Florek, you sweep up out here, wait for Karras to dress, then you go ahead and take off.”
The cop left, and Karras went back to the warehouse area to change clothes. Florek got the broom from the kitchen, swept the lunch dirt toward the front door. Costa had come out front, was arguing with Williams and his friend, something about the preparation of hog’s jowls, and Florek tuned that out. He came up to Six, asked him to lift his feet up so he could sweep beneath the chair. When Florek was done, he looked up at Six, who was staring at him with those bear’s eyes, big and round and deep brown.
“I been wonderin’ about something,” said Florek.
“Go ahead,” said Six in that baritone of his.
“Why they call you ‘Six,’ anyhow?”
“Cause I’m six feet tall, I guess.”
“You don’t mind my saying so, you look closer to seven feet.”
“Maybe so, but you don’t want to be callin’ no man ‘Seven.’”
“Why not?”
“Six sound good, comin’ off your tongue. But, Seven? Seven, it just don’t sing.”
* * *
Florek showered in the common bathroom and dressed in clean wool trousers and a shirt. He put on his mackinaw jacket and slipped the photograph of Lola in the side pocket before leaving the room and heading down to Nick’s.
Costa and Stefanos were behind the counter, Costa arguing with two new customers over the cooking method of the evening special. Lou DiGeordano sat on a stool away from the Negro customers, drinking a Ballantine Ale. He was dressed in a single-breasted, brown-check suit which hung loosely draped on his thin frame.
“Young Florek,” said DiGeordano.
Florek nodded, said to Nick, “Where’s Pete, boss?”
“Out back, havin’ a smoke.”
Florek went directly to the kitchen, then through curtain doors to the warehouse area in the back of the building. Paper goods and industrial-sized cans of foodstuffs sat stacked on wood pallets pushed against the south wall. A room off the north wall housed a low toilet, with a wash basin outside the room. The middle of the area was kept empty, lit by one naked bulb suspended on a cord from the tin ceiling above. There was no switch for the light—it turned on and off by manual rotation, as Stefanos considered the installation of a switch an unnecessary expense.
Florek walked through the open door at the back of the warehouse. Karras was out in the alley that ran between R and S, sitting on a fruit crate, his wrists relaxed, his hands dangling between his knees. Two of Costa’s cats figure-eighted Karras’s ankles, ran off as Florek approached. A Negro boy washed Nick’s Ford, a Custom V8 club convertible, a ‘49 that Nick had bought in the beginning of the model year at Wolfe Motors on 12th and K. The Negro boy looked chilled in the late afternoon air, dipping his brush in the bucket of cold, soapy water. Nick had the same kid wash the car, no matter what the season, every week. He gave the boy a quarter for his trouble, along with a hot meal.
“Pull up a chair,” said Karras, pointing to an empty crate.
Florek turned the crate over, slid it next to Karras, had a seat. The boy scrubbed intently, the tip of his tongue breaking his lips as he worked at one tough spot. The sun had fallen behind the buildings to the west, the Ford glistening in the dying light that remained. Down at the end of the alley, a stylish woman stood at the rear entrance to the Sun Dial, her arms folded to her chest as she smoked a cigarette.
“Who’s that?” said Florek.
“Pete Frank’s wife, Alice. Everyone calls her Kiki.”
“She takes care of herself.”
“Yeah, she carries herself pretty good. Wears sharp clothes, always has on a nice pair of shoes.”
“Pete Frank gonna make it down there?”
“Since Nick and Pete turned over to colored joints, there’s business enough for everyone, I’d say. So, yeah, I think Frank’s gonna do all right.”
Florek rubbed his cheek. “Course, Nick doesn’t really need the dough anyway, does he.”
“Why do you say that?”
“These colored guys, they always joke with him about it, how he’s got plenty of money, like that.”
“Yeah, well. Nick hit the number in a big way, back in ‘46. Matter of fact, I was sittin’ right at that counter the day he played it. That was the same night…well, anyway, I was there when he played that number.”
“How big did he hit?”
“To the tune of forty Gs.”
Florek whistled through his teeth. “Why the heck is he workin’ so hard for, then?”
“On account of he loves this place, that’s why. If you could see where he came from, you’d understand. Anyhow, he bought this building with the dough, and he’s savin’ the rest of it for his son, if he ever comes over from Greece. I hear the son ain’t worth a damn, but Nick’s his father, so…what are you gonna do. It’s not the money with Nick, anyhow. It’s the work. Hell, he’d probably give it away if you asked him. You know that customer, the white man, that Italian who’s always dressed up?”
“Mr. DiGeordano. He’s in there right now.”
“Right. I knew him since I was a kid, and he was the poorest-looking bastard you’d ever want to see. He had this fruit cart no bigger than a shithouse, he used to push it down by the waterfront.”
“He looks pretty good today.”
“Sure he does. He was the runner that sold the dream number to Nick. When he delivered the forty big ones, Nick peeled off two thousand dollars from the roll and handed it to Lou. Costa says DiGeordano fell to his knees, kissed Nick’s hand. Course, Costa, he don’t know shit from Shineola, but you get the idea. DiGeordano was major-league grateful to Nick. He’d do anything for the guy today.”
“What’s DiGeordano do now?”
“He opened a deli up on Georgia Avenue with the two, got into the loan business after that, diversified into a little bookmaking. He’s got a couple of guys workin’ muscle for him now, has a wife and a little boy, he’s doin’ okay. All because Nick was so generous. Like he’s been generous with me.”
“How so?”
Karras pulled a deck of Lucky Strikes from beneath his apron, shook one out, pulled the cigarette free with his lips. He held the pack out for Florek. Florek waved it off. Karras slipped a matchbook out from under the cellophane of the pack, put fire to the smoke. He thumbed a speck of tobacco off his lower lip.
“Just look at me, man. I mean, I’m not the kinda guy who’s gonna be an asset to a man’s business.”
“What d’ya mean?”
“I??
?m a cripple!”
“You’re a good worker, Pete—”
“I’m a cripple, Florek, just the same.”
Florek looked Karras over. “You get that crazy knee in the war?”
Karras shook his head. “After.”
“It hurt much?”
“Not so much anymore.”
“You get around on it pretty good.”
“I’m fakin’ it, Florek. Since you came, I been pretendin’ like it doesn’t hurt so bad.” Karras took a drag off the cigarette, grinned as he blew a stream of smoke out into the alley. “The reason I had to fake it is, I’m scared you’re gonna take my job away from me.”
“Pete, it’s not like that. I swear—”
“Relax, kid, I’m only havin’ a little fun with you. The truth of it is, we all been watchin’ you. And every one of us thinks you’re doin’ a pretty fair job.”
“Thanks.” Florek blushed, scraped the sole of his shoe against the stones of the alley.
The Negro boy trotted over to Karras, stood in front of him. He rubbed his hands dry on his torn trousers.
“Finished,” said the boy.
Karras made a brief mock-study of the spotless Ford. “Looks okay, chum. Go on in and get your money.”
The kid ran through the open back door. Karras took a drag off the Lucky, hotboxed it with a tandem draw, pitched it away.
“Listen, Pete. I’m sorry I asked all those questions about your bum leg. I didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”
“That’s okay, kid. Most people don’t ask a thing. They just make like nothing’s wrong, or they look away. I’m tellin’ you, with most people it’s like I’m not even there. So don’t worry about it, hear?” Karras touched the mole on his face. “Where you from, anyway?”
“Western Pennsylvania.”
“God’s country.”
“I guess.”
“You get tired of it? That’s why you’re down here?”
“Not exactly. My sister’s here in D.C.”
“You visitin’ her for awhile?”
“I’m lookin’ for her,” said Florek.
Karras watched Florek pull a photograph from his jacket, smoothed the face on the picture out with his fingers as gently as if he were touching flesh. Karras took the photograph from Florek’s hand. The girl had an unformed, plain, doughy face, with lively eyes set wide above a thick Polack nose. The blond hair came from a bottle; he could see a crop of black sprouting at the part.
“Pretty girl,” said Karras.
“The picture’s a couple years old.”
“Well, she’s pretty.”
“You’re being nice. But if you knew her, if you knew her personality that is, you’d think she was pretty all right. Lola, when she got going, she could really make you laugh.”
Karras said, “She come down here with a guy?”
“Yeah.”
“Some guy your parents don’t approve of, or somethin’? Is that it?”
“It’s worse than that.” Florek swallowed. “A man she met introduced her to some kind of dope. A kind of dope you take with a needle. She fell in love with it, I guess, and then she followed this man down to D.C.”
Karras brought up phlegm from his throat, spat. “Have any luck hooking up with her yet?”
“Uh-uh. I showed her picture around…1 showed it to a girl over at Thomas Circle. I came up with nothing there.”
Karras tried not to react. So the kid was down from some steeltown, looking for his hophead sister, now a whore. It didn’t get much rougher than that.
“Your parents must be crawling up the walls,” said Karras, because he could think of nothing smart to say.
“My father’s dead,” said Florek.
Karras nodded. “Mine too, kid. He died last year of a bad liver.”
A brief silence fell between them. Karras looked the kid over.
“Sometimes I’m glad he’s dead. I know it’s bad to say, but if he were alive, and he knew about Lola—”
“That your sister’s name?”
“Yeah.”
“What’ve you done so far?”
“Well, like I say, there was the girl at the circle, which didn’t amount to much. Other than that, I haven’t done a thing. Truth is, I don’t know where else to go. I don’t know the city, after all. I guess I just keep hoping I’m gonna run into her somewhere. They say D.C.‘s a small town—”
“Not since the war it isn’t.”
“Anyway, tonight I was going down to People’s to see this girl I know from my old job, a friend of mine who works behind the makeup counter. I thought maybe I’d stop at Thomas again on the way down, show the picture around.”
Karras looked at Florek: bone-skinny, shy, and just about as green as they come. A kid like that, walking around, asking questions to the wrong kinds of characters, that was a damn good way to get himself killed.
“This girl down at People’s,” said Karras. “She just a friend?”
Florek gave an aw-shucks grin. “Her name is Kay. Truth is, I was gonna ask her to take in a picture with me tonight. The Warner’s got a new one, John Loves Mary. Ronald Reagan’s in it, and this new gal—”
“Patricia Neal.”
“Yeah, her. It’s a romance picture, the girls like that. I was gonna see if Kay would want to go.”
“You gonna take a girl out, wearin’ that jacket?”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“It looks like something you’d wear to go hunting in!”
Florek lightly punched Karras’s shoulder. “Aw, come on, Pete, what would you know about hunting? You’re a city animal, all the way.”
Karras chuckled. “Tell you what. When you get a little money in your pocket, you and me, we’re gonna go out and get you some decent clothes.”
“Whatever. Look, I better get going.” Florek reached for the photograph.
Karras drew back his hand. “You got another copy of this?”
“Yeah, sure. Why?”
“You know that cop I introduced you to? He’s a friend of mine from back in the neighborhood. I want to show this to him, see if he has any ideas.”
“I’m not looking to get Lola into any trouble.”
She’s already in trouble, thought Karras. He said, “Don’t worry. I’m only gonna have him ask around. And I know a few people myself. Maybe I’ll ask around a little, too.”
“I don’t want to put you out, Pete.”
“Well, it’s not like I’m all that busy now, is it? Anyway, you take off. Go enjoy yourself with your girl.”
Florek and Karras shook hands. Florek got off the crate, began to walk away.
“Hey, kid.”
“Yeah?”
“There’s a little restaurant next to the Warner, place called the Crown. They got highballs there with bonded whiskey, only sixty cents. Take your girl there for a drink, have one after the show.”
“I’m a little shy of the drinking age.”
“There’s a guy behind the bar, a veteran by the name of Jackie Harris. Tell Jackie I sent you by.”
“Thanks a million, Pete.”
“Sure thing, chum. You take care.”
Florek went down to R, turned left toward 14th. Karras folded the photograph, slipped it into his apron. He fished out another cigarette, lighted it, watched the smoke of his exhale shimmer in the last of the sun’s rays.
Costa came out the back door then, wearing his coat and hat, a fishbone in his hand. A half dozen cats appeared from various hiding places and blind corners, circled his feet. Costa tossed the fishbone out into the alley, smiled for a moment as he watched the cats pounce on it, bat each other away. He brought up some spit, looked at Karras.
“Ella, re. I need you to take over for me out front.”
“Where you off to?” said Karras.
“Gonna go down to Hains Point, have a walk around.”
“You’re gonna go down to the Speedway in the dark?”
“What the hell I care? I just wanna get o
ut of here a little while, that’s all.” Costa spat on the stones. “I’m sicka all these niggers.”
Costa walked down the alley, the smallest cat of the bunch following his trail. Karras crushed the cigarette beneath his shoe, got up off the crate, grunted from the pain in his knee. He went back through the warehouse and the kitchen to the front of the house, where the Negro boy sat at the counter, eating a hot meal. Stefanos and DiGeordano were splitting a bottle of ale.
“Karras Jr.”
“Mr. DiGeordano.”
“Here you go, re.” Stefanos took a business card off the counter, handed it to Karras. “Some Americanos left this for you.”
Karras had a look at the card. “This bird’s been after me, trying to sell me life insurance, some crazy veteran’s deal he’s got.”
“Uh,” said Stefanos. “You see Costa?”
“Yeah. What the hell’s wrong with him?”
“He’s a little guy, that’s all, and I’m not just talkin’ about he’s short. Don’t get me wrong, I love him like a brother. But he’s always gonna be little, and he knows it. So Costa, he’s always gotta blame someone else.”
“Let me get goin’,” said DiGeordano, getting off his stool.
Nick Stefanos killed his ale, put the glass in a bus tray beneath the counter. Karras slipped the insurance man’s business card in the breast pocket of his shirt. He picked up the bus tray and limped back toward the kitchen.
Chapter 21
Burke stood ramrod straight, his back to his desk, looking out the window to the street below.
“So what’s it going to be, Joe? I’m going to let you make the call, since you’ve got a bit of a personal investment. That’s a block of 14th Street we haven’t touched yet, and I’d like to get a lock on it before someone else moves in. So here’s the question: Do we talk to Pete Frank first or do we move straight in on Nick Stefanos?”
Joe Recevo gave a slight shrug of his shoulders. He withdrew a deck of Raleighs from his inside jacket pocket, blew his breath into the pack. A cigarette popped halfway out; he pulled it from the pack with his teeth, struck a match to the tobacco, dropped the match in the ashtray that sat on the large table in front of him. He let out some smoke, watched it inch across the room.