“What’s the matter?” L.J. asked. “Your coffee get cold?”
“Yeah,” Buddwing said.
“Hey, Artie,” L.J. said to the counterman, “why don’t you give this guy a cup of hot coffee?”
“I gave him a cup of hot coffee.”
“Yeah, well, it’s ice-cold now.”
“That’s all right,” Buddwing said.
“Come on, break your heart, Artie. Give the guy a fresh cup. And bring us all some while you’re at it.”
“None for me,” Red Vest said.
“You think coffee grows on trees?” Artie said.
“As a matter of fact, it does,” Buddwing answered, and the boys all laughed.
“Where you think it grows?” Beethoven said, laughing. “In the dirt, like potatoes?”
“The comedians,” Artie said. “Here’s your coffee.”
Buddwing noticed that he put down three cups, and wondered if he was expected to pay for the fresh cup L.J. had demanded. L.J. picked up his own cup of coffee and then started to walk toward one of the booths in the back of the place. He stopped, turned toward Buddwing expectantly, and said, “Whyn’t you sit back here with us?”
Buddwing was about to refuse. But the open innocence was still on L.J.’s face, as though he were asking for contact somehow, as though it were very important to him that Buddwing join them.
“All right,” Buddwing said. “But I have to keep an eye on that building across the street.”
“Oh, yeah?” L.J. said. “How come?”
“I’m waiting for a girl to come out.”
Red Vest made a clucking sound with his tongue, and Beethoven picked up his coffee cup and shouted at the counterman, “Hey, Artie, you think girls grow on trees, too?”
“He thinks girls grow in Macy’s,” L.J. said, and everyone, including Buddwing, laughed.
“Wise guys,” Artie said, but he was smiling.
They made themselves comfortable in the booth, L.J. and Buddwing on one side, Red Vest and Beethoven on the other. L.J. picked up his coffee cup, sipped at it, and then turned to Buddwing and said, “We’re always putting him on. Artie. He’s a nice guy. The guy up the block, he always chases us when we hack around. Not Artie.”
“He does seem like a nice guy,” Buddwing offered, though he really held no opinion of Artie whatever, and was in fact still wondering whether he was expected to pay for the second cup of coffee.
“You connected with the television studio?” L.J. asked.
“What do you mean?” Buddwing said.
“ABC. Over near the park.”
“Oh. No. No, I didn’t even know there was a studio around here.”
“Yeah, there’s always a bunch of actors going in and out of there. You’re not connected with it, huh?”
“No.”
“I thought maybe you were connected with it. You look like an actor or something.”
“I do?”
“Yeah. Don’t he look like an actor?”
“Yeah,” Beethoven said, smiling angelically, “he looks like Boris Karloff.”
“More like Peter Lorre,” Red Vest said.
“Wise guys. You see? They can’t take nothing serious,” L.J. said.
“We’re very serious,” Beethoven said.
“Oh yes, very serious,” Red Vest said.
“You really waiting for a girl?” L.J. asked.
“Yes, I am.”
“What’s her name?”
“Doris.”
L.J. thought for a moment, his brow wrinkling. “Doris,” he said, “Doris.” He turned to the other boys. “You know any Doris on this block?”
“There’s a Dotty,” Beethoven said.
“No. This is Doris,” Buddwing said.
“What’s she look like?” L.J. asked.
“Black hair, brown eyes, very long legs.”
“How old is she?”
“Seventeen,” Buddwing answered without hesitation.
“That’s kind of robbing the cradle, ain’t it?” Red Vest said.
“What do you mean?” L.J. protested. “Maybe he likes them young.” He looked at Buddwing seriously, and said, “How old are you, anyway?”
“Thirty-five,” Buddwing said.
“That’s not so old,” L.J. said.
“That’s pretty old,” Red Vest said. He grinned at Buddwing and added, “I’ll bet you can remember the chariot races.”
“I can remember the building of the pyramids,” Buddwing said.
“Dotty has blond hair,” Beethoven said idly, and then shrugged and picked up his coffee cup.
“No, this is Doris.”
“But there ain’t no Doris on this block.”
“I think you made her up,” Red Vest said.
Buddwing smiled. “No, she’s real, all right.”
“Naw, you made her up,” Red Vest said, and he winked at the other boys. For a moment, Buddwing felt a twinge of anticipation. He was sitting in a booth with three boys who looked like all the pictures of juvenile delinquents he had ever seen. They had accepted him into their circle unquestioningly, had joked with him, had demanded a fresh cup of coffee for him when his first cup had grown cold. But now he grew suspicious of them. Why were they being so friendly? Was their easy banter leading to an argument, leading to an excuse for them to jump him? Cautiously, he lifted his cup, avoiding their eyes, and cautiously he sipped at his coffee.
“Does she put out?” Beethoven asked idly.
Buddwing dared to raise his eyes. He looked into Beethoven’s face, and could read nothing on it. Carefully, he said, “Well, I don’t know.”
“Oh, yeah, he don’t know,” Beethoven said, and laughed gently. The laugh seemed to dissipate whatever anxiety Buddwing had been feeling. He looked into Beethoven’s gray eyes and at his soft face, and he listened to the boy’s warm chuckle, a chuckle that conveyed such a sense of cheerfully shared conspiracy that Buddwing knew instantly his suspicion had been ill-founded, and instantly he relaxed.
“No, really,” he said, smiling. “I don’t know whether she does or not.”
“Yeah, he don’t know,” L.J. said. “Just look at him.”
“Everybody puts out,” Red Vest said. “That’s a fact.”
“This guy thinks the whole city is a whorehouse,” L.J. said.
“It is,” Red Vest answered.
“Then what does that make your mother and your sister?” Beethoven asked with sweet simplicity.
Sipping at his coffee, Buddwing thought, I have had this conversation before.
“My mother puts out, that’s for sure,” Red Vest said, “and my sister’s only eight.”
“That’s very mature,” L.J. said, laughing. “What’s holding her back?”
They all laughed, and Red Vest said, “Yeah, you guys. Boy.” He turned to Buddwing. “You ever see a bunch of hornier guys in your life?”
“Who, us?” L.J. said in astonishment. He nudged Buddwing gently and said, “This is the guy who’s horny. Look at him. Sitting here and waiting for a chick, when it’s only nine o’clock in the morning.”
“Well, it’s really nothing like that,” Buddwing said. “She’s really a very nice girl.”
“Who said she ain’t nice?”
“She’s probably sweet as can be.”
“Mmm. Sweet.”
“With that black hair and those brown eyes.”
“Yeah, and the long legs.”
“I dig long-legged chicks,” Red Vest said.
“You dig anything that walks with a skirt on it.”
This identical conversation, Buddwing thought.
“You know what I dream sometimes?” Red Vest said confidentially. He lowered his voice and leaned across the table. “I dream of all those beautiful long-legged chicks walking around naked, but there’s no body from the waist up, you know what I mean? Just this pussy on legs, that’s all. I dream it all the time.”