The one thing Tony could absolutely not figure outwith people around like Lieutenant Greene, Chief Norton, and Bo'sun Leech, who knew all about explosives and shipswas why they weren't down here, instead of a Gyrene fly-boy, Ettinger, and him. When Ettinger came to his apartment, he talked to him about that. Ettinger thought it was probably because Frade had connections in Argentina, and he and Ettinger spoke Spanish.
That was true, maybe. But Ettinger was supposed to be the communications sergeant of the team, and so far they didn't even have a telephone, much less a radio. .
This is really one fucked-up operation!
He walked to the edge of the water and bought an ice cream and a Coke from a street vendor. The ice cream was all right, but the Coke was room temperature. And the bottle was in shitty shape. When Tony was in the eighth grade at St. Teresa's, they took them on a tour of the Coke place. Half a dozen women there did nothing all day but sit at a conveyor belt and push off bottles that had chipped tops, or just looked bad. He wondered then what they did with all the bad bottles.
Now I know. They load them on ships and bring them down here.
He found an old-timey shipit had both masts for sails and a smokestacktied up at the stone wharf. Tony could read enough of the sign on the wharf to find out that the ship had sailed to Antarctica. He gave in to the impulse and bought a ticket and went on board.
A guy in what looked like some kind of Navy uniform guided him around. Tony scarcely understood what he was saying; but the map he pointed out showed that the boat had gone to the Antarctic not once, but half a dozen times.
Whoever sailed down there on this little thing really had balls. But what the hell, so did Columbus.
The guy kept talking too fast for Tony to understand much of what he said; but Tony nodded and shook his head and said "s?" a lot, and he had the idea when the tour was finished that the guy really didn't suspect that he was an American.
He gave him some money, and from the way the guy beamed, suspected he had given him way too much.
Well, fuck it! Lieutenant Frade gave me two hundred bucks for miscellaneous expenses. This is a miscellaneous expense. I'm looking at ships.
When he went back on the wharf, he was tempted to have another ice cream, but remembering the room-temperature Coke, decided that wasn't such a hot idea.
Maybe I can find a restaurant with some Italian food, and something cold to drink. Then I will go buy some fucking wire. If they ask me what I want it for, I'll tell them I'm putting in a telephone extension.
He found what he was looking for: Ristorante Napoli. It was three blocks down a narrow cobblestone street, on the ground floor of a run-down building with light-blue shutters. The shutters were painted with what looked like watercolor paint that didn't cover the wood underneath all the way.
Every other Italian restaurant in Chicago is called Ristorante Napoli.
Inside, it was a dump. A small room and eight rickety tables covered with oilcloth. He walked in and looked down at one of the tables, not pleased with the cheap tableware and the battered glass, into which was rolled a thin paper napkin. But then the smell of basil, garlic, and fennel came to his nostrils, and he sat down.
A waiter, or maybe the owner, a none-too-clean white apron around his waist, walked into the room.
"Buenas tardes, Se?or."
"Parli Italiano?"
"Of course. You are Italian?"
"Yes."
"From the North," the man said, and then tapped his ear. "I myself am from Napoli, but I can hear the North."
Actually, I'm from Cicero, Illinois. I don't think I should tell you that, so if you think I am from the North of Italy, fine.
"Where?"
Shit! I know as much about Italy as I do about Argentina. Zero. Zilch.
"Far north. Up by the border."
"Perhaps near Santa del Moreno?"
"Not far," Tony said. He tapped his ear. "You have a fine ear, Se?or."
"It is something like a hobby for me," the man said. "I am told that I am very good at it."
"You're amazing."
"And how may I help you, Se?or?"
"I would like something cold to drink, and then I would like to eat."
"We have the Coca-Cola, and agua con gas."
"Coca-Cola."
"And have you considered what you would like to eat?"
Tony heard his father's voice in his ear:
"This only works in a little restaurant,"he said. "But if the guy running it is pushing something, take it. It's one of two things: He personally made it and he's proud of it. Or they made it yesterday and he's trying to get rid of it. You can always send it back.''
"You surprise me," Tony said.
"I will try to please. And a wine.'"
"You surprise me."
The first thing that appeared was the Coke and the wine. The Coke was cold, and Tony drained it and burped.
Excuse me."
"It is nothing."
There was a whole bottle of wine. All I wanted was a glass, but what the hell. The man went through the wine-tasting ritual.
In a joint like this? But what the hell, he's trying.
"Very nice," Tony said. The man beamed and filled Tony's glass.
"What do you call it?"
"Vino tinto Rincon Famoso. It is Argentine. I would not want my mother to hear me say this, but I prefer it to the Italian."
"Very nice," Tony said, meaning it, even if it wasn't the Chianti he had hoped for.
Next came prosciutto damned good prosciuttoon a plate with french fries.
"What do you call this in Spanish?" "Jamon cocido con papas fritas."
"Jamon cocido con papas fritas," Tony repeated. "Jamon cocido con papas fritas."
"Fine," the man said. "In no time you will learn Spanish. It is not that different from Italian."
I hope," Tony said.
Yeah, it won't be long. I'll speak Spanish in a couple of months. If I'm still alive in a couple of months.
Next came a small plate of vermicelli with a tomato-and-pepper sauce. Washed down with a couple of glasses of vino tinto, it wasn't at all bad; but Tony was disappointed. He could have eaten two, three times as much.
The small portion was explained with the delivery of some kind of chicken.
"What's this?"
"Suprema a la Maryland."
"Maryland?"
The man shrugged. "It is something my mother taught me. The sauce is from bananas and corn. Perhaps it is Argentinean, not Italian."
You bet your ass it's not Italian. Grandma told me the first banana she ever saw was in Chicago, and that she tried to eat the peel, it looked so good.
Washed down with the rest of the bottle of vino tinto, the Suprema a la Maryland wasn't half as bad as he thought it would be.
Tony declined another bottle of wine the last thing I can afford to do is get shitfacedand dessert. He was full up.
"Magnifico," he declared, and asked for the bill. It was a hell of a lot cheaper than the last meal he'd had downtown.
"Do you know someplace I can buy some telephone wire?"