“I don’t know,” said Karras. “Little bit of this and that, I guess.”
“Uh,” said Stefanos.
“Gotta find something I like. Don’t wanna end up behind a fruit cart like my old man.”
“Well, when things pick up around here, and you get tired of relaxin’, you come see me. I’m gonna be needin’ a little help, a strong set of arms now that me and Costa are gettin’ up over forty. And you got a kid on the way now. You gotta think about that, too.”
Karras swallowed some food, looked straight ahead. “Sure, Nick. Maybe you and me, we’ll have a talk.”
The bell over the door chimed, and Lou DiGeordano stepped into the store. He had come directly from his fruit cart, wearing a threadbare jacket over a plain white shirt. His hair was slicked back, his thin black moustache greased as well. A few stray grays sprouted from the black.
“Karras Jr.,” said DiGeordano, clapping Karras on the shoulder. He chin-nodded Stefanos. “Nick.”
“Lou,” said Stefanos.
“How’s your old man?” said DiGeordano.
“He’s okay,” said Karras.
“He’s some kinda proud of you, boy. Always talkin’ about his son, the war hero.”
Karras stabbed his fork into a frank.
“Wanna beer, Lou?” said Stefanos.
“Ballantine Ale,” said DiGeordano.
“What’s the line on the fight tonight?” said Karras.
“I’m strictly numbers,” said DiGeordano. “I don’t make book. But if you take Parks, you got a screw loose somewheres. You see the chest on Archie Moore?”
“Some guys around town say that Moore could go down,” said Karras.
DiGeordano curled his lip. “Those guys don’t know shit from apple butter.”
Karras nodded. Stefanos took two bottles from the cooler, and motioned his head in the direction of the kitchen.
“If you’re gonna be back there a while,” said Karras, “leave me somethin’ to read, will you, Nick?”
Stefanos put an Evening Star on the counter. He went back to the kitchen, and DiGeordano followed.
Karras finished his dinner, put fire to a smoke as he read the front page. MacArthur was set to execute some Japanese officer from the Philippine campaign, and the hearings on Pearl Harbor were ready to begin. Below the fold, he read about a woman of no fixed address found dead in a house on New York Avenue, cut wide open from sternum to groin. So another working girl went and got herself killed. There had been plenty of crime in town since the war, a few murders now and again, retribution deaths, final settlements on long-cold gambling debts and the like. But these whore murders were a new brand of slaughter: vicious, senseless. These whore murders were just something else.
Costa came out of the kitchen and took Karras’s plate. He wiped the area clean with a wet rag.
“Hey, Pete,” said Costa, “I was wonderin’. You bring back any kind of knife from overseas? Switchblade, anything like that?”
“I left the only knife I had on the island of Leyte,” said Karras. “One of those Filipinos over there, he gave me his machete. That’s about it.”
“I bet you seen some good knives over there, though. Right?” Costa’s eyes were bright.
Karras just shrugged. Costa stared at him for a second or two, then took his plate and the empty soup bowl from the old-timer and went away.
Lou DiGeordano came from the kitchen, using the sleeve of his jacket to wipe foam from his moustache as he walked.
“See you later, Karras Jr.”
“Okay, Mr. DiGeordano. See you around.”
The chime sounded as DiGeordano went out the door.
Karras took a last drag off his smoke, stubbed it out in the ashtray. The old-timer had hit the road, left two bits on the counter before he buttoned his chesterfield and shuffled out. Nick Stefanos walked from the kitchen, hiking up his trousers as he moved.
“What do I owe you, Nick?”
“Let’s see... franks and beans, a bottle of Coke. Seventy-five cents.”
“All that, huh?” Karras pushed a buck across the counter. “You play a good one with Lou?”
Stefanos spread his hands. “They’re all good, till they don’t come up. I had a dream about this one, though. My mother was in the dream.”
“I never dream about the dead. Anyway, you’re not supposed to.”
“That’s right. But she wasn’t in the dream, exactly. I mean, I didn’t see her. I heard her voice, though. I was listenin’ to her from behind a door. There was a number on the door, like some kind apartment number—”
“So you played the number.”
“Yeah. I put a fistful on it.”
“You’ll win a bundle if it hits. What’re you gonna do with it if you win?”
“I dunno. Send some to my boy in Greece, I guess. Or maybe use it like bait to get him over here. Anyway, I don’t hit the number, I’m gonna win it back from Lou on Saturday night.”
“You still have that card game at your place every weekend?”
“Yeah, sure. Lou and Costa are regulars. Pete Frank and his wife Kiki, they’re gonna come too. Pete’s brother-in-law, George Boukas—”
“That the guy who used to be a fighter?”
“Went by the name of ‘Kid Boukas’ in the ring. Worked down at the Willard as a busboy, long time. Has a flower shop now.”
“Yeah,” said Karras. “I heard of that guy. A lightweight, wasn’t he?”
“Good little boxer,” said Stefanos. “Good athlete, all the way around.”
A horn sounded outside the plate-glass window of the grill as a Mercury coupe pulled over to the curb. Karras stood, grabbed his topcoat, smoothed out the lapels as he put it on.
“That’s my ride, Nick.”
“You chew on what I told you, re. Fun and games is all right, but now you gotta think about a little honest work.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Call me,” said Stefanos. “Adams four, sixty-four-eighty.”
Karras smiled. “Okay, Nick. We’ll talk.”
The chimes sounded as Karras went out to the street. Nick Stefanos watched him open the passenger door of the coupe and climb inside.
“Yeah,” said Stefanos to an empty store, rubbing a thick, calloused hand across his face. “We’ll talk. But first, young guy like you? You gonna go out and have a little fun.”
10
Joe Recevo pushed the shifter into second, gave the Mercury some gas. He looked over at Karras, fiddling with the dial on the radio. An old, English-accented voice came through the dash speaker. The sound of it made Recevo wince.
“Find some music on that thing, will ya?”
“That’s Fred Allen’s show,” said Karras. “What’s wrong with that? He’s got this British comedian... comédienne on tonight. Beatrice Lillie is her name.”
“I don’t care what her name is. I need to hear some old broad yappin’ like a submarine needs a screen door.”
Karras spun the dial, landed on the lilting vocal of Dinah Shore — “Personality” was the tune. He kept his hand on the knob, glanced across the bench at Recevo: a chocolate-brown suit with a matching tie, and a camel hair topcoat over the whole rig. On his head, a brown fedora with a chocolate-brown band, a small red feather tucked in it. Recevo, always with the hats.
“This okay?” said Karras.
“Yeah, Dinah Shore is top shelf.” Recevo sideglanced at Karras. “They say she’s high yellow. You know that?”
“Oh, for God’s sakes, Joe.”
“Got a strain of jig blood in her. It ain’t no secret.”
“That’s a bunch of horseshit.”
“What, did I offend you, Mrs. Roosevelt?”