“She’s a working girl?” she asked, in a jarring accent of high-elevation origin.
“I think so, yeah.”
“Not around here, she ain’t.”
“You sure about that?”
“Honey, I know who works these few blocks. You best look for your girlfriend somewhere else.”
“She’s not my girlfriend,” said Florek, instantly ashamed.
“Yeah?” The girl dragged on her cigarette, blew a ring at the photograph. The smoke exploded across Lola’s face. “Who is she, then?”
“Nobody,” said Florek.
That brief exchange cost him ten bucks, nearly half a week’s pay. He walked back up 14th toward his room, a desperate hollowness inside him like he had never felt.
Florek made no further direct attempts to locate his sister. He continued to wander the city by day, hoping to run into her, and he continued to work the soda bar at night. Near Christmas, he visited the windows at Woodward and Lothrop on F Street more than once, taking pleasure in the faces of the children who had come with their parents to see the decorations and lights. He spent Christmas Day alone.
By January his relationship with Simms had deteriorated to the point where they rarely spoke. Florek concentrated on his work, trying to increase the speed of his counter service out of boredom more than anything else. His improved job performance, of course, only increased the resentment coming off of Mr. Simms. But by now Florek had something else on his mind: a redheaded girl named Kay who worked the cosmetic counter of the store. He had never spoken with her, though he had seen her with her friends at Truman’s parade on Inauguration Day, and from across Constitution Avenue had gotten a smile. After that Florek tried to catch her eye now and then at work, and often did, and soon he thought that he might ask her out to see a picture or to have a bite to eat. But finally he lacked the courage even for that. Instead, in his room late at night, sitting on the edge of his bed, he often imagined her naked, her red hair clean and lustrous and fanned out on a pillow; those nights ended with his face contorted, his eyes closed tight as he beat off furiously into a dirty sock. Afterwards, he felt useless and sad.
Florek had not had many good days in D.C. There seemed to be few places in town for a stranger like him to go and sit and listen to other men talk — a place like any of the places on Broadway or Utah in Farrell, back home. So the cup of coffee at the Greek grill downstairs, earlier in the day, had been special for him. It had made him feel comfortable and good.
That night, by the picture window in his room, listening to the Gavilan-Williams fight on the cheap Emerson table radio he had recently bought, Florek began to think about that Greek place, and the people there, those behind the counter and the customers as well. He listened carefully to the ringside announcer, made mental notes as to the technical jargon, the jabs and the crosses and the footwork and such. He’d want to know what he was talking about when those guys at the counter started jawing about the fight. He could join in on the fight talk with those guys, join in and maybe be one of them, when he walked into Nick’s the next day.
“What the hell’s wrong with the greens?” said Costa.
The green-eyed Negro at the counter pointed to his dish. “I’m just tryin’ to explain it to you, man. These here are collard greens, Costa, they got to be cooked a special way. You don’t want to be boilin’ the flavor out of these, like you do with them bitter dandelion weeds you be pullin’ out of some field for one of your Greek dinners. These greens here, they got to be stirred a little bit in a fryin’ pan with some pork fat, ’long with a little red onion and garlic. And these greens here got taste, understand? You don’t need to be coverin’ up that taste with all this lemon. You people put lemon on everything you cook!”
Costa studied the greens on the man’s plate. “So, lemme get it right. You fry these up with some onion, a little garlic. And no lemon.”
“That’s right.”
The man next to the green-eyed one said, “And you might want to cut a little okra into it, too.”
“Okra,” said Costa. “I get it. Hokay, vre mavroskila.”
Costa went away as the two men as the counter grinned and touched hands.
“A little more coffee?” said Stefanos to Florek, seated away from the others on the same stool as the day before.
“All right, Nick. Just warm it up for me, will you?”
“Cafe, Costa. Via to Kirio Florek.”
Costa took a glass pot from a burner and filled Florek’s cup. A show called “Dance Party” was coming from the radio, the dial of which was set at 1590, the city’s Negro station with the call letters WOOK. Florek had been sitting there for over an hour, had listened to spirituals for the first thirty minutes.
“How about that fight, Nick?” said the green-eyed Negro. “You sure did call it.”
“The Kid did it, that’s right,” said Stefanos. “Gavilan was bleedin’ all over the ring, but he did it to Williams, all right.”
“It was them rights of his,” said one of the men.
“It was the uppercuts,” said Florek, loud enough for all of them to hear. “That buzz-saw attack that Gavilan’s got.”
The green-eyed Negro looked down the counter at Florek, then at his friend. “You hear what the young man said? It was a buzz saw got Ike Williams.” The two of them laughed.
“Those whad’ya-call-its,” said Stefanos.
“Bolos,” said Florek.
Florek glanced over his shoulder at Six, sitting by the door. The bouncer was looking back at him with amusement.
Business picked up a little after that. Men came down from the U Street corridor after quitting time and made their way either to Nick’s or to the Sun Dial, Pete Frank’s restaurant at R. Frank had recently turned his place into a Negro house as well.
Costa pushed on the swinging doors, sped back into the kitchen. Florek heard a door open, then Costa’s voice as he yelled up a flight of stairs to a person named Toula. This had happened several times in the afternoon, and Florek had begun to recognize the pattern in Costa’s voice. Costa used a different tone when yelling at this Toula person than he did when yelling at the cook.
Stefanos popped the cap on a bottle of National, served it to a newly arrived customer. The customer put some coin on the counter, and Stefanos rang the sale on a register facing out from the wall. Florek saw that no one, not even Costa, rang on that register but Nick.
Costa came out with a bowl of catfish gumbo, placed it in front of a man in a shirt and tie. He stood there watching in disapproval as the man shook hot sauce vigorously into the gumbo.
“Taste it first, at least,” said Costa, “before you drown it in that stuff.”
“It ain’t hot enough for me,” said the man. “I done had it here before, and I know.”
“Okay, arape. You do what you want.”
“Sopa, re,” said Stefanos, clearly annoyed.
Costa pushed off from the counter as Stefanos shot him a look. With the colored customers, Costa always punctuated his exchanges with a few choice words spoken in Greek, followed by a cheerful smile. Florek could see, and the colored men could see — hell, a blind man could see — that Costa was insulting them. Costa, in fact, was the only one in the place who believed he was putting one over on them, and the men let him go on thinking it. Playing with Costa was their sport. Getting the little guy excited was a large part of the entertainment at Nick’s.