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.”