“Panayoti, pou eise?”
“Sto magazi.”
“Thoolevis?”
“Yeah, I’m workin’.”
“Thelis na fas?”
“I already ate, Ma.”
“Ella na fas. Tha fiaxo ligo fayito, tha copso-sou ena microoli salata...”
“Ma, I already ate.”
Karras looked through the window at the still black figure of his mother.
“Ma.”
“Ti eine, pethi mou? Eise arosti?”
“No, Ma, I’m not sick. Got a tickle in my throat, is all. Listen, Ma, I gotta go—”
“Panayoti...”
“Ma. I just wanted... I only called to say hello.”
“Hokay, boy. Pas sto kalo.”
Karras hung the phone. He dragged on his smoke, dragged on it again until it was hot, flicked it out into the street. He limped to the Olds, got inside of it, fired the ignition. He drove west.
Karras went down U, rolled the window all the way open so that he could hear the life on the street. He passed the theatres and the bars, saw the young Negroes dressed carefully and with style, walking arm-in-arm and talking and laughing together against the live and recorded music coming from the open doors of the clubs. He saw a bartender he knew, standing outside the door to the Yamasee; he waved to the big man, and the man waved back.
Karras turned left on 14th, drove past S, swung a U in the middle of the street, parked the Olds on the east side facing north. From there, he could see across the street through the plate glass to the lighted counter of Nick’s. Out front, the blue sign encircled with the white bulbs had been extinguished. Karras checked the Hamilton on his wrist, saw that the evening had somehow fallen away.
Nick Stefanos and Costa were behind the counter, gesturing wildly with their hands, speaking to each other excitedly, two glasses half-filled before them and between the glasses a bottle of Ballantine Ale. They could have been arguing or they could have been making a friendship pact sealed in blood. From the expressions on their faces, it was awfully hard to tell.
Karras smiled.
So you’ll burn it down. Like hell you will.
He got out of the Olds and crossed the street.
Karras entered Florek’s building, took the stairs up to the landing, stopping once to rest and to rub ineffectually at the knee. Then he was on the landing and at Florek’s door and he was knocking on the door.
Mike Florek opened the door. He was wearing his mackinaw jacket and his duffel bag was at his feet.
“Come on.”
“I gotta get Lola.”
“Get her,” said Karras, reaching down and picking up the bag. “I’ll start the car.”
“You got a car?”
“More than just a car. A nice Olds fastback with an overhead eight.”
Karras went back down the stairs and out to the Olds. He stashed the duffel behind the front seat, turned the key on the ignition. By then Florek had begun to cross the street. He had his arm around his sister, and he was moving her slowly toward the car. An army blanket lay draped around her narrow shoulders.
“Lay her down in the back,” said Karras.
Florek did it with care and got himself into the passenger seat. He chin-nodded in the direction of Nick’s as Karras pushed the trans into first.
“I should say something,” said Florek. “He’s been mighty good to me, Pete.”
“No time for that. I’ll explain everything to him myself. And then maybe you ought to write a letter or somethin’ tellin’ him how it really was. You know I’m not too, whad’ya call it, articulate.”
“Why tonight, Pete? Why like this?”
“On account of I got this nice car. I mean, you gotta go, right? Why not go with a little style?”
“Where we headed?”
“You and your sister are goin’ home.”
Karras pulled off the curb. He swung another U, went south on 14th. He took 14th to New York Avenue, made a wide left turn.
“How is she?” said Karras.
“It’s been rough.”
“Well, the worst is over, right?”
Florek did not respond. He opened his window, let the air hit his face, breathed in the city smell that he had come to know. The light from a streetlamp passed across his face.
“Pete?”
“Yeah.”
“I had this girl down here.”
“That little redhead.”
“Kay was her name. I know I ought to be thinking about Lola and all that—”
“It’s all right.”
“But I sure do wish I could see her one more time or something.”
Karras downshifted smoothly. “You’ll be seein’ that girl the rest of your life, kid. And you’ll see her the way she was. Even when you’re old, and she’s old, you’ll see her the way she was. Consider yourself privileged for that.”
“I guess.”
“Anyway, there’s gonna be plenty of girls. Plenty of girls for an operator like you.”
Florek blushed slightly, settled in his seat.
Karras parked the car across from the Greyhound Terminal on the 1100 block of New York Avenue. Men and women, some in uniform, moved quickly in and out of the terminal doors. A soldier sat nearby on a low concrete wall, smoking a cigarette in the shadows.
“Why are we stopping?” said Florek.
“Get out.”
Karras went around the hood, met Florek on the passenger side of the car. Karras reached for his wallet, pulled the fifty-dollar bill from the fold, handed it to Florek.
“A fifty,” said Florek. “What the heck is this?”
“A guy owed it to me. The same guy who owns this car.”
“What—”
“Take it. Get your sister in there and buy a couple of tickets to Pittsburgh or someplace close to wherever the hell you’re from. If you can’t get a quick bus there, then get on one that’s goin’ anywhere north. Just get on one quick, hear?”
“Sure, Pete. But why?”
“It’s like I told you once before. You don’t belong here, chum.”
“But fifty bucks. I can’t use all this on a couple of bus tickets. I’ll mail you back the change.”
Karras smiled, patted Florek on the sleeve of his mackinaw. “I thought you might use the rest to buy yourself a new jacket. Something with a little more style. Might come in handy, with all those girls you’re gonna get to know.”
Florek looked down at his feet. The wind caught his straight hair, blew it back. “Why you doin’ all this for us, Pete?”
“Hell, Mike, I don’t know. I never planned anything my whole life. Now, get on out of here. Go.”
Karras and Florek shook hands. Karras turned and began to walk away.
“Hey, Pete, you on foot?”
“I told the guy he could pick his car up here.”
“I could drive you somewhere, bring the car back myself.”
“It’s a nice night,” said Karras, glancing up at the sky. “I think I’ll walk.”
Florek went around the car, retrieved the duffel bag, got Lola up from the backseat. He pulled her out gently, got her on her feet. They walked together to the terminal doors, the overhead lights coloring Lola’s pale, drawn face.
“Mike,” said Lola.
“All right,” said Florek. “We’re almost there.”
Mike Florek turned his head, looked back through the traffic on New York Avenue. Karras limped slowly past the soldier sitting in shadow on the concrete wall. A crowd of couples came down the sidewalk, seemed to envelop Karras, then went on, laughing and talking loudly among themselves. And then it was just the soldier there, looking down at his boots, smoking his cigarette. The soldier and the night and nothing else. And Peter Karras was gone.