threw me out.”
“No, man, don’t say that.”
“Out out out on my ass, bump bump down the stairs, dig?”
Lord, Fitzgore, didn’t see him. Four others, no three, that horn-rim type, where? Pimples. Oh Jesus, the D.U. dinner, flee.
“Old-timey Agnoo here’s buying up the Red Cap supply, man, kind of cornered the market, you know? Have a little Red Cap, veal scallopine, you hungry? You know everybody atta table? You know the Lumpers chic here, you know Agnoo, you ‘member Rosenbloom an’ friend from the wheel?”
“Agneau,” came the nervous correction, an uneasy, bespectacled glance at Gnossos, pinching motion to the knot of his tie. No cool. Fitzgore glaring, being too quiet, Condition Red, man. Christ, the dubbies on Lumpers.
“My name is Juan Carlos Rosenbloom,” said the one in a sequined rodeo shirt. “From Maracaibo.” He strained formally over the red plastic tabletop, stretching out a minuscule, hairy hand. Not more than five feet tall, Saint Christopher medal tight on his throat, grease mat for a head. All I need. “An’ my freng Drew Youngblood, the editors of the
Sun
.”
“We weren’t introduced that night,” said the editor.
“What night, man?”
“The roulettes,” explained Rosenbloom, spinning his tiny finger around the table to mimic a wheel. Yes, of course. Want their bread back? May have to bust noses.
“The appeal failed, y’know,” from Jack, her hand going up and down on the inside of Heff’s bluejeaned thigh, a third of her attention on the Lumpers breasts. Fitzgore too quiet.
“I will buy you something to drink,” said Rosenbloom, signaling for the waitress.
“Wha’d you like?” asked Youngblood.
Gnossos shrugging his shoulders, lush not exactly right for the time, pointing to his head for Heff’s benefit, who saw and understood the reference but made a blubbering sound with his lips just the same. Lumpers sliding over. Ought to flee, really, use tact. Lobes still not straight, waitress looking at me. Ahem. “You have any Metaxa?”
“I can’t unnerstan’ you.” A blob of gum in her jaw.
“It’s Greek.”
“It’s what?”
Control. “Rye, then. Any kind of rye. Four Roses even, and a little ginger ale.”
“I’ll see ‘fthey got any. You have a draft card?”
“Look, baby—”
“Jus’ answer the question. Y’ never know who’s gonna be checkin’ up. Y’ want Guido t’lose his license?”
Do the Gandhi. “Yes, I’ve got one. You’d like to see it?”
“No, as long as you got it. Why don’t you make life simple, have a beer?” Going away. Fat legs. I’ll have her mutilated, so help me . . .
“My round,” said Youngblood, still serious in expression.
“No, plis,” from the South American, flashing a twenty, “I’m insist.”
“Hey, Paps,” said Heffalump, putting down the fifth martini glass, empty, “I want it verified who was Tonto’s horse. Old Jack here, she says Scout, and Fitz says Tony.”
“My
God
,” said Lumpers, in angora, “I used to listen to that on the radio. Every Sunday afternoon.”
“Get ’em up, Scout,” said Jack, sadly. Her free hand extending from a man’s blue buttondown Oxford shirt, fingers drumming hoofbeats on the table.
“I was hoping I’d catch up with you again,” said Youngblood intimately, motioning Rosenbloom’s twenty into obscurity and struggling to get his own wallet free of his chinos, away from the press of bodies in the booth. “There’s this Susan B. Pankhurst thing I wanted to talk to you about, although you probably never heard of her.”
“I’m insist,” continued Rosenbloom.
“Really, it used to be on every Sunday afternoon, the
Lone
Ranger and Tonto,” Lumpers’ attention given to Heff, who was trying to contain all his martini olives under a single inverted glass. “Although sometimes we called him the
Long
Ranger, he he ha.”
“Susan what?” Gnossos with his eye on the Lumpers dubbies.
“It couldn’t’ve been Sundays,” said
“No, man, don’t say that.”
“Out out out on my ass, bump bump down the stairs, dig?”
Lord, Fitzgore, didn’t see him. Four others, no three, that horn-rim type, where? Pimples. Oh Jesus, the D.U. dinner, flee.
“Old-timey Agnoo here’s buying up the Red Cap supply, man, kind of cornered the market, you know? Have a little Red Cap, veal scallopine, you hungry? You know everybody atta table? You know the Lumpers chic here, you know Agnoo, you ‘member Rosenbloom an’ friend from the wheel?”
“Agneau,” came the nervous correction, an uneasy, bespectacled glance at Gnossos, pinching motion to the knot of his tie. No cool. Fitzgore glaring, being too quiet, Condition Red, man. Christ, the dubbies on Lumpers.
“My name is Juan Carlos Rosenbloom,” said the one in a sequined rodeo shirt. “From Maracaibo.” He strained formally over the red plastic tabletop, stretching out a minuscule, hairy hand. Not more than five feet tall, Saint Christopher medal tight on his throat, grease mat for a head. All I need. “An’ my freng Drew Youngblood, the editors of the
Sun
.”
“We weren’t introduced that night,” said the editor.
“What night, man?”
“The roulettes,” explained Rosenbloom, spinning his tiny finger around the table to mimic a wheel. Yes, of course. Want their bread back? May have to bust noses.
“The appeal failed, y’know,” from Jack, her hand going up and down on the inside of Heff’s bluejeaned thigh, a third of her attention on the Lumpers breasts. Fitzgore too quiet.
“I will buy you something to drink,” said Rosenbloom, signaling for the waitress.
“Wha’d you like?” asked Youngblood.
Gnossos shrugging his shoulders, lush not exactly right for the time, pointing to his head for Heff’s benefit, who saw and understood the reference but made a blubbering sound with his lips just the same. Lumpers sliding over. Ought to flee, really, use tact. Lobes still not straight, waitress looking at me. Ahem. “You have any Metaxa?”
“I can’t unnerstan’ you.” A blob of gum in her jaw.
“It’s Greek.”
“It’s what?”
Control. “Rye, then. Any kind of rye. Four Roses even, and a little ginger ale.”
“I’ll see ‘fthey got any. You have a draft card?”
“Look, baby—”
“Jus’ answer the question. Y’ never know who’s gonna be checkin’ up. Y’ want Guido t’lose his license?”
Do the Gandhi. “Yes, I’ve got one. You’d like to see it?”
“No, as long as you got it. Why don’t you make life simple, have a beer?” Going away. Fat legs. I’ll have her mutilated, so help me . . .
“My round,” said Youngblood, still serious in expression.
“No, plis,” from the South American, flashing a twenty, “I’m insist.”
“Hey, Paps,” said Heffalump, putting down the fifth martini glass, empty, “I want it verified who was Tonto’s horse. Old Jack here, she says Scout, and Fitz says Tony.”
“My
God
,” said Lumpers, in angora, “I used to listen to that on the radio. Every Sunday afternoon.”
“Get ’em up, Scout,” said Jack, sadly. Her free hand extending from a man’s blue buttondown Oxford shirt, fingers drumming hoofbeats on the table.
“I was hoping I’d catch up with you again,” said Youngblood intimately, motioning Rosenbloom’s twenty into obscurity and struggling to get his own wallet free of his chinos, away from the press of bodies in the booth. “There’s this Susan B. Pankhurst thing I wanted to talk to you about, although you probably never heard of her.”
“I’m insist,” continued Rosenbloom.
“Really, it used to be on every Sunday afternoon, the
Lone
Ranger and Tonto,” Lumpers’ attention given to Heff, who was trying to contain all his martini olives under a single inverted glass. “Although sometimes we called him the
Long
Ranger, he he ha.”
“Susan what?” Gnossos with his eye on the Lumpers dubbies.
“It couldn’t’ve been Sundays,” said
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