yet.”
“Then how come you know?”
“That’s a secret, too. Now forget it. What about your father?”
“Nothing. You know any secrets about him?”
“No, no secrets. Nothing since he came to see us.”
“And you kicked him out.”
“No, Billy, we wanted him, I wanted him to stay. Your Uncle Peter and I went all over town looking for him. You know it was your Aunt Sate had the fight with him. They always fought, even
as kids. He was gone before we even knew he was out of the house.”
“Bullshit, Chick.”
“Nobody can talk to you, Billy. Nobody ever could.”
“Not about him they can’t.”
“There’s a lot you don’t know.”
“I know how he was treated, and how I was treated because of him.”
“You don’t know the half of it.”
Somebody said, “Haw! My mother just hit the numbers!” And Billy turned to see a boy with a broken front tooth, about fifteen, brush cut, sockless, in torn sneakers, beltless pants,
and a ragged cardigan over a tank-top undershirt with a hole in the front. His jackknife, large blade open, danced in his hand, two tables away.
“Saunders kid,” Chick said softly.
“Who?”
Chick whispered. “Eddie Saunders. Lives up on Pearl Street near us. He’s crazy Whole family’s crazy His father’s in the nut house at Poughkeepsie.”
“She had a dollar on it,” Eddie Saunders said. “Four forty-seven. Gonna get five hundred bucks. Haw!” With his left foot he nudged a chair away from a nearby table, then
slashed its leatherette seat twice in parallel cuts.
“Gonna get me some shoes,” he said. “Gonna go to the pitchers.”
A lone woman in a corner made little ooohing sounds, involuntary wheezes, as she watched the boy. Billy thought the woman looked a little like Peg.
“Who’d she play the numbers with, Eddie?” Billy asked the kid.
The boy turned and studied Billy. Billy stood up. The boy watched him closely as he moved toward the counter and said to Tod, “Where’s my western? And gimme a coffee.” And then
he turned to the kid.
“I asked who she played the numbers with, Eddie.”
“The grocery.”
“That’s big news. Bet your mother feels good.”
“She does. She’s gonna buy a dress.”
Eddie tapped the knife blade on the marble table top and let it bounce like a drum stick. Billy took the ironstone mug of coffee and the western off the glass counter and moved toward the boy.
When he was alongside he said, “You oughta close that knife.”
“Nah.”
“Yeah, you should.”
“You won’t make me.” And Eddie made little jabs at the air about two feet to the right of Billy’s stomach.
“If you don’t close it,” Billy said, “I’ll throw this hot coffee in your eyes. You ever have boiling hot coffee hit you in the eyes? You can’t see nothing
after that.”
Eddie looked up at Billy, then at the mug of steaming coffee in his right hand, inches from his face. He looked down at his knife. He studied it. He studied it some more. Then he closed the
blade. Billy set his western on the table and reached out his left hand.
“Now give me the knife.”
“It’s mine.”
“You can have it later.”
“No.”
“You rather have coffee in the face and then I beat the shit out of you and get the knife anyway?”
Eddie handed the knife to Billy, who pocketed it and put the coffee on the table in front of Eddie. He put the western in front of him. “Have a sandwich,” Billy said. He pushed the
sugar bowl toward the kid and gave him a spoon a customer had left at the next table.
“Now behave yourself,” Billy said, and he went back to his table. “Will you for chrissake gimme a western?” he said to Tod.
The dishwasher came in the front door with the Clinton Square beat cop, Joe Riley. Riley had his hand on his pistol. People were leaving quickly. Tod came around the counter and explained the
situation to Riley, who took Eddie’s knife from Billy and then took Eddie away.
“That was clever, what you did,”
“Then how come you know?”
“That’s a secret, too. Now forget it. What about your father?”
“Nothing. You know any secrets about him?”
“No, no secrets. Nothing since he came to see us.”
“And you kicked him out.”
“No, Billy, we wanted him, I wanted him to stay. Your Uncle Peter and I went all over town looking for him. You know it was your Aunt Sate had the fight with him. They always fought, even
as kids. He was gone before we even knew he was out of the house.”
“Bullshit, Chick.”
“Nobody can talk to you, Billy. Nobody ever could.”
“Not about him they can’t.”
“There’s a lot you don’t know.”
“I know how he was treated, and how I was treated because of him.”
“You don’t know the half of it.”
Somebody said, “Haw! My mother just hit the numbers!” And Billy turned to see a boy with a broken front tooth, about fifteen, brush cut, sockless, in torn sneakers, beltless pants,
and a ragged cardigan over a tank-top undershirt with a hole in the front. His jackknife, large blade open, danced in his hand, two tables away.
“Saunders kid,” Chick said softly.
“Who?”
Chick whispered. “Eddie Saunders. Lives up on Pearl Street near us. He’s crazy Whole family’s crazy His father’s in the nut house at Poughkeepsie.”
“She had a dollar on it,” Eddie Saunders said. “Four forty-seven. Gonna get five hundred bucks. Haw!” With his left foot he nudged a chair away from a nearby table, then
slashed its leatherette seat twice in parallel cuts.
“Gonna get me some shoes,” he said. “Gonna go to the pitchers.”
A lone woman in a corner made little ooohing sounds, involuntary wheezes, as she watched the boy. Billy thought the woman looked a little like Peg.
“Who’d she play the numbers with, Eddie?” Billy asked the kid.
The boy turned and studied Billy. Billy stood up. The boy watched him closely as he moved toward the counter and said to Tod, “Where’s my western? And gimme a coffee.” And then
he turned to the kid.
“I asked who she played the numbers with, Eddie.”
“The grocery.”
“That’s big news. Bet your mother feels good.”
“She does. She’s gonna buy a dress.”
Eddie tapped the knife blade on the marble table top and let it bounce like a drum stick. Billy took the ironstone mug of coffee and the western off the glass counter and moved toward the boy.
When he was alongside he said, “You oughta close that knife.”
“Nah.”
“Yeah, you should.”
“You won’t make me.” And Eddie made little jabs at the air about two feet to the right of Billy’s stomach.
“If you don’t close it,” Billy said, “I’ll throw this hot coffee in your eyes. You ever have boiling hot coffee hit you in the eyes? You can’t see nothing
after that.”
Eddie looked up at Billy, then at the mug of steaming coffee in his right hand, inches from his face. He looked down at his knife. He studied it. He studied it some more. Then he closed the
blade. Billy set his western on the table and reached out his left hand.
“Now give me the knife.”
“It’s mine.”
“You can have it later.”
“No.”
“You rather have coffee in the face and then I beat the shit out of you and get the knife anyway?”
Eddie handed the knife to Billy, who pocketed it and put the coffee on the table in front of Eddie. He put the western in front of him. “Have a sandwich,” Billy said. He pushed the
sugar bowl toward the kid and gave him a spoon a customer had left at the next table.
“Now behave yourself,” Billy said, and he went back to his table. “Will you for chrissake gimme a western?” he said to Tod.
The dishwasher came in the front door with the Clinton Square beat cop, Joe Riley. Riley had his hand on his pistol. People were leaving quickly. Tod came around the counter and explained the
situation to Riley, who took Eddie’s knife from Billy and then took Eddie away.
“That was clever, what you did,”
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