Fridays at Enrico's by Don Carpenter

man.
    So now there were no girls in Portland who’d make love to Stan. Of course there would be girls for rich men in the big hotels like the Benson or the Multnomah, but they weren’t for Stan. Anyway, he liked the cheap hookers in Vancouver. He could talk to them easily. They were like him, born criminals, no excuses.
    â€œI’m sorry to see them go,” Marty said when the girls were gone. “I was kind of hoping to get laid tonight. Or at least introduce you to Dick Dubonet.”
    â€œI thought you had a girlfriend,” Stan said. People at other tables were playing chess. He’d played a little jailhouse chess. He wondered how he’d do against these intellectuals. Probably not too well.
    â€œYou’re right,” Marty said. “But my girl is home. We’re here.” He explained that he and his girl, a waitress at Jolly Joan’s, lived together only as a convenience. They’d known each other at Reed College, and when they both dropped out before Junior Quals they ended up living together in a little place on SW Second. “But we’re not in love,” Marty said. “I’m ashamed, but there you are.”
    They discussed love for a while, and then Dick Dubonet came in, dripping wet, slapping his big safari hat on his jeans and waving with a big grin. “Marty!”
    Stan stood up to shake hands with the writer. He was a good-looking little guy, about an inch shorter than Stan, who was only five seven himself. He had a good hard handshake, though. Stan was ashamed of his own, his palm wet most of the time, so that he was unwilling to really squeeze a guy’s hand.
    â€œSorry, my hand’s wet,” he said, and wished he hadn’t.
    â€œAll of Oregon’s wet tonight,” Dick Dubonet said rather loudly, as if he was talking to all the people at the nearby tables. He sat, tilting back in his chair, very much at home. Obviously, the local kingpin.
    â€œWe were just talking about love,” Marty said, loudly himself. “Stan’s a writer too.”
    Dick’s eyebrow went up. “Really? What’s your name again?”
    â€œI haven’t published anything.” Stan grinned down at the tablecloth.
    â€œAh,” Dick said. “Would-be writer.”
    â€œThat’s it,” said Stan, hating Dubonet fiercely.
    Marty put a hand on Stan’s wrist and smiled. “Don’t hate him,” he said.
    â€œHuh?” Was it written all over his face? “I don’t hate anybody,” he said.
    â€œHow often do you write?” Dick asked, in a friendly way.
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œEvery day? Once a week? Two hours a month?”
    â€œNone of your fucking business.” He looked Dick right in the eye. His stomach hurt. He was no fighter, but he didn’t have to take this shit. They all sat and listened to the room for a while. Some kind of classical music tinkled in the background.
    â€œOkay,” Marty said. “My fault. Let’s start over.”
    Stan looked at Dick, waiting for his comment. Dick looked upset, no longer in charge. Maybe he’s a pussy inside, just like me, Stan thought, and his heart warmed. He made himself smile. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m too touchy. I’m not a writer, just fooling around. I like pulp stories, you know, mysteries, stuff like that.”
    â€œI’ve published in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine ,” Dick said. He wasn’t smiling but he wasn’t angry either.
    â€œThat’s a great magazine,” Stan said.
    â€œI’m sorry.” Dick held out his hand. “I’m an asshole.”
    â€œMe too,” Stan agreed. This time their handshake was warm and firm.
    â€œThen it’s agreed,” Marty said, holding up his little espresso cup in salute. “ Tres assholes! ”

18.
    He wasn’t breaking into houses at this particular time. Instead he made his money