“What’s five percent of two dollars and forty cents?”
“Twelve cents,” she said.
“All right. Two forty and twelve. Two-fifty-two. Driver, do you have change of a nickel?”
“No.”
“Well, here. Take the whole two-fifty-five.”
“Thanks a lot, pal,” the driver said sarcastically as he took the money.
“Hold on. You got a receipt? This is tax-deductible.”
The driver snarled again and drove away.
Trace yelled after him, “I’ve got your license plate, mister. You won’t get away with this.”
Chico said, “Why do you bust people’s chops like that? Is it because you’re not drinking and smoking so much anymore?”
“No. It’s New York. It brings out something in me. They’re all such assholes in this city. They’re surly and rude and stupid, but they believe their own press agents. The Big Apple. Wow, man, like wow, so they think they’re better and smarter than anybody else, and that’s crap. They’re jerk-offs and I like to remind them of it once in a while. Just repayment for all the poor little people from Dubuque that they terrorize.”
“Enough of the big thoughts for the evening,” she said. “Feed me.”
“My delight and my pleasure,” he said.
They walked a block and a half away from the Plaza to a small corner restaurant. Trace left Chico to order for both of them while he found a telephone and called Sarge’s home. When there was no answer, he called his father’s office. No answer there either, and on a hunch, he called the restaurant downstairs from the office, but Sarge had not been in since lunchtime, he was told.
When he returned to the table, Chico had finished the rolls in front of her and was eating Trace’s. The woman ate like a tapeworm farm, Trace thought, wondering how she did it and still managed to stay tiny and thin. She had been a dancer most of her life, and exercise kept her body supple and strong. But a normal person could exercise twenty hours a day and still get obese on Chico’s diet. It must be genetic, he thought, some secret message stamped into her genes that dictated that her furnace burn hotter and brighter than anyone else’s and burn up food before it turned to fat. Maybe he would get her to pose for a before-and-after photo, to promote his new diet plan using those pictures of all those degenerates he had seen on the wall of that restaurant near Sarge’s office. Get a picture of some fat Japanese woman and call it before. Take a picture of Chico and call it after. It’d make him a million.
“Couldn’t reach Sarge,” he said. His voice must have sounded depressed, because she said, “Not much of a day for you, I guess.” Her voice was sympathetic, but not so much that she would let go of the last of the rolls she held in her hand.
“Not much,” he agreed. “It started off bad with Sarge getting me up in the middle of the night, just when I thought I was going to make it with you. And then there was that woman. She just rubbed me wrong somehow.”
“What woman?”
“Martha Armitage. The one Sarge set up the meeting with.”
“You don’t know why she rubbed you wrong?” Chico shook her head. Her long black hair splashed about her shoulders.
“No.”
“You’re not terribly smart, are you?”
“As a general rule, no, but specifically in this case, what are you talking about?”
“How did Sarge treat her?” Chico asked.
“He went downstairs and borrowed plants for the office, for crying out loud. He swept and threw out the old newspapers. The Playboy girls came off the wall. He went and bought a real coffeecup.”
“Sounds like a boy getting ready for a date, doesn’t it?” she said.
He looked at her for a long while before wrinkling his brow quizzically and asking, “What are you getting at?”
“Sarge and Martha Armitage,” she said.
“Oh, come on, Sarge is my father.”
“Since when’s your name Jesus and his Joseph?” she said.
“Nonsense. She’s too young for him anyway. I don’t
“Twelve cents,” she said.
“All right. Two forty and twelve. Two-fifty-two. Driver, do you have change of a nickel?”
“No.”
“Well, here. Take the whole two-fifty-five.”
“Thanks a lot, pal,” the driver said sarcastically as he took the money.
“Hold on. You got a receipt? This is tax-deductible.”
The driver snarled again and drove away.
Trace yelled after him, “I’ve got your license plate, mister. You won’t get away with this.”
Chico said, “Why do you bust people’s chops like that? Is it because you’re not drinking and smoking so much anymore?”
“No. It’s New York. It brings out something in me. They’re all such assholes in this city. They’re surly and rude and stupid, but they believe their own press agents. The Big Apple. Wow, man, like wow, so they think they’re better and smarter than anybody else, and that’s crap. They’re jerk-offs and I like to remind them of it once in a while. Just repayment for all the poor little people from Dubuque that they terrorize.”
“Enough of the big thoughts for the evening,” she said. “Feed me.”
“My delight and my pleasure,” he said.
They walked a block and a half away from the Plaza to a small corner restaurant. Trace left Chico to order for both of them while he found a telephone and called Sarge’s home. When there was no answer, he called his father’s office. No answer there either, and on a hunch, he called the restaurant downstairs from the office, but Sarge had not been in since lunchtime, he was told.
When he returned to the table, Chico had finished the rolls in front of her and was eating Trace’s. The woman ate like a tapeworm farm, Trace thought, wondering how she did it and still managed to stay tiny and thin. She had been a dancer most of her life, and exercise kept her body supple and strong. But a normal person could exercise twenty hours a day and still get obese on Chico’s diet. It must be genetic, he thought, some secret message stamped into her genes that dictated that her furnace burn hotter and brighter than anyone else’s and burn up food before it turned to fat. Maybe he would get her to pose for a before-and-after photo, to promote his new diet plan using those pictures of all those degenerates he had seen on the wall of that restaurant near Sarge’s office. Get a picture of some fat Japanese woman and call it before. Take a picture of Chico and call it after. It’d make him a million.
“Couldn’t reach Sarge,” he said. His voice must have sounded depressed, because she said, “Not much of a day for you, I guess.” Her voice was sympathetic, but not so much that she would let go of the last of the rolls she held in her hand.
“Not much,” he agreed. “It started off bad with Sarge getting me up in the middle of the night, just when I thought I was going to make it with you. And then there was that woman. She just rubbed me wrong somehow.”
“What woman?”
“Martha Armitage. The one Sarge set up the meeting with.”
“You don’t know why she rubbed you wrong?” Chico shook her head. Her long black hair splashed about her shoulders.
“No.”
“You’re not terribly smart, are you?”
“As a general rule, no, but specifically in this case, what are you talking about?”
“How did Sarge treat her?” Chico asked.
“He went downstairs and borrowed plants for the office, for crying out loud. He swept and threw out the old newspapers. The Playboy girls came off the wall. He went and bought a real coffeecup.”
“Sounds like a boy getting ready for a date, doesn’t it?” she said.
He looked at her for a long while before wrinkling his brow quizzically and asking, “What are you getting at?”
“Sarge and Martha Armitage,” she said.
“Oh, come on, Sarge is my father.”
“Since when’s your name Jesus and his Joseph?” she said.
“Nonsense. She’s too young for him anyway. I don’t
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