She was hardly more than a few tables away from him, sitting alone at the window, and doing nothing but looking pretty. But doing that quite well indeed. Joe leaned across the table and shook Shank by the shoulder. At first he aroused no response; then Shank’s eyes slitted and his features assumed a what-the-hell-is-it-now expression.
“Man—” Joe Milani began.
“Yeah?”
“Dig.” Joe nodded in the direction of the girl. Shank flicked, then turned back.
“The chick?” Shank barely made the question.
Joe managed his head up and down a half inch either way.
“What about her?”
“Watch, man. I’m going to pick her up.”
Shank took in the sight of the girl again, more closely this time. Then he shrugged.
“You won’t make it, man,” he said.
“You don’t think so?”
Shank shook his head slowly, his eyes dreamy, his face completely relaxed again. When he spoke, the words were spaced wide apart and enunciated precisely, as if he were rolling each syllable on his tongue in order to taste it.
“Never, man. She is a pretty chick and like that, but she is also a very square chick and she will put you into the ground if you so much as say hello to her. She will put you down so hard you will have to crawl back to the table, man. On your knees, like.”
Joe giggled softly.
“Go ahead,” Shank said. “Try, if you have eyes. But you won’t make it.”
“Look, I’m stoned, Shank.”
“So what?”
Joe giggled again. “Don’t you dig, Shank? I’m blind, and when I’m blind I become very cool. I say everything just right and I play everything off the wall and I never strike out, man. I’m just so cool.”
He repeated “cool,” dragging out the word so he could feel just how cool he was, how clear-headed and icily calm.
“You just think you’re cool,” Shank said. “You’ll scare the girl, baby. You’ll scare her and she’ll put you down.”
“Why do you put it there?
“That’s where it’s at.”
Joe smiled, a lazy smile. “Bet me,” he said. “Bet me I don’t pick her up.”
“What do you want to bet?”
He considered. “Bet me a joint,” he offered.
“A joint?”
Joe nodded.
“Cool,” Shank said. “I got a joint you don’t get to first base.”
“You’ll lose the bet, baby. Us wops never lose a bet, you know. Especially when we’re high.”
He did not wait for Shank to reply. Instead, he stood up, light on his feet, calm. He was extremely sure of himself, sure he was tall and good-looking enough to attract her, sure he would come on strong enough to interest her. He was twenty-seven, which meant he had a good five years on the girl at the very least, and he was a little more than six feet tall—wide-shouldered, narrow-waisted and muscular. He rubbed the palm of one hand over his cheek, glad he had taken the trouble to shave this morning.
But he wasn’t dressed very well, he realized—just dirty chinos and a t-shirt. Besides, his crew-cut had grown out to the point where he ought to start combing it or have it cut again. But he felt so cool, so utterly cool, that all the rest didn’t matter.
He walked to the girl’s table, slowly, easily, his eyes fixed on her face. She did not peer up, not even when he stood over her to stare down at her so intensely he was certain she must have been aware of his presence. Then he drummed a tattoo on the table-top. Startled, she raised her eyes.
“Hello,” he said, pleasantly. “Is your name Bernice?”
A second or two elapsed before she could reply. At last she shook her head rapidly.
“I didn’t think it was,” he said. “Neither is mine.”
She said nothing, her expression one of bewilderment.
“You look awfully familiar,” he said, pushing onward. “Have you ever been in Times Square?”
“Why I—”
“Great place, Times Square. Did you ever stop to think that there’s a phrenology parlor on Eighth Avenue that opens at 4:30 in the morning?”
Wide-eyed, lips parted, she seemed prettier than ever.
“I know what you’re doing,” he confided. “You’ve got the rest of these people fooled but I’m wise to you. They think you’re just drinking a cup of cappuccino but I know for a fact you’re planning the Portuguese invasion.”
He waited for that to sink in, wondering at the same time what in the world he was talking about. Then he flashed her a great smile and fastened one hand on the chair opposite her. She tried to say something but he beat her to it, timing everything with intuitive flawlessness.
“You’re very pretty,” he said, “even if your name isn’t Bernice and you’ve never been to Times Square and you don’t happen to be planning the Portuguese invasion. You don’t mind if I sit down, do you?”
For a moment she gave the impression of speechlessness, as if lost somewhere in left field, he thought, and he was on the point of sitting down without waiting for a reply when she finally managed utterance.
“Go ahead,” she said. “I mean…you probably would anyway, wouldn’t you?” He pulled back the chair and sat down, longing to glance at Shank triumphantly. Instead, he smiled at the girl.
“If you’re name isn’t Bernice, what is it?” Joe Milani inquired.
“Oh,” she said. “It’s Anita.”
“Hello, Anita.”
“Hello.”
“Do you live here in the Village, Anita?” He knew that she didn’t but it was as good a question as any.
“No, I’m just visiting.”
“Where do you live?”
“Uptown.”
“Uptown,” he said, “takes in a lot of ground.”
“116th Street between Second and Third.”
“Yeah? Way up in wop Harlem?”
She stiffened.
“What’s the matter?” He put the question with some concern.
“Do you have to use that word?”
“What word?” It was hard to avoid laughing but he made it.
“Wop,” she said softly. “I don’t like that word.”
This time he let himself smile. “I am called Joseph Milani,” he said in perfect Italian. In English he added, “So it is all right if I use the word?”
Anita, by now off-balance, was attempting to say something but she obviously had not the slightest idea of what it should be, so her mouth moved soundlessly. Confidently, he reached out a hand and let the fingertips touch hers.
She neither drew away nor flinched.
He examined her again. He decided her body was exceptionally good, decidedly not a trial to behold, a little on the slender side but starring breasts firm and well-shaped.
Joe considered he had her practically hypnotized. He said a silent prayer of thanks to the pot, flashed her a smile showing his white teeth, and pressed her fingers gently.
“Anita,” he said, “The Palermo is a pleasant place, but it’s too hot and too stuffy and too limited. Let’s make it.”
“Make it?”
“Split,” he said. “Cut out. Leave.”
“Oh.”
“Come on,” he said. He stood up; mesmerized, she stood up, too. He waited while she paid her check. Then she rejoined him, and he took her hand in his. Her hand felt very soft, but he resisted the temptation to give it a gentle squeeze. Leading her out of the coffee-house, he glanced at Shank.
But Shank was in another world, his head lolling back, his eyes veiled, and one hand lying limp on the table before him like a discarded napkin.
Chapter 2
Leon Marsten, whom nobody had called anything but Shank for the last four years, sat up abruptly at four-seventeen P.M. and blinked rapidly. He fumbled for a cigarette and lit it. Laboriously, he dragged smoke into his lungs and held it there. He blew it out slowly in a long, thin column that floated languidly toward the ceiling. When he finished the cigarette, he dropped it and elaborately ground it into the linoleum with the heel of his tennis shoe until it was completely shredded. The ritual completed, he turned and methodically surveyed the coffee shop. Satisfied that nobody was watching him, he stood up and strode out the door onto Bleecker Street.