“You will?”
“Mr. Brewer isn't in this for money, Pops,” Jake put in. “Like I told you, he's a fan, and this is a side line for him. A... eh...”
“Hobby,” Arno added. “Will I see you in the morning?”
“You bet.”
Jake walked around the car, got behind the wheel. As he drove off Arno called out, “Brewer is my name. Southside Hotel at noon. Don't forget, Tommy.”
Tommy nodded and shut his eyes. He opened them to see the car turn the corner, so it was all real. He spun around and started walking west. This unbelievable news called for a change in plans. He must tell May his good luck, after he stopped for a drink.
ARNO
Stopping for a light, Jake asked, “We going to see some broads tonight?”
“You can,” Arno said. “I'm too old for so much action. And this is your last time until we settle with Cork.”
“He isn't in the bag yet,” Jake said, a sort of grant. “We should have taken him with us. Might not show tomorrow.”
“He will. I don't understand it myself but some guys go for fighting as if it was dope.” Arno glanced at Jake. “Like you would be carrying a broken-down suitcase out of some fight club now—if I hadn't wised you up.”
MAY
The exchange diner was open twenty-four hours a day but at noon and 6:00 p.m. when restaurants are usually busy, they were lucky to sell more than a few cups of Java. However, from ten in the evening to late morning they did a good business. The diner, actually a dining car on a brick foundation, stood at the edge of the wholesale produce market area and was patronized by truck drivers and their helpers, merchants, and slaughter house and produce workers. Four waitresses worked around the clock, for tips and meals only. The tips were hardly anything to shout about and May Cork was the only waitress who'd stayed there over a year.
Dressed in a simple blue smock and white apron, she was usually called “Old May” by the steady customers, although she was only twenty-nine. May's gray and auburn hair was worn in a tight bun and her face was pale and delicate, as if she had never seen the sun. Her meek eyes were large, the mouth thin. The bosses liked May because she was a steady worker, never horsed around with the male customers—although at the end of her eight-hour shift she often looked as if she was about to pass out. Other waitresses came and went—often with a tracker headed back toward Florida, or for New York City. Since she was plain looking and flat-chested, May had established some sort of record in the diner: during all the months she had worked there nobody had made a pass at her.
Her boss (actually he was one of three partners) also liked May being religious, the medals she wore around her thin neck, the fact she went to church regularly. May had worked on his shift ever since she started there. He was a middle-aged man named Frederick Morris III, a direct descendant of a Pilgrim, now known only as “Butch” and rightly so since he had been a ship's butcher, bought and cut most of the meat used in the diner.
At ten forty-five that night, the afternoon waitress, a blonde named Bertha who always seemed about to serve up her fat bosom whenever she bent over to place a plate before a customer, dropped in for a free cup of coffee. She told May, “Well, honey, I'm set. Got a letter from my sister in Fresno. You know, the one who married the guy with the nut ranch out there? She's going to open that roadside stand I told you about, and they want me to help out. Who knows, maybe I'll meet a decent pair of pants in California. Anyway, they say the weather is nice and for the next three months my lucky stars are bright in the sky, so I'll see which way things bounce. Be something working in the sun. I've had it in this damn cold city.”
“When are you leaving?” May asked anxiously.
“Soon as they finish building the stand, in about a month. Her husband is one of these loudmouths who knows everything, but I guess I'll be able to take him. And they have a real house. And two kids. Ill like that. Funny, Betty— that's my sister—never had no looks. She was sort of the ugly duckling of us four babes, yet she made out the best. Never thought I'd be asking her for...”
“Bertha, can I get your apartment?” May cut in.
“Sure. That's what I come to tell you.”
May reached across the counter and squeezed the blonde's cigarette-stained hand. “Oh, Bertha, you honestly mean it?”
“Didn't I always say if I gave up the joint, it was yours? I even spoke to the agent today. No fifteen per cent raise. Only been seven months since I gave the bastard an increase, so he ain't entitled to one now. Don't let him fast talk you into paying a cent more than the forty-eight dollars a month.”
“Yes, yes, indeed! Oh Bertha, you're so sweet! You've no idea what this means to me. An apartment of my own again!”
“It ain't no hell, you seen it. Room, kitchenette, and the can. You remember how I got it fixed up?”
“Yes. Oh, Bertha, you can't know what this means to me.”
“May, stop bubbling and listen. The studio couch alone cost me two hundred bucks. And there's a couple chairs and the table, curtains, pots, and dishes. I'm taking the TV with me but it don't pay to ship the rest of the stuff. I figure a hundred and fifty bucks is a fair price to ask. Okay?”
“Fair, very fair,” May said, her face flushed with excitement “Bertha, I'll mention you in my prayers. I haven't got the money now, you understand, but in a month's time I'll get it.”
“With what these big-hearted slobs leave you? You're the thrifty type, ain'tcha got nothing put by?”
“Less than twenty dollars. But don't worry, I'll see my husband. This is what I've been waiting for. I'll see Thomas and within a month, we'll be able to pay you.”
Bertha finished her coffee, lit a cigarette as she stood up. Reaching inside her dress top to adjust her bra straps, Bertha okayed herself in the mirror behind the counter, said, “Don't keep me waiting too long, May. I'm doing you a favor and counting on that dough to take me to Fresno in style; you know?” Bertha glanced at the few customers, started toward the door, then stopped to ask, “Didn't you once tell me your old man was a leatherpusher? Tommy Cork?”
“Irish Tommy Cork.”
“I seen him on TV just now. What a beating he took.”
May's thin face paled. Looking up at the greasy ceiling of the diner for a fast second, she said, “Maybe this is all God's will. Even the beating will work in with my plans.” Then she added, almost fiercely, “Tommy was a good boxer, real famous—once. I have clippings in my room I can show you.”
“Honey, I believe you. He's your old man, not mine. Look, I got a couple runs to make. So it's a deal now, about the furniture?”
“Absolutely. God bless you, Bertha.”
After the blonde left May went about her work in a small daze, thinking how she could get in touch with Tommy. Tomorrow she'd go over to the gym, somebody there would know where to reach him. Or maybe that bar he mentioned, if she could recall the name. She called over to Butch, “Is that job still open at Mac's place?”