‘In time for what, Frankie?’
‘In time for everythin’ – I don’t know – somethin’ might be goin’ on on land, events might be happenin’ ’n we’d be elsewhere.’
‘We could tell the chicks we’re offshore anyhow, Frankie.’
‘That’s right.’ Cause it’s dark ’n they got to take our word. I point to the lights along the drive ’n tell ’em: “Now we’re passin’ Michigan City.”’N when we pull past the pier I say, “Look, you – Duloot!” ’N all the while we’re driftin’ we’re savin’ oil ’cause it’s just the little waves lappin’, we’re only two blocks away from the zoo so’s we can always get back in time.’
‘In time for what, Frankie?’
‘I don’t know. In time to see ’em feed the lions, I guess.’ He had drifted so far out Sparrow saw it was time to tow him in.
‘What if they hear them lions roarin’ for their breakfast?’ he asked. ‘Don’t they know it ain’t Duloot we’re passin’ then?’
‘Tell ’em they’re sea lions. It’s time for breakfast anyhow, so we got to get rid of ’em. We say we’re back in port ’n got to turn the boat over to the crew to get it remodeled right away, the engine’s missin’. We duck the chicks through the underpass.’
‘How many chicks, Frankie?’ The punk felt reluctant to duck so fast.
‘Just two is enough. Rye-awlto chorus girls you – one a blondie ’n one kind of redheaded.’
‘Who’s the blondie for, Frankie?’
‘For you. One more redhead’d kill you.’ R maybe she’s dark, one of them with one of them real nice protudering Hottentot behinds.’
‘Not all them dark ones got protudering behinds,’ Sparrow put in cunningly, ‘look at that little Molly-O, she’s trim as a policeman’s whistle.’
Frankie pushed his glass away for reply. He wanted that same Molly so badly his throat felt parched. But if the punk thought he was getting anybody’s goat he’d find Frankie didn’t bite that easy. ‘I’m through lushin’ for today,’ he announced.
‘You want to go by Thompson’s ’n get two meals on one ticket, Frankie?’
‘I ain’t hungry.’
‘How about a show then? We got to do somethin’ if we ain’t gonna set here ’n just get tanked. You want to go by the Pilsudski?’
‘The Pilsudski smells of sheenies ’n the Pulaski smells of Polaks,’ Frankie complained, trying not to see the terrible emptiness of the glass in front of him. ‘Excuse me,’ Frankie begged the punk’s pardon, ‘I didn’t know there was a sheenie in the house.’
‘Excuse me,’ Sparrow begged politely in turn, ‘I didn’t know there was a Polak. You want to go dog-stealin’, Frankie?’
‘You that broke?’
‘Just to do somethin’, Frankie. Just to pacify the time. If we don’t we’ll get stiff, it wouldn’t be no good if Kvork had to pick us up when we were stiff. By the time we got sober we’d be puttin’ the finger on ourselves.’
‘That’s all blowed over,’ Frankie decided. ‘The cops pick up stiffs like Louie every day. Their tickers go bad is what happens. A guy like Louie, he didn’t have a relative in the world. He just clunked out. It’s all in the day’s work for Record Head.’
‘He didn’t have a relative to claim him is right, Frankie,’ Sparrow counseled Frankie, ‘but he owed more guys money than there are bottles on that bar.’ N every one of ’em plays ball with the super.’ Sparrow looked disconsolately into his glass and whimpered, ‘I wisht you hadn’t slugged nobody, Frankie.’
‘’N I wish you’d of had the brains to grab the roll when I did ’stead of leavin’ it to Pig to tap out.’ Keeping his eyes on the punk.
The punk’s eyes never wavered. ‘If I had we’d both be wearin’ new suits now, Frankie.’ He wasn’t being caught off base that easily.
The punk was getting too smart these days, that was all there was to it. Another week and he’d be as smart as Frankie Machine. ‘Let’s go dog-stealin’, Frankie,’ he begged. ‘Just for the old fun.’
Frankie was firm. ‘No percentage. I don’t want no janitor takin’ potshots at me. Where’s the payoff?’
‘Then let’s put on our ties ’n go down to the Rye-awlto.’
Frankie tapped his glass. He couldn’t get it filled at the Rye-awlto.
‘You want to go plain-stealin’ then, Frankie?’
‘Why you always so hungry to latch onto somebody else’s gold? Stealin’ what?’
‘’Lectric eye-rons by Nieboldt’s, it’s where they’re makin’ profits to galore these days, they’ll never miss a couple eye-rons more ’r less.’ N there’s nobody around on the third floor, it’s what they call the honor system so they don’t have to hire no help. That’s the beauty part, you just help yourself, it’s better’n boozin’ ’r wolfin’ in hallways even.’
‘I’d do better to go to the Y.’ n take my belly off,’ Frankie murmured, with no intention of working off his beer paunch at all. ‘What you get for them eye-rons?’
‘A fin apiece anywheres. It’ll kill the old monotony. After all, God hates a coward.’
‘Well,’ Frankie conceded, ‘God hates a coward awright – but empty your pockets all the same. The only way I go boostin’ is empty-handed.’ And thought, ‘If God hates a coward that much he must be workin’ up one terrible grudge against me – I’m gettin’ so I’m afraid to be alone with a bottle.’ He finished the beer before him, wavered one moment on the Nieboldt plan – then the booze left in the bottle felt riskier to him than electric irons. ‘Let’s go, punk.’
He was mildly surprised to see that, out of nowhere, the punk was suddenly carrying a shopping bag; it hadn’t been in view the whole afternoon.
‘What makes you so roundabout when you want help?’ Frankie scolded him.
‘I always carry a shoppin’ bag,’ Sparrow assured him brazenly, ‘in case I run into some guy who wants to go ’lectric-eye-ron-stealin’ by Nieboldt’s.’
The after-Christmas remnants had been piled in disarray upon every counter. The tidy little beribboned gift packages were all gone and in their places were hastily stamped placards: Marked Down for January Clearance. And in the aisles half the women of the Near Northwest Side jostled one another just to see how much they would have saved if they hadn’t done their Christmas shopping till now.
Slips, bras and pajamas were heaped as if ready to be swept into the alley if not sold before closing time.
Frankie and Sparrow took the faintly murmuring escalator up to the third floor, where the punk became diverted by some marked-down toy automobiles. Frankie hauled him forward. ‘Let’s pick up them eye-rons.’
The punk led the way a few yards, pausing only to inspect a vegetable bin at the base of an electric refrigerator. Frankie lugged him on past hardware and kitchenware, crockery and paints; till they came to an oasis of fluorescent light wherein, it appeared, the store had forbidden all its help to enter. Not a salesgirl in sight.
‘It’s “Everybody’s on His Honor System,” Frankie,’ the punk felt obliged to explain the miracle, ‘even me ’n you.’
Frankie covered, holding the handle of the bag, while Sparrow lowered half a dozen irons into it. When Frankie felt their weight pull on the handle he turned away, leaving the punk standing with an iron in each hand – he got rid of them as suddenly as though they were heated. ‘We’ll take the elevator down,’ Sparrow urged him, ‘it looks so innocent-like.’