walked up it earlier today. He hadn’t noticed the restaurant down on the corner, across from The Inca. He hadn’t been thinking about food then.
A lighted sign hung out over the sidewalk. He didn’t read the big red letters. He read the little blue ones. “Kansas City Steaks.” As he read, he saw a couple of men go up to the door and walk in.
It didn’t take him sixty seconds to reach the corner. The cafe was open all right. There were plenty of people sitting around the counter, people in booths. Sailor went in.
He found a place at the counter between a guy in shirtsleeves and a doll in a cheap silk dress. The doll looked at him out of big eyes when he straddled the stool. He didn’t look at her. He fixed his eye on the long tall sandy drink in the chefs cap. Kept it there until the guy came over and asked, “What’s yours?”
“Couple of steak sandwiches without garbage, side order French fries, bottle of milk.”
The guy said, “Rare?”
”And thick.” He pulled a cigarette from his pocket and lit it. The doll said in a flat nasal Kansas twang, “What’s happened to the pie, Gus?” She said it like she thought she was something cute but she wasn’t. She had a face like a rubber doll, round and empty, and a Kansas twang in her nose. She didn’t know that her eyes were predatory; she thought they were big baby-blue eyes and that nobody could see what kind of a spirit she had.
Gus said, good-natured, “We’re baking it. Keep your shirt on, Janie.”
He dumped a glass of water in front of Sailor and a handful of tin to eat with. You could fish your own paper napkin out of the container.
The girl said to the girl beside her, “The service here is getting terrible.” She said it to the other girl but she kept the corner of her eye on Sailor. When she started to crawl in his lap, he’d slap her down. Until then he’d ignore her. Though she could probably find him a bed. Trouble was what went with it
He hunched her out of sight with his shoulder. The guy on the other side of him was shoveling in ham and drinking coffee. He wasn’t with anyone; he was like Sailor, all he wanted was food. Sailor said, “You don’t know where I could get a room?”
“Naw.” He didn’t stop eating. “No rooms during Fiesta.” He wasn’t interested in gab and Sailor didn’t bother him again.
You couldn’t outrun Fiesta even in a hashery. Across the circular counter were costumes, costumes in some of the booths. Youngsters mostly, blondes and red heads and brunettes with gawky looking guys. Kids with good appetites, with nothing on their minds but having fun; Zozobra is dead, long live Fiesta. When he was the size of the punk with the ears, directly across, McIntyre had already run him in once for stealing cars. Mac was just a flattie then. They’d both come up in the world quite a ways.
He’d always liked Mac. Mac didn’t lecture; he said take it or leave it. If you steal cars, you’ll do time. What Mac didn’t know was that the boys behind the car barns had a better angle: If you don’t get caught stealing cars, you won’t have to do time. He hadn’t seen much of Mac since he moved north. A hello now and then, when you weren’t expecting it. Mac hadn’t tried to move in. Mac was honest you could say that for him. He wasn’t looking out for a cut He believed what he told you. You hurt somebody and you’re going to get hurt yourself. He was an honest copper, in his mind and heart as well as in his job. That was why the reform commissioner had named him head of Homicide. Now he was out working again.
It had to be something big to put Mac on the street. Something like nabbing ex-Senator Douglass for murder. That silly hat he was wearing might fool some of the yokels but not anyone who’d ever seen Mac at work. Who had ever noticed Mac’s quiet slate eyes.
Gus slapped down the thick crockery platter, two open steak sandwiches oozing pink juice on the toast, another platter with French fries.
A lighted sign hung out over the sidewalk. He didn’t read the big red letters. He read the little blue ones. “Kansas City Steaks.” As he read, he saw a couple of men go up to the door and walk in.
It didn’t take him sixty seconds to reach the corner. The cafe was open all right. There were plenty of people sitting around the counter, people in booths. Sailor went in.
He found a place at the counter between a guy in shirtsleeves and a doll in a cheap silk dress. The doll looked at him out of big eyes when he straddled the stool. He didn’t look at her. He fixed his eye on the long tall sandy drink in the chefs cap. Kept it there until the guy came over and asked, “What’s yours?”
“Couple of steak sandwiches without garbage, side order French fries, bottle of milk.”
The guy said, “Rare?”
”And thick.” He pulled a cigarette from his pocket and lit it. The doll said in a flat nasal Kansas twang, “What’s happened to the pie, Gus?” She said it like she thought she was something cute but she wasn’t. She had a face like a rubber doll, round and empty, and a Kansas twang in her nose. She didn’t know that her eyes were predatory; she thought they were big baby-blue eyes and that nobody could see what kind of a spirit she had.
Gus said, good-natured, “We’re baking it. Keep your shirt on, Janie.”
He dumped a glass of water in front of Sailor and a handful of tin to eat with. You could fish your own paper napkin out of the container.
The girl said to the girl beside her, “The service here is getting terrible.” She said it to the other girl but she kept the corner of her eye on Sailor. When she started to crawl in his lap, he’d slap her down. Until then he’d ignore her. Though she could probably find him a bed. Trouble was what went with it
He hunched her out of sight with his shoulder. The guy on the other side of him was shoveling in ham and drinking coffee. He wasn’t with anyone; he was like Sailor, all he wanted was food. Sailor said, “You don’t know where I could get a room?”
“Naw.” He didn’t stop eating. “No rooms during Fiesta.” He wasn’t interested in gab and Sailor didn’t bother him again.
You couldn’t outrun Fiesta even in a hashery. Across the circular counter were costumes, costumes in some of the booths. Youngsters mostly, blondes and red heads and brunettes with gawky looking guys. Kids with good appetites, with nothing on their minds but having fun; Zozobra is dead, long live Fiesta. When he was the size of the punk with the ears, directly across, McIntyre had already run him in once for stealing cars. Mac was just a flattie then. They’d both come up in the world quite a ways.
He’d always liked Mac. Mac didn’t lecture; he said take it or leave it. If you steal cars, you’ll do time. What Mac didn’t know was that the boys behind the car barns had a better angle: If you don’t get caught stealing cars, you won’t have to do time. He hadn’t seen much of Mac since he moved north. A hello now and then, when you weren’t expecting it. Mac hadn’t tried to move in. Mac was honest you could say that for him. He wasn’t looking out for a cut He believed what he told you. You hurt somebody and you’re going to get hurt yourself. He was an honest copper, in his mind and heart as well as in his job. That was why the reform commissioner had named him head of Homicide. Now he was out working again.
It had to be something big to put Mac on the street. Something like nabbing ex-Senator Douglass for murder. That silly hat he was wearing might fool some of the yokels but not anyone who’d ever seen Mac at work. Who had ever noticed Mac’s quiet slate eyes.
Gus slapped down the thick crockery platter, two open steak sandwiches oozing pink juice on the toast, another platter with French fries.
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