with his head on the bar woke up. “Did somebody say fuck?”
“Fuck! Shit! Ow!” the other voice continued.
A hearty guffaw issued from a third party. “Your round, motherfucker!”
“Ow! shit!”
“Let’s get out of here,” Frankie said to Klinger. “Finish your drink.”
“Shit, shit, shit …”
Frankie slid his stinger over the bar. “You finish it.”
“You fuckin’ crybaby,” declared the third voice.
SIX
Klinger and Frankie Geeze exited the Hawse Hole, on Polk just below Geary, at 10:35 in the a.m.
“Son of a bitch,” Frankie said. He donned a very dark pair of designer shades against the overcast and smoothed the pinstriped lapels of his suit jacket.
Klinger had noticed the quality of Frankie’s suit. But aloud he observed, “That oughta keep the rain off your peepers.”
“Say,” Frankie said, “I gotta make a stop.”
“Why am I not surprised?” Klinger said.
“You hungry?”
“You see a door lately that I don’t fit through?”
“No,” Frankie said frankly.
“Okay,” Klinger said.
“I know just the place,” Frankie said.
“You buying?”
“Dude,” Frankie said. “A guy like me don’t sweat the odd twenty-dollar bill.”
Klinger regarded Frankie with incredulity. “You’re taking us someplace where breakfast cost twenty dollars?”
Frankie regarded him back. “Did I say that?”
“Well, no. Not exactly. But if that’s your intention, let me take you someplace where it costs ten and you can give me the difference.”
“I can see I’m dealing with a fiduciary sharpie, here.”
Klinger drew himself up to his full five foot eight. “Not for nothing do I live in a SRO hotel.”
Frankie resumed walking. “Not for much, either, I’ll wager.”
Klinger deflated. “True.”
“Nevertheless, I can see that I’m going to have to watch my step with you.”
“Hey,” Klinger said modestly, “it’s not like you’re on the yard.”
Never one to be easily fazed, Frankie stopped again, looked at Klinger again, then resumed walking again. “I’ll tell the world,” he muttered, laughing. Abruptly he wheeled and said, “You read the
New York Times
?”
“Every day,” Klinger lied.
“Here.” Frankie handed Klinger a twenty and pointed at a doorway. “If you can fit through that door, get one. Keep the change.”
The doorway was actually next to a pass-through into a newsstand, of the type increasingly rare, through which only merchandise and money need fit. Porn magazines, cigarettes, porn DVDs, gum, porn VHSs, and not a few newspapers including, voilà, the
New York Times
. Klinger made the purchase and pocketed $17.80. Which fattened the bankroll, he calculated happily, to $23.69. Thing is looking up. That’s right: thing, singular. As in, I see that you’re getting your duck in a row. As in, chins up.
Klinger figured it was at least half Frankie’s paper. “Want to see?”
“See what?”
“The paper. The news. What’s going on. Iraq and shit.” Frankie smiled and shook his head. “You are a fucking trip.”
By way of laboring up and out of the Tenderloin, they mounted the southwestern flank of Nob Hill. There, at the intersection of Pine and Hyde, Frankie showed Klinger a corner café and told him it was a place that catered tohospital staff. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder toward the lobby of St. Francis Memorial, right across Hyde Street. “I gotta date.” Frankie gestured vaguely, against the traffic on Pine Street, toward the crown of Nob Hill. “Up the hill.” He patted Klinger’s shoulder. “No matter what happens, keep the faith, I’ll be back. Shortly thereafter, you will experience a payday.”
“I’m not sure my system can handle the shock,” Klinger said truthfully.
“You got plenty of dough for this place,” Klinger assured him. “Enjoy your breakfast. And hey,” he flicked his fingertips at the shoulder. “Enjoy your lunch, too.”
Klinger frowned. “How much time we talking,
“Fuck! Shit! Ow!” the other voice continued.
A hearty guffaw issued from a third party. “Your round, motherfucker!”
“Ow! shit!”
“Let’s get out of here,” Frankie said to Klinger. “Finish your drink.”
“Shit, shit, shit …”
Frankie slid his stinger over the bar. “You finish it.”
“You fuckin’ crybaby,” declared the third voice.
SIX
Klinger and Frankie Geeze exited the Hawse Hole, on Polk just below Geary, at 10:35 in the a.m.
“Son of a bitch,” Frankie said. He donned a very dark pair of designer shades against the overcast and smoothed the pinstriped lapels of his suit jacket.
Klinger had noticed the quality of Frankie’s suit. But aloud he observed, “That oughta keep the rain off your peepers.”
“Say,” Frankie said, “I gotta make a stop.”
“Why am I not surprised?” Klinger said.
“You hungry?”
“You see a door lately that I don’t fit through?”
“No,” Frankie said frankly.
“Okay,” Klinger said.
“I know just the place,” Frankie said.
“You buying?”
“Dude,” Frankie said. “A guy like me don’t sweat the odd twenty-dollar bill.”
Klinger regarded Frankie with incredulity. “You’re taking us someplace where breakfast cost twenty dollars?”
Frankie regarded him back. “Did I say that?”
“Well, no. Not exactly. But if that’s your intention, let me take you someplace where it costs ten and you can give me the difference.”
“I can see I’m dealing with a fiduciary sharpie, here.”
Klinger drew himself up to his full five foot eight. “Not for nothing do I live in a SRO hotel.”
Frankie resumed walking. “Not for much, either, I’ll wager.”
Klinger deflated. “True.”
“Nevertheless, I can see that I’m going to have to watch my step with you.”
“Hey,” Klinger said modestly, “it’s not like you’re on the yard.”
Never one to be easily fazed, Frankie stopped again, looked at Klinger again, then resumed walking again. “I’ll tell the world,” he muttered, laughing. Abruptly he wheeled and said, “You read the
New York Times
?”
“Every day,” Klinger lied.
“Here.” Frankie handed Klinger a twenty and pointed at a doorway. “If you can fit through that door, get one. Keep the change.”
The doorway was actually next to a pass-through into a newsstand, of the type increasingly rare, through which only merchandise and money need fit. Porn magazines, cigarettes, porn DVDs, gum, porn VHSs, and not a few newspapers including, voilà, the
New York Times
. Klinger made the purchase and pocketed $17.80. Which fattened the bankroll, he calculated happily, to $23.69. Thing is looking up. That’s right: thing, singular. As in, I see that you’re getting your duck in a row. As in, chins up.
Klinger figured it was at least half Frankie’s paper. “Want to see?”
“See what?”
“The paper. The news. What’s going on. Iraq and shit.” Frankie smiled and shook his head. “You are a fucking trip.”
By way of laboring up and out of the Tenderloin, they mounted the southwestern flank of Nob Hill. There, at the intersection of Pine and Hyde, Frankie showed Klinger a corner café and told him it was a place that catered tohospital staff. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder toward the lobby of St. Francis Memorial, right across Hyde Street. “I gotta date.” Frankie gestured vaguely, against the traffic on Pine Street, toward the crown of Nob Hill. “Up the hill.” He patted Klinger’s shoulder. “No matter what happens, keep the faith, I’ll be back. Shortly thereafter, you will experience a payday.”
“I’m not sure my system can handle the shock,” Klinger said truthfully.
“You got plenty of dough for this place,” Klinger assured him. “Enjoy your breakfast. And hey,” he flicked his fingertips at the shoulder. “Enjoy your lunch, too.”
Klinger frowned. “How much time we talking,
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