They drove along in silence. Johnny cruised down Cross Bay Boulevard and before you knew it they were heading for Brooklyn on the Belt. Claire looked out the window with studied indifference. It was a beautiful night, calm and hot. Johnny whizzed along, keeping his hands tight on the wheel. Neither of them spoke. The Mayor, afraid of being carsick, had his nose out Claire’s window. With his ears flung back away from his head he looked, he felt certain, like a veritable cocker. Claire wasn’t sure why nobody was talking, but if that was how he wanted it, it was all right with her. She had one mad moment when she felt like asking him what sign he was, but she quickly overcame it. To their right were the lights of the city and to the left the high cliffs of the Rockaway dump run amuck with great seagull.
He turned off at Sheepshead Bay and slowed the car down in the traffic. Wherever you looked there were Italian cafés. The car nudged along between Cadillacs, everywhere Cadillacs. Coming up were the docks and the day-fishing boats, lined up and banging gently into rubber tire moorings. Groups of people promenaded in front of the cafés—Russians mostly, Johnny was telling her, this being the middle of the week. On weekends this place was jammed. You came out from the city just to watch the boats, eat raw clams, feel the breeze around you like a loose suit. There was something about looking at a boat like that on the water—Johnny couldn’t keep the pride out of his voice. They mightn’t be his boats but this was his territory now. He was on home ground here, parking the car on the sidewalk, pointing out this joint and that, zipping around the front of the car to open the door for her. She was missing her camera again. Those Russians. Lumbering past the delicate cappuccino tables on thick-stockinged legs landed resolutely on the shores of Brooklyn. Hefty arms propelling second-hand strollers enthroning pudgy Kruschevs. Eighteen to a table, battling even knife-toting waiters for more chairs. Boy, she missed her camera. What on earth was she going to do? She’d never be able to replace them. She’d been too ashamed to tell her family, but she no longer had insurance for them. When the policy had been due for renewal (where had she been, in Ceylon?), Wolfgang had convinced her that they should use that money for something more sensible … like a car. Well, he’d smashed the car and where was she now? Looking pretty damn stupid to herself.
Johnny led her past the milling immigrants, past the clatter of stalls set up in a flea market. “You want somethin?” he asked her. “Go ahead. You want a toothbrush? They sell those real fancy jobs from Italy. No? How about a phone? Hey, don’t laugh, they’re dirt cheap down here.”
They crossed the broad boulevard full of flashy cars. The Mayor rubbed against her ankles as they scooted across—Lord, he hated these teeming places with a passion. Self-consciously, Claire stayed a step behind Johnny. She was afraid he’d notice all the pink she had on. She’d put on the pink with the hope in the back of her mind that she would run into him, and now she was afraid he’d see right through her: pink was a complimentary tone for women over thirty. Men were not dumb.
Johnny held the door open for her. It was a little wooden place right on the water, the only one. The rest were all confined to the other side of the boulevard. They walked through a room devoted to tourist accompaniments: carved sea captains from Maine, conch shells from the Bahamas and spaghetti bowls from Napoli. Claire felt him watching her apprehensively. She smiled a little too brightly. It was the first time they’d been that close. Right there in the middle of the shop she took a good whiff of him. She could have stood there for the rest of the night. One more room was the restaurant area, and the next, through a mobile of shells, was a broad dock with netted jars of candles on rough hodgepodge tables. Paper lanterns were clothespinned to the telephone line. The moon was a lopsided egg smack on top of the bay.
“Can’t bring no dogs in here, bud,” a skinny-assed waiter whooshed past them.
“It’s all right, Guido.” An old man in a Yankees cap stood up from the table nearest the cash register. “They’re with me.” He put his arms around Johnny with his eyes and shook his head. “So you finally remembered the way to Brooklyn, eh? Get over here!” He gave Johnny an affectionate clobber, then put him in a headlock. Johnny grinned from ear to ear.
“This old battle-ax is Red Torneo,” Johnny laughed. “Red. Claire Breslinsky.”