“No. Now you can take the whole thing and shove it up your padooza. I wouldn’t buy nothin’ from you if you were the last salesman in Queens. Now I’m gonna go down the street and buy the whole kit & kaboodle from the competition, you nasty little piece a garbage.”
It was nine o’clock at night and Claire still wasn’t at home. She’d gone to pick up her nephew at Freddy’s place, so there were two things he could do. He could wait right here in front of her house and have her see him waiting when she came back. Or he could go up to Queens Boulevard and surprise her, risking missing her altogether if she came home a different way. That wouldn’t be too good because then her mother would tell her that he’d been there and by the time he caught up with her she’d have had time to arrange her face however she wanted. He couldn’t risk that. He had to see her eyes in their moment of recognition, before she disguised them with propriety. This was crucial. He had to see if she was going to be as happy to see him as he was going to be to see her. The present he had for her in the shopping bag was incidental. The icing on the cake. He made a silent bet with himself that she’d refuse it, too. That was the kind of girl she was. Only he was going to make her accept the camera no matter what. He’d see to that. Johnny paced up and down the walk. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t remember what she looked like. He could get the hair, the mouth, the eyes … but he couldn’t put them all together. One thing he had in front of his face as though it were painted there was that ass. Johnny cleared his throat. He paced back and forth a few more times. Mrs. Breslinsky stuck her head out the window.
“Sure you wouldn’t like to wait in here?”
“Oh, no,” he blushed at his thoughts so inappropriate to her mother’s vicinity. “I’ll just wait awhile out here. Couple a things I gotta ask her.” He looked down, puzzled, at his fancy shopping bag. He could hear the crickets.
“I see. Well, if you change your mind.”
Johnny waved and smiled. The hell with this. She’d probably take Park Lane South. He hopped in the car. Another thing. If she was coming along Park Lane South she might run into that Stefanovitch bastard. He took the corner without stopping for the sign.
Freddy’s place was across the boulevard from the municipal building. He could leave the shopping bag in the car or he could lug it with him—no, he’d walk in empty-handed and take it from there. Of course there was nowhere to park. The hubbub of the street made it impossible. And of course he would be driving Pokey’s whale of an Oldsmobile. He’d tuned it up for him and now he couldn’t get rid of it. Pokey had discovered the delights of his snappy sports car and wasn’t in a hurry to give it up.
He pulled up dead in front of the joint underneath the NO STANDING sign and put Pokey’s shield number on the dashboard, rejoicing as he always did that with his responsibilities came privilege, this probably being his favorite one. Not that there were that many anymore. Used to be, a cop was respected for the chances he took. You went in to the fruit and vegetable store, the guy wouldn’t let you pay. You got your coffee and doughnuts from the diner, the cashier would wink and you’d zip out the door. And you took care of those places. You risked your life for a couple a lousy hundred bucks in the cash register anytime you went around back when you saw a screwy light on at three in the morning, and those owners, they used to appreciate it. Now? Jeez. Now the same owners made a stink when they saw you cuff up the suspects too tight. It was all rights and privileges for the criminals these days. No doubt about it. The city wasn’t changing … it already had changed.