He does not want to hurt the world, Claudio says. But how can a poem hurt the world? How can it do anything? I do not understand this.
The column loses shape when it hits the dark beach, jumbling like a dropped rope. People walk by: a woman and two younger guys, all three nude, on their way to the water. Nobody looks at them twice. In the ring of light cast by the farthest bonfire, a bare-chested man in sunglasses plays a pair of high-pitched Cuban drums, not very well. The drums look and sound like toys. A rhythm rises against the crash of waves, then gutters, then starts up again.
Milton checks his watch. High tide in ten minutes, he says.
These knuckleheads better put out their lights, Stuart says, or else they’re gonna spook all the fish.
A motorcycle sputters along the Speedway, turning toward the traffic circle. From somewhere near the oilfield comes a series of loud pops that could be backfires, could be pistolshots.
Ten minutes, then? Alex says, digging through the pockets of his denim overalls. Anyone fancy a round of pinball before the arcades close?
Stanley grins; he feels like his mind’s been read. Lead the way, pal, he says. That’s my meat and potatoes.
They step onto the wooden planks again. Claudio and Charlie and one of the others—Jimmy? Saul?—break off to follow. Stuart calls to them as they go. We’re headed south, he says, where it’s darker! Alex lifts a hand in vague acknowledgment, doesn’t turn around. Charlie has vanished before they’ve crossed the boardwalk: off to find a bottle, Stanley figures.
The penny-arcade is an old Bridgo parlor, small and seedy and full of machines that look like they fell off a truck. The sign hung on the colonnade was new maybe ten years ago, which puts it ahead of the sign on the boarded-up building next door, which was new in maybe 1930. The interior is about a quarter whitewashed, like somebody stopped in mid-brushstroke partway along the left-hand wall when they ran out of paint and money, or maybe just realized that nobody cared. A shrill wash of noise spills from the windows and bounces off the bricks: bells and thumps, mechanical whistles, sickly celesta melodies.
It’s the usual crowd inside: soldiers, sailors, laborers, pachucos, thugs. A few sorry-looking hookers loiter at the door and windows, asking passersby for dimes. The Dogs are here too, though not in force: three of them, manhandling a Daisy May machine in the corner, their backs to the door, Whitey among them.
Stanley drops some coins into Claudio’s palm, parks him at an ancient wobbly Bingo Bango. Back in a minute, he says. Just sit tight.
He crosses the room and taps Whitey on the shoulder before anyone sees him coming. It isn’t hard. Stanley keeps his weight back, his stance open, in case somebody takes a swing.
Whitey turns, does a doubletake. For an instant, alarm flickers in his eyes; then he plasters on a hyena sneer. Well, whaddya know, he says. We may get some blowjobs tonight aft—
Can it, meathead. I’m looking for your boss.
Whitey squares his shoulders and juts his jaw, puffed up like a peacock, but his voice is clear, and he’s breathing through his nose: he’s not going to pull anything. For my what? he says.
You heard me. Where is he?
Probably still at the last job I quit, asshole. I ain’t got no boss.
Okay, smart guy. Then where’s the joker does your thinking for you? You know who I’m talking about. Don’t act like a putz.
It ain’t my week to watch him, nosebleed. You think I’m his secretary?
I don’t think about you at all, chum. When you see him, you tell him that me and my buddy are about to do some business on the waterfront. If he wants a cut, he better let me know pronto. I’m not gonna track him down.
Whitey’s sneer sags, like his face is getting tired; he sifts the contents of his brain for a sharp response. Stanley fades back slowly until Whitey open his mouth again. Then he spins on his heel and walks.
Claudio’s watching with panicked eyes; he steps forward, meets Stanley halfway. What are you doing? he whispers. Why do you go to the hoods?
You know why, kid, Stanley says. Look, we can’t talk about it now. I need you to hold onto something.
He pulls Alex’s wad of bills from his pocket and presses it into Claudio’s hand. Claudio’s eyes get wider; his jaw drops. Stop it, Stanley says. Look at me. If you see those punks make a move—I mean if they come over here, understand?—then you let me know right off. If anybody throws a punch, then you scram the hell outta here. I’ll meet you at the hideout.