When he finally emerges from the tomb, Claudio seems glum, preoccupied, uncha?racter?istic?ally reserved, but Stanley shakes him from his funk by enlisting him in the problem of returning to base. A few blocks into the neighborhood they spot two bags of empty soda bottles on the doorstep of a duplex, and they lift them gingerly, wincing at the clatter of glass as they hotfoot to the boulevard. It’s nearly a mile before they find an open drugstore, but the deposits are enough to cover their fares back to the beach and a proper breakfast besides.
They find a bustling roadhouse, Barney’s Beanery, at the spot where Santa Monica ends its east-west run and tacks toward the coast, and they stop in to get coffee and split a plate of bacon and hotcakes. It’s mostly suits and hats inside: movie execs on the way to Paramount or Goldwyn, Jewish doctors bound for Mount Sinai. A pack of bleary-eyed hipsters still up from last night sprawls in a corner booth, smoking slowly and intently. At the bar, the proprietor chats with a pair of slender men in matching ricky jackets, obvious queens, standing inches from a black-on-pink sign that reads FAGOTS – STAY OUT. Stanley and Claudio trade puzzled looks. Is it a joke? Does he know?
As the westbound 75 is rolling to the curb, Claudio glances back at the restaurant and pulls a doubletake. Ramon Novarro, he whispers.
Who?
Ramon Novarro! There, entering the beanery!
Claudio does an about-face; Stanley plants a hand on his breastbone and shoves him into the coach before he can bolt. C’mon, kid, he says. Let’s move it along.
Claudio’s craning his neck, pressing his nose to the grimy glass as they settle into their seats. I can’t believe this, he says. Ramon Novarro eats his breakfast at this same restaurant. We should have spoken to him.
What the hell are you on about?
Ramon Novarro! Star of Ben-Hur! Star of The Arab, and The Prisoner of Zenda! These are films of great importance.
As the bus rolls past the fountains and the arbors of Beverly Gardens, Claudio summarizes the career of Ramon Novarro and recounts the plots of his many movies, proceeding with such abandon that they all blend into a single swashbuckling epic of hysterical complexity. Stanley only half-listens. He’s hunched in his seat with his eyes closed, letting the engine’s rumble massage him toward sleep. He pictures Claudio as a lonely boy in Hermosillo, his small fingers flipping through faded American screen magazines, his black eyes going wide as the lights of the cinema darken.
It’s nearly noon before they see the ocean. On the way through Santa Monica they hit a couple of grocers’ shops: Claudio pesters the proprietors while Stanley picks through the shelves—spic doesn’t understand a word of English—and soon they’ve replenished their supply of fruit and crackers and potted meat. Stanley even comes away with a quart of milk and a couple of Heath bars, but Claudio is unimpressed. He’s growing weary, short-tempered. The fog is gone. The day is warming up.
Claudio washes down the chocolate with a swig from the bottle and passes it back to Stanley. Now what will we do? he asks.
I don’t know. Lie on the beach, maybe. Get some shuteye. What do you mean?
I mean, now what will we do for money?
Claudio sounds detached, automatic, like he’s starting up an old fight again out of habit, or just to keep from thinking about something else. Stanley shoots him a look. Money? he says, and gives the combat pack a shake to rattle the tins inside. We got three days’ worth of food here. I can hardly carry this thing. What do we need money for?
Claudio’s face pinches in consternation, but his eyes are steady. We need money for a place to stay, he says. A proper place. So that we can become established.
Established? Stanley says. What’s this established? Do you even know what that word means?
I know what it means. I know we cannot keep on like this.
Stanley glares at him, hitches up the pack on his shoulder. Yeah? he says. Speak for yourself, chum. I been keeping on like this since I was twelve years old. If you don’t like it, that’s too bad. You fucking pansy.
Claudio blanches, but doesn’t take the bait, and Stanley feels a little sick for having said it. I helped you, Claudio says. I helped you look for your man. Now you help me.
Sure, you helped. You had no desire at all to see Hollywood. Right? What a terrific sacrifice you made. How can I ever repay you?