The streetlamps are coming on along the boardwalk, and knots of people are milling around in front of the arcades, laughing, shouting, huddling close. A sinister few stand in the shadows, nursing bottles, surveying the crowd. Stanley spots a couple of Shoreline Dogs loitering by the Bridgo parlor: young kids, new recruits, not faces he knows. He stops to rest the combat pack on a bench and shuffle through its contents. Coiled at the bottom among the tinned meats is his blackjack, two tapered strips of leather stitched into a long pouch and filled with a halfpound of double-ought buck, something he fashioned in his spare hours a few months ago while working on a ranch in Colorado, or maybe New Mexico. He tucks it into his bluejeans at the small of his back and buckles the pack again.
As he strolls the boardwalk, Stanley scans the crowd, concentrating on groups; he has a feeling Claudio won’t be alone. The kid’s nowhere to be seen under the arcades or on the benches, so Stanley turns around at the Ocean Park pier and heads south again, checking the sidestreets as he goes. The roar and sputter of motorcycles echoes from a few blocks away: a gang of bikers passing through. This will bring the Dogs closer to the water tonight, looking for fights they can win. He quickens his step.
A pack of shaggy hipsters is coming up the boardwalk: two bearded men in sandals, a dirty-blond girl in a black leotard, a white guy with a saxophone case, a Negro with a trumpet. Just before Stanley meets them, they make a right on Dudley. The blonde turns and gives him a weird knowing look as he crosses the street. He walks on, the hipsters’ rough voices ricocheting in the shadows behind him. This bunch reminds him of the menthol-and-turtleneck crowd he used to see in the Village, but wilder, more sunburnt and desperate. The sight and sound and smell of them trouble him for blocks, though he’s not sure why.
He’s so distracted that he nearly misses Claudio, seated on a bench off Wave Crest Ave, next to a lean and handsome man. The man is dressed in a wrinkled Bali Cay shirt and what was once a nice pair of trousers; he’s speaking Spanish with a flat American accent. The man laughs as he talks, gesturing with his left hand, which alights now and then on Claudio’s lithe shoulder. Stanley steps to the corner and stands there until he’s certain that Claudio sees him. Then he crosses to the opposite side of the street. Claudio doesn’t meet his gaze. He’s leaning in close, flashing his eyes, beaming into the handsome man’s face.
A shiny black and silver Montclair squeals through a stopsign on the Speedway, Chuck Rio’s saxophone blaring through its open windows, and now the handsome man is dancing in his seat, singing along, screaming Tequila! into the seething night. Claudio laughs and pats his leg. The man reaches for a bag-sheathed bottle at his feet, and his long fingers miss the neck by a full inch. Stanley crosses his arms, leans against a column, breathing steadily. His pulse throbs in his injured calf, pressing against the knots of the bandage. The blackjack is heavy at the base of his spine.
Claudio is looking up, beckoning with a curled finger. Stanley crosses the street again and saunters over. He pastes on a smile, narrows his eyes.
Charlie, Claudio says to the handsome man, please meet my good friend Stanley. Stanley, this is Charlie.
Encantado de conocerle, Se?or, the man says, and extends an unsteady hand. His grip is damp, pickled. Claudio laughs.
Pleasure, Stanley says.
Charlie works in advertising, Claudio says. He is an ad man.
Have you noticed how many of your neighbors are using Herman Miller furniture these days? Charlie says, feigning a radio voice. It’s an open secret in Detroit—the Edsel is going to be copied!
Stanley squats on his haunches and looks Charlie in the face. The man’s eyes are bobbing, floating like June fireflies. Hey, Stanley says, what are you drinking there, Charlie?
Buh-BAH buh-buh BAA-buh BUH-buh! Charlie sings, misting Stanley a little on his b’s. Lemon and salt in a martini? Caramba!
But Stanley can smell the gin on his breath: it’s a bottle of Seagram’s in the bag. He gives Claudio a hard look. Claudio returns it, his eyes full and glassy. Stanley can’t guess what’s behind them. Let’s go down to the water, Charlie, he says. What do you think?
Charlie is inviting me to go back to his pad, Claudio says.
His what?
Hey, you should come, too, man, Charlie says. Two’s company, three’s more company. More the merrier. Dig?
No, Stanley says. Let’s go down to the water. The water’s nice, Charlie. It’s cold. It’ll wake you up.
That’s good, that’s good, Charlie says. That’s a good idea. I love the water, man. I love to just get out in it and—
He turns back to Claudio. Is that cool, man? he says. Is that okay? José? Sorry! I’m sorry. Uh—your name again? Cassius? My lean and hungry friend. No. Claudius? C-C-Claudius? No, man, wait—I got it, I got it. Bait the hook well, this fish will bite. Let’s go the water. Where deeper than did ever plummet sound I’ll drown my book.
Stanley takes hold of Charlie’s right arm and tugs. It’s like pulling taffy: he feels like he’s making progress, but Charlie’s still on the bench, fishing for his bottle. Claudio closes his hands around Charlie’s left arm, and in a moment he’s on his feet.