Stanley looks at the floor. A few feet to his left, the blond girl is staring up at him. Her eyes—dun-colored, kaolin-pale, a doll’s eyes—are open wide. The sight of them makes Stanley uneasy, and he blinks. Then he shoves his hands in his pockets, turns, and crosses the room to stand by the entrance.
Claudio is at a table on the other side of the aisle, among a younger group: three girls, seated, and two guys, leaning on the backs of the girls’ chairs. Claudio’s doing his bashful act, sheepish and shrugging, in the middle of some story, recounting his wetback adventures in the Arizona desert, probably. The two guys have their ears cocked to hear him better, and the three skirts look like they’re all set to take him home, bake him cakes, dress him up in fancy outfits.
Someone sidles up on Stanley’s right: the beak-nosed man. As he draws close a wariness comes over Stanley, sharp and not unpleasing, a feeling he hasn’t known since he left the city: this guy clicks as a true grifter. The familiarity feels good, even if it’s apt to mean trouble. Stanley plays it cool, doesn’t meet the man’s gaze.
You’re a fresh face, the man says. I’m Alex.
Stanley.
Alex nods his big head in Claudio’s direction. That handsome bugger’s got the run of the place, he says. Wastes not a minute, does he?
Stanley smiles, says nothing.
Your partner, Alex says. Is he a good man to work with?
Stanley takes a second to remember that Alex just walked in, has never seen the two of them together. Not that Stanley knows of, anyway. Stanley turns to face him.
Alex is giving him his old-man-of-the-mountain profile, staring into space. You and your friend are down and out, he says. Is that not so? You’re on the street.
His accent is foreign: English but not English, Irish or Scottish, Stanley can never tell the difference. There’s no shame in it, Alex continues. Though it can be very hard. I’ve been down and out myself. More than once. Each time because I’ve chosen it. You understand, I’m sure. Tell me, your friend—is he working as trade?
Stanley feels a jolt of anger, but keeps it out of his face, his voice. No, he says. He ain’t. How come? You in the market?
He could do very well, Alex says. Not here, of course. But I know many places.
He ain’t interested.
Alex glances over at Stanley for a second. His eyes narrow to slots. You’re from New York, he says. I hear it in your voice. What borough?
Brooklyn.
Flatbush? Borough Park?
Williamsburg.
You’re a Jew?
Yeah, Stanley says. Sure.
Done a bit of wandering, have you?
No more than you, I guess.
True enough. What brings you to California?
Business.
And what business is that?
Stanley gives him a deadpan look. Batboy for the Dodgers, he says.
Alex seems confused; then he begins to laugh loudly, and now the whole place is looking at them. Stanley hadn’t planned on getting this kind of attention. He keeps his eyes lowered, his face blank, until the stares scatter and fade.
Alex’s laugh gutters. He’s quiet for a second. Over there’s my wife, he says. Lyn’s her name. Common law; no ceremony. But we are married, nevertheless.
He doesn’t point, doesn’t even look at her. She’s leaning against a wall at the far end of the room next to three seated women; the women talk among themselves, ignoring her, as if she’s invisible.
We’re leaving town in a few days, Alex says. Going to Las Vegas. Have you ever been there?
I don’t think so.
Lyn will find work there as a dancer. A stripteaser, I should say. For extra cash she’ll turn tricks. There is no shame in it. All of us, we can only do as we’re doing. Always.
What’ll you do?
I am a writer, Alex says. I intend to write.
Across the room Lipton is waving his papers around, belting out some kind of introduction. Stuart stands next to him, his arms at his sides, his eyes closed, his nose aimed at the ceiling. A hairy white kid is seated at the kit, working brushes across the ride cymbal and the snare. The blond girl rises to her feet, sliding up the wall. A slanted line of black text above her head reads ART IS LOVE IS GOD.
Alex speaks softly; Stanley strains to hear him even as he feigns disinterest. Provisions for our journey, Alex says, have been difficult to find. You seem a wise and capable fellow. I think we can help each other. I have connections that could be useful.
I don’t have a connection here, Stanley says. You’re wasting your time on me.