Part 4 (1/2)
”Hey!” he said.
Roger stopped and waited for the man, who walked up to him leisurely and without threat, smiling pleasantly.
”You looking for something?” the man said.
”No,” Roger answered.
”I mean, you're not from the neighborhood, are you?”
”No.”
”I thought maybe somebody sent you up here.”
”For what?” Roger said.
”Anything you want,” the man answered, falling into step as Roger began walking again. ”You name it, we got it.”
”There's nothing I want.”
”You want a woman?”
”No, I-”
”What color? White, black, brown? Tan? Yellow even, you name it. We've got a whole streetful of women up here.”
”No, I don't want a woman,” Roger said.
”You prefer little girls maybe? How old? Nine, ten, eleven? Name it”
”No,” Roger said.
”What then? Junk?”
”Junk?”
”Heroin, cocaine, morphine, opium, codeine, demerol, benzedrine, marijuana, phen.o.barb, goofb.a.l.l.s, speedb.a.l.l.s, you name it.”
”Thanks, no,” Roger said.
”What do you need then? A gun? A pad? An alibi? A fence? Name it.”
”I'd like a cup of coffee,” Roger said, and smiled.
”That's easy,” the man said, and shrugged. ”Here you meet a genie ready to give you three wishes, and all you want's a cup of coffee.” He shrugged again. ”Right around the corner there on the avenue,” he said. ”Coffee and. Best in the neighborhood.”
”Good,” Roger said.
”I'll join you,” the man offered.
”How come everybody's so eager to join me this morning?” Roger asked.
”Who knows?” the man said, and shrugged. ”Maybe it's national brotherhood week, huh? Who knows? What's your name?”
”Roger Broome.”
”Pleased to know you, Roger,” he said and relaxed his grip on the coat collar just long enough to extend his hand, take Roger's, and shake it briefly. The hand returned immediately to the open collar, pulling it tight around the throat. ”I'm Ralph Stafford, pleased to know you.”
”How are you, Ralph?” Roger said.
They turned the corner now, and were walking toward a small luncheonette in the middle of the block. A vent blew condensing vapor out onto the sidewalk in an enormous white billow. There was the smell of frying food on the air, heavy and greasy. Roger hesitated outside the door, and Ralph said, ”Come on, it's good.”
”Well, all right,” Roger said, and they went in.
The place was small and warm, with eight or nine stools covered in red leatherette and ranged before a plastic-topped counter. A fat man with hardly any hair was behind the counter, his sleeves rolled up over muscular forearms.
”Yeah?” he said as they sat down.
”Coffee for my friend,” Ralph said. ”Hot chocolate for me.” He turned to Roger and lowered his voice confidentially. ”Chocolate makes my back break out in pimples,” he said, ”but who gives a d.a.m.n, huh? What is it you're up here for? You're not a bull, are you?”
”What's that?” Roger asked.
”A cop.”
”No.”
”What then? A T-man?”
”No.”
”You sure?”
”I'm sure.”
”We had a guy around here two, three months ago - wait a minute, it must've been just before Christmas, that's right - he was a T-man, trying to smell out some junk. He had some case.” Ralph paused. ”You don't look like a fed to me, I guess I can take a chance.”
”What kind of chance?”
”I mean, man, suppose you're a fed, what then?”
”What then?”
”Suppose I'm holding?”
”Holding what?”
”Some junk.”
”Oh.”
”It could be bad for me, you know.”