“They told me I shouldn’t-” he said uncertainly. And then he got tough. “You’re damn right, Beel. Let’s go in together. I get dressed up. Er-You tell Leitzer, hah?” He couldn’t quite face up to the hard-boiled security man. I told Leitzer, who hit the ceiling. But all it boiled down to was that he sincerely wished Gomez and I wouldn’t leave. We weren’t in the Army, we weren’t in jail. I got hot at last and yelled back that we were damn well going out and he couldn’t stop us. He called New York on his direct wire and apparently New York confirmed it, regretfully. We got on the 4:05 Jersey Central, with Higgins and Dalhousie tailing us at a respectful distance. Gomez didn’t notice them and I didn’t tell him. He was having too much fun. He had a shine put on his shoes at Penn Station and worried about the taxi fare as we rode up to Spanish Harlem. His parents lived in a neat little three-room apartment. A lot of the furniture looked brand-new, and I was pretty sure who had paid for it. The mother and father spoke only Spanish, and mumbled shyly when “mi amigo Beel” was introduced. I had a very halting conversation with the father while the mother and Gomez rattled away happily and she poked his ribs to point up the age-old complaint of any mother anywhere that he wasn’t eating enough. The father, of course, thought the boy was a janitor or something in the Pentagon and, as near as I could make out, he was worried about his Julio being grabbed off by a man-hungry government girl. I kept reassuring him that his Julio was a good boy, a very good boy, and he seemed to get some comfort out of it. There was a little spat when his mother started to set the table. Gomez said reluctantly that we couldn’t stay, that we were eating somewhere else. His mother finally dragged from him the admission that we were going to the Porto Bello so he could see Rosa, and everything was smiles again. The father told me that Rosa was a good girl, a very good girl. Walking down the three flights of stairs with yelling little kids playing tag around us, Gomez asked proudly: “You not think they in America only a little time, hey?” I yanked him around by the elbow as we went down the brown-stone stoop into the street. Otherwise he would have seen our shadows for sure. I didn’t want to spoil his fun.
The Porto Bello was full, and the pretty little girl was on duty as cashier at the table. Gomez got a last-minute attack of cold feet at the sight of her. “No table,” he said. “We better go someplace else.” I practically dragged him in. “We’ll get a table in a minute,” I said. “Julio,” said the girl, when she saw him. He looked sheepish. “Hello, Rosa. I’m back for a while.” “I’m glad to see you again,” she said tremulously. “I’m glad to see you again too-” I nudged him. “Rosa, this is my good friend Beel. We work together in Washington.” “Pleased to meet you, Rosa. Can you have dinner with us? I’ll bet you and Julio have a lot to talk over.” “Well, I’ll see . . . look, there’s a table for you. I’ll see if I can get away.” We sat down and she flagged down the proprietress and got away in a hurry. All three of us had arroz con polio-rice with chicken and lots of other things. Their shyness wore off and I was dealt out of the conversation, but I didn’t mind. They were a nice young couple. I liked the way they smiled at each other, and the things they remembered happily-movies, walks, talks. It made me feel like a benevolent uncle with one foot in the grave. It made me forget for a while the look on Gomez’s face when he turned from the blackboard he had covered with too-simple math. Over dessert I broke in. By then they were unselfconsciously holding hands. “Look,” I said, “why don’t you two go on and do the town? Julio, I’ll be at the Madison Park Hotel.” I scribbled the address and gave it to him. “And I’ll get a room for you. Have fun and reel in any time.” I rapped his knee. He looked down and I slipped him four twenties. I didn’t know whether he had money on him or not, but anything extra the boy could use he had coming to him. “Swell,” he said. “Thanks.” And looked shame-faced while I looked paternal. I had been watching a young man who was moodily eating alone in a corner, reading a paper. He was about Julio’s height and build and he wore a sports jacket pretty much like Julio’s. And the street was pretty dark outside. The young man got up moodily and headed for the cashier’s table. “Gotta go,” I said. “Have fun.” I went out of the restaurant right behind the young man and