‘That’s right,’ Bobby said. ‘I have to warn him.’
He had a mad idea that Dee would offer to go with him to The Corner Pocket, and then the rest of the Diablos would join in; they would walk up the street snapping their fingers in unison like the Jets in West Side Story. They would be his friends now, gang guys who happened to have really good hearts.
Of course nothing of the sort happened. What happened was Moso wandered off, back toward the place where Bobby had walked into him. The others followed. Juan paused long enough to say, ‘You run into those caballeros and you gonna be one dead putino, tío mío.’
Only Dee was left and Dee said, ‘He’s right. You ought to go back to your own part of the worP, my frien’. Let your amigo take care of himself.’
‘I can’t,’ Bobby said. And then, with genuine curiosity: ‘Could you?’
‘Not against ordinary guys, maybe, but these ain’t ordinary guys. Was you just lissen?’
‘Yes,’ Bobby said. ‘But.’
‘You crazy, little boy. Poco loco.’
‘I guess so.’ He felt crazy, all right. Poco loco and then some. Crazy as a shithouse mouse, his mother would have said.
Dee started away and Bobby felt his heart cramp. The big boy got to the corner — his buddies were waiting for him on the other side of the street — then wheeled back, made his finger into a gun, and pointed it at Bobby. Bobby grinned and pointed his own back.
‘Vaya con Dios, mi amigo loco,’ Dee said, then sauntered across the street with the collar of his gang jacket turned up against the back of his neck.
Bobby turned the other way and started walking again, detouring around the pools of light cast by fizzing neon signs and trying to keep in the shadows as much as he could.
Across the street from The Corner Pocket was a mortuary — DESPEGNI FUNERAL PARLOR, it said on the green awning. Hanging in the window was a clock whose face was outlined in a chilly circle of blue neon. Below the clock was a sign which read TIME AND TIDE WAIT FOR NO
MAN. According to the clock it was twenty past eight. He was still in time, in plenty of time, and he could see an alley beyond the Pocket where he might wait in relative safety, but Bobby couldn’t just park himself and wait, even though he knew that would be the smart thing to do. If he’d really been smart, he never would have come down here in the first place.
He wasn’t a wise old owl; he was a scared kid who needed help. He doubted if there was any in The Corner Pocket, but maybe he was wrong.
Bobby walked under the banner reading COME IN IT’S KOOL INSIDE. He had never felt less in need of air conditioning in his life; it was a hot night but he was cold all over.
God, if You’re there, please help me now. Help me to be brave . . . and help me to be lucky.
Bobby opened the door and went in.
The smell of beer was much stronger and much fresher, and the room with the pinball machines in it banged and jangled with lights and noise. Where before only Dee had been playing pinball, there now seemed to be at least two dozen guys, all of them smoking, all of them wearing strap-style undershirts and Frank Sinatra hello-young-lovers hats, all of them with bottles of Bud parked on the glass tops of the Gottlieb machines.
The area by Len Files’s desk was brighter than before because there were more lights on in the bar (where every stool was taken) as well as in the pinball room. The poolhall itself, which had been mostly dark on Wednesday, was now lit like an operating theater. There were men at every table bending and circling and making shots in a blue fog of cigarette smoke;
the chairs along the walls were all taken. Bobby could see Old Gee with his feet up on the shoeshine posts, and —
‘What the fuck are you doing here?’