himself.
“What’ll it be?” said the little chef. He had a large fork and plate poised but Roy took them from him, to his annoyance, and said he would fix what he wanted himself.
Memo helped. “Don’t be stingy, Roy.”
“Pile it on, honey.”
“You sure are a scream the way you eat.”
“I am a picnic.” He kidded to ease the embarrassment his appetite caused him.
“Bump liked to shovel it down —” She caught herself.
After his plate was loaded, Memo placed a slice of ham and a roll on her own and they sat at a table in the far corner of the room — away from where Flores was standing — so Roy could concentrate on the food without having to bother with anybody.
Memo watched him, fascinated. She shredded the ham on her plate and nibbled on a roll.
“That all you’re eating?” he asked.
“I guess I haven’t got much appetite.”
He was gobbling it down and it gave him a feeling of both having something and wanting it the same minute he was having it. And every mouthful seemed to have the effect of increasing his desire for her. He thought how satisfying it would be to lift that yellow dress over her bare thighs.
Roy didn’t realize it till she mentioned it that his plate was empty. “Let me get you some more, hon.”
“I will get it myself.”
“Food is a woman’s work.” She took his plate to the table and the busy little chef heaped it high with corned beef, pastrami, turkey, potato salad, cheese, and pickles.
“You sure are nice to me,” he said.
“You are a nice guy.”
“Why did you get so much of it?”
“It’s good for you, silly.”
Roy laughed. “You sound like my grandma.”
Memo was interested. “Weren’t you brought up in an orphan’s home, Roy?”
“I went there after grandma died.”
“Didn’t you ever live with your mother?”
He was suddenly thoughtful. “Seven years.”
“What was she like? Do you remember?”
“A whore. She spoiled my old man’s life. He was a good guy but died young.”
A group of girls flocked through the door and Memo hastily excused herself. They were her showgirl friends from a Broadway musical that had just let out. She welcomed them and introduced them around. Dancing started and the party got livelier.
Roy polished his plate with a crust of bread. He felt as if he had hardly eaten anything — it was sliced so thin you could hardly chew your teeth into it.
Memo returned. “How about having something different now?” But Roy said no and got up. “Lemme say hello to some of the gals that came in.”
“You are all alike.” He thought she sounded jealous and it was all right if she was. The girls she brought him around to were tickled to meet him. They felt his muscles and wanted to know how he belted the ball so hard.
“Clean living,” Roy told them.
The girls laughed out loud. He looked them over. The best of the bunch was a slightly chubby one with an appealing face, but in her body she did not compare to Memo.
When he told Memo she had more of what it took than the rest of them put together, she giggled nervously. He looked at her and felt she was different tonight in a way he could not figure out. He worried about Gus, but then he thought that after tonight he would be getting it steady, and then he would tell her he did not want that glass- eye monkey tailing her around.
Memo led him back to the table. She pointed out what she wanted for Roy and the chef ladled it into the plate. Her own came back with a slice of ham and a roll on it. He followed her to the corner table. He wondered if Flores was still standing in the opposite corner, watching, but he didn’t look.
Gazing at the mountain of stuff Memo handed him, he said, “I am getting tired of eating.”
Memo had returned to the subject of his mother. “But didn’t you love her, Roy?”
He stared at her through one eye. “Who wants to know?”
“Just me.”
“I don’t remember.” He helped himself to a forkful of food. “No.”
“Didn’t she love you?”
“She didn’t love anybody.”
Memo said, “Let’s try some new combinations with the buffet. Sometimes when you eat things that you didn’t know could mix together but they do, you satisfy your appetite all at once. Now let’s mix this lobster meat with hidden treats of anchovies, and here we will lay it on this tasty pumpernickel and spread Greek salad over it, then smear this other slice of bread with nice sharp cheese and put it on top of the rest.”
“All it needs now is a shovel of manure and a forest will grow out of it.”
“Now don’t be dirty, Roy.”
“It looks like it could blow a man apart.”
“All the food is very fresh.”
After making the sandwich she went to the ladies’ room. He felt depressed. Now why the hell did she have to go and ask him questions about his old lady? Thinking about her, he chewed on the sandwich. With the help of three bottles of lemon pop he downed it but had to guzzle three more of lime to get rid of the artificial lemon taste. He felt a little drunk and snickered because it was a food and pop drunk. He had the odd feeling he was down on his hands and knees searching for something that he couldn’t find.
Flores stood at the table.
“If you tell them to go home,” he hissed, “they weel.”
Roy stared. “Tell who?”
“The players. They are afraid to stay here but they don’t go because you stay.”
“Go ahead and tell them to go.”
“You tell them,” Flores urged. “They weel leesten to your word.”
“Right,” said Roy.
Memo returned and Flores left him. Roy struggled to his feet, broke into a sweat, and sat down again. Fowler grabbed Memo and they whirled around. Roy didn’t like them pressed so close together.
His face was damp. He reached into his pocket for a handkerchief and felt Iris’ letter. For a second he thought he had found what he was looking for. More clearly than ever he remembered her pretty face and the brown eyes you could look into and see yourself as something more satisfying than you were, and he remembered telling her everything, the first time he had ever told anybody about it, and the relieved feeling he had afterward, and the long swim and Iris swimming down in the moonlit water searching for him, and the fire on the beach, she naked, and finally him banging her. For some reason this was the only thing he was ashamed of, though it couldn’t be said she hadn’t asked for it.
Fat girls write fat letters, he thought, and then he saw the little chef looking at him and was astonished at how hungry he felt.
Roy pushed himself up and headed for the table. The chef shined up a fast plate and with delight lifted the serving fork.
“I’ve had a snootful,” Roy said.
The chef tittered. “It’s all fresh food.”
Roy looked into his button eyes. They were small pig’s eyes. “Who says so?”
“It’s the best there is.”
“It stinks.” He turned and walked stiffly to the door. Memo saw him. She waved gaily and kept on dancing.
He dragged his belly through the hall. When the elevator came it dropped him down in the lobby. He went along the corridor into the grill room. Carefully sitting down at the table, he ordered six hamburgers and two tall
