“How come you ever left Mexico, Ramón?”
“Well, I don’t know.” Otero scratched his head. “I just left.”
“Was they after you?”
“No, I just left.”
Otero got up and put his arms around Seal Skin.
“Some girl,” he said.
Seal Skin gave him a push.
“Wait’ll I finish this.”
“Sure, sure,” said Otero, smiling and patting her on the shoulder.
“Look,” said Seal Skin, “you’re a good guy, Ramón. But dumb. How come you hang after Rico?”
“Rico is a great man.”
Seal Skin laughed out loud.
“Yeah? Great, but careless. He’ll never die of old age.”
Otero didn’t understand.
“What you say?”
“They’ll fill him full of lead. He’s too cocky.”
Otero shook his head.
“No, they’ll never get Rico.”
“They get ’em all.”
“No,” said Otero, “they’ll never get Rico. Once I say to him. ‘Look, you must be careful.’ But he say, ‘Not me, they’ll never get Rico.’ ”
Seal Skin opened the window and flung her cigar down into the street. A gust of cold air rushed into the overheated room.
“Listen,” she said, “that’s bunk. Rico’s no different from anybody else. You stick with Rico long enough and you’ll have a swell funeral. Why don’t you get into the beer racket? That’s safe.”
“I go with Rico,” said Otero. “What do I care? I have no people. Once I had a brother but they shot him.”
“The cops?”
“No, the rurales. He was with Villa.”
“Who the hell’s Villa?”
“Villa was a great man, like Rico.”
Seal Skin got up and took a drink from a bottle on the bureau. Then she said:
“Let’s hit the hay, Ramón.”
“Sure, sure,” said Otero.
IV
It was nearly two o’clock when Tony left his woman. A lake wind was blowing hard and the snow fell heavily past the street lights. Tony muffled himself in his overcoat and pulled his cap low. He felt tired and disgusted.
At the corner near his home, he turned into Sicily Pete’s restaurant. Three Italians were playing cards at a table in the back. Up front a mechanical piano ground out “The Rosary.”
“Hello, Tony, how’s the boy?” said Pete.
“Not so good,” said Tony.
“You ain’t looking any too good, Tony,” said Pete.
Tony ran his hands over his face and stared at his image in the mirror behind the counter. Pale; circles under his eyes.
“Well, I guess I’ll live,” said Tony.
Pete smacked the counter with both hands.
“Love of God! Sure you’ll live. You be OK tomorrow morning. I know, Tony, my boy. Don’t forget I was a young fellow once. I know. I know.”
“Sure you know,” said Tony, sarcastic.
“Sure I do. You think I don’t know about that little red head. Hot stuff, Tony, my boy. Only don’t be a fool. Save some for tomorrow night.”
Pete laughed shaking all over and smacked the counter with his hands.
“What the hell’s wrong with you, Pete?” cried one of the card players.
“Never you mind. All right, Tony, what’ll you have?”
Tony couldn’t decide. Pete went to wait on one of the card players. The mechanical piano finished “The Rosary” on a discord. Tony went over and put a nickel in the slot.
“I got a combination to go and two Javas,” said Pete. The mechanical piano began to play “O Sole Mio.”
“I’ll take a combination,” said Tony, “and a cup of Java.”
“OK,” said Pete. “I got two combinations, one to go and three on the Java.”
“How’s business, Pete?” asked Tony.
“Oh, what you call so-so. Not good, not bad. I never get rich here.”
“Why don’t you put in a line of bottled goods?” said Tony, smiling.
Pete raised both hands over his head and brought them down hard on the counter.
“None of that for Sicily Pete. Oh no. Pete’s too smart for that. If the bulls don’t get you, why, some of them gangsters do. I know. One say, you buy from me; the other say, no, you buy from me. All the same. No matter who you buy from, bango!”
Pete brought Tony his combination and his coffee, and stood at the counter with him while he ate it.
“Tony,” said Pete, putting his head on one side, “you know you look like your old man. Other day when you was in here I say to the missus, ‘look, ain’t he just like his old man?’ Well, well. That is good. A boy should look like his old man. That is a good sign.”
“Knew the old man pretty well, didn’t you, Pete?” said Tony, finishing his coffee.
“Yes, pretty well. When he was a young fellow he was like you. Full of pep and always after the girls. But I don’t know, your mama she got hold of him, then he wasn’t like he used to be. He wasn’t like the same fellow. Pretty soon he died.”
Tony laughed.
“Hard on the old lady, ain’t you?”
“Love of God, no,” said Pete, an expression of acute misery on his face, “you don’t get me, Tony. I mean he got to be a good fellow, like me. Work, work, that’s all he knew. Well, work is a good thing. It keeps you out of trouble, but I don’t know.”
Pete wiped the sweat from his forehead and meditated. Tony flipped him a fifty-cent piece. The mechanical piano stopped on a prolonged, slurred discord.
“Well, I guess I’ll hit for home,” said Tony, “so long, Pete.”
“Good night, Tony,” said Pete, with one of his blandest smiles, “come in again.”
The wind struck Tony in the face as he left the restaurant. The streets were white and silent. Tony walked home slowly, tired and disgusted.
As he entered the flat he saw a dim light in the front room. He tried to sneak into his bedroom, but his mother heard him. She rose from her chair, a monstrous silhouette against the dim front room light.
“A fine time for you to come in, Antonio,” she said. “Have you been out again with them good-for-nothing loafers?”
“Yes,” said Tony, in a bad temper.
“So … !” said his mother, “you don’t even lie any more. Well, well! You are doing fine. Pretty soon you won’t come home at all, you bum.”
“You said a mouthful,” said Tony.
“Sure, you won’t listen to your mother.
