CHAPTER 2I took him across the street to Tony’s joint, where you can get a good ham sandwich and where the waitress will converse or keep quiet according to your mood. The girl on duty this Sunday afternoon was a Greek named Pauline. She didn’t let me down. My mood plainly said, “For God’s sake, talk!”
“I’m getting married again,” she said, while she arranged her setups. “Unless the guy finks out, which he might.”
“Who’s the guy?” I asked.
“A bartender named Hank. I don’t really like him much, but he’s steady. He doesn’t drink or gamble, and when he’s off he likes to stay home—he says.”
“Why would he fink out on you?”
“Well—What are you having?”
“A ham sandwich for me, with beer,” I said. “The doctor will have—?”
“Oh—the same,” he said. “And could I have a double bourbon on the rock
