black man told me as I stood with one foot on the cement step up to Leonardo's.
"Probably right," I said, entering as he went back to rocking and nodding.
I pushed my way like an icebreaker past the frontdesk, through baffles of small rooms and beehived waitresses, around the
shoal of a chattering, bantamweight maitre d' in double-breasted suit, to the main dining room.
Faces turned to watch me. Conversations stopped.
A guy whose neck put me in mind of bulls sat over an espresso at a table near the door. Sucking on a lemon slice, he lumbered
to his feet as I came in. So did his counterpart, all wire and nerve endings, at a rear table.
Jimmie's head rose, too. He regarded me for a moment, two, three, nothing showing in his face. Then his hand came up an inch
or two. The bookends sat down.
I did the same, across from Jimmie, who tucked back into his plate of cannelloni and, finishing that, pulled close a bowl
of cantaloupe with shaved prosciutto.
"You eaten yet?"
I shook my head.
"Mama Bella'd be happy to fix you up something special."
"Mama's other patrons might not appreciate that, sir."
Jimmie nodded and ate his melon slowly, pushing the bowl away when he was done. Then he spoke to the room:
"Closing up in here now, folks. Any of you have food coming, they'll bring it to you out front. Please keep your wallets in
your pockets, though; tonight your money's no good. Please have a complimentary drink, too, while waiting—and please come
back."
We watched as customers slid from booths and stood, tugging at polyester sport coats, cotton skirts and silk dresses before
shuffling out.
"You too," he told his bookends when the citizens were gone.
They didn't like it—eyesflashing You know you can't trust these people —but they left.
"Have a coffee with me at least?"
"Sure."
Busboys in yellow vests and black pants came through a doorway at the back of the room to retrieve dishes.
"Sister doing okay, Joseph?" Jimmie asked one of them.
"Yessir. Thank you, sir."
"Heading for college this fall, I understand," Jimmie said to the other, who nodded. "You know you got a job here anytime
you need it, right? Summers, holidays. Anytime."
They took the dishes away. Moments later the one whose sister was doing okay returned with two espressos.
"Good health," Jimmie said.
I nodded. One healthy sip and my coffee was gone. Jimmie held the saucer in his left hand, up close to his face, working the
cup with his right. Something axlike about that face. Sharp nose, narrow features. Eyes like wedges.
"Don't know as how I ever sat across the tablefroma black man before."
No response called for—none I'd care to give, at any rate.
Jimmie's hand fluttered up. No one seemed to be watching, but fresh coffees materialized.
"We've known each other now what? four, five years? I try to keep track of you. What it looks like to me is, you have trouble
enough keeping track of yourself."
What could I say?
'That's what we're here for, Griffin. To bear witness, to take notice. Ever doubt that, you just look into a child's eyes."
"Your man, Joey the Mountain. He's been asking about me."
"Not anymore he ain't."
"And about the woman I was with the night I got shot."
Jimmie sipped at his coffee.
"You doing okay, right? From die shooting. You recovered."
I nodded.
"That's good." Jimmie threw back the last spoonful or so of his espresso. "Never could get where I was able to care much for
this stuff, but I keep trying. What I want is a drink. You want a drink?"
I didn't catch any signal, but the maitre d' materialized at our table.
"Single-malt Scotch suit you?" Jimmie said.
"Always has."
Two doubles, Marcel."
They were there in a blink. I picked up mine and looked through it, remembering how she'd done that very thing in the dive
down on Dryades. I swirled the first taste, oily, deep, abiding, over the back of my tongue. Life was good.
"What we hear is, Eddie Bone called you that night."
"He did. Said I
"Probably right," I said, entering as he went back to rocking and nodding.
I pushed my way like an icebreaker past the frontdesk, through baffles of small rooms and beehived waitresses, around the
shoal of a chattering, bantamweight maitre d' in double-breasted suit, to the main dining room.
Faces turned to watch me. Conversations stopped.
A guy whose neck put me in mind of bulls sat over an espresso at a table near the door. Sucking on a lemon slice, he lumbered
to his feet as I came in. So did his counterpart, all wire and nerve endings, at a rear table.
Jimmie's head rose, too. He regarded me for a moment, two, three, nothing showing in his face. Then his hand came up an inch
or two. The bookends sat down.
I did the same, across from Jimmie, who tucked back into his plate of cannelloni and, finishing that, pulled close a bowl
of cantaloupe with shaved prosciutto.
"You eaten yet?"
I shook my head.
"Mama Bella'd be happy to fix you up something special."
"Mama's other patrons might not appreciate that, sir."
Jimmie nodded and ate his melon slowly, pushing the bowl away when he was done. Then he spoke to the room:
"Closing up in here now, folks. Any of you have food coming, they'll bring it to you out front. Please keep your wallets in
your pockets, though; tonight your money's no good. Please have a complimentary drink, too, while waiting—and please come
back."
We watched as customers slid from booths and stood, tugging at polyester sport coats, cotton skirts and silk dresses before
shuffling out.
"You too," he told his bookends when the citizens were gone.
They didn't like it—eyesflashing You know you can't trust these people —but they left.
"Have a coffee with me at least?"
"Sure."
Busboys in yellow vests and black pants came through a doorway at the back of the room to retrieve dishes.
"Sister doing okay, Joseph?" Jimmie asked one of them.
"Yessir. Thank you, sir."
"Heading for college this fall, I understand," Jimmie said to the other, who nodded. "You know you got a job here anytime
you need it, right? Summers, holidays. Anytime."
They took the dishes away. Moments later the one whose sister was doing okay returned with two espressos.
"Good health," Jimmie said.
I nodded. One healthy sip and my coffee was gone. Jimmie held the saucer in his left hand, up close to his face, working the
cup with his right. Something axlike about that face. Sharp nose, narrow features. Eyes like wedges.
"Don't know as how I ever sat across the tablefroma black man before."
No response called for—none I'd care to give, at any rate.
Jimmie's hand fluttered up. No one seemed to be watching, but fresh coffees materialized.
"We've known each other now what? four, five years? I try to keep track of you. What it looks like to me is, you have trouble
enough keeping track of yourself."
What could I say?
'That's what we're here for, Griffin. To bear witness, to take notice. Ever doubt that, you just look into a child's eyes."
"Your man, Joey the Mountain. He's been asking about me."
"Not anymore he ain't."
"And about the woman I was with the night I got shot."
Jimmie sipped at his coffee.
"You doing okay, right? From die shooting. You recovered."
I nodded.
"That's good." Jimmie threw back the last spoonful or so of his espresso. "Never could get where I was able to care much for
this stuff, but I keep trying. What I want is a drink. You want a drink?"
I didn't catch any signal, but the maitre d' materialized at our table.
"Single-malt Scotch suit you?" Jimmie said.
"Always has."
Two doubles, Marcel."
They were there in a blink. I picked up mine and looked through it, remembering how she'd done that very thing in the dive
down on Dryades. I swirled the first taste, oily, deep, abiding, over the back of my tongue. Life was good.
"What we hear is, Eddie Bone called you that night."
"He did. Said I
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