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dished out the vittles and sangría free to whoever was hungry. “It would have tasted better on Friday but it’s still palatable,” he insisted.
    Gino refused to pay off the bet with Alfonso because “If
you
had lost you wouldn’t have paid me, either. Just like everyone else in the patota.”
    â€œNot true,” Alfonso said. “I’m the only honorable guy, besides Roldán, in our gang.”
    Gino said, “But you’re always broke, profe. You never even give me a tip when I’m working here on the maestro’s night off.”
    Alfonso retorted, “Oh? And how come I’ve never seen you hand the boss a tip when
he’s
running the stand?”
    â€œBecause he’s the boss,” Gino said. “He rakes in all the profit. I’m only a hired hand.”
    Luigi said, “Che, profe won the bet. You better pay up.”
    â€œ
You
pay up, you’re so rich,” Gino said. “Get the money from your loudmouth concubine, La Petisa.”
    Luigi was too small to attack Gino, so instead he opened his wallet and gave Alfonso five bucks.
    Gino was appalled. “Wait a minute, you little monster. Are you trying to make me look bad?”
    Luigi said, “You make yourself look worse than my face by acting like a pudenda.”
    â€œFuck you, quemado.” Gino pushed Luigi’s five dollars back at him and slapped one of his own bills onto the counter in front of Alfonso. “And fuck you, too, profe. Go to hell both of you.”
    â€œThank you,” Alfonso said politely. “Now, who wants an empanada compliments of me? Don’t be bashful, boys, I’m loaded.”

22. Greta Garbo
    Okay, it was “finished.” Now I had to act. Into a manila envelope went my college romance novel. Along with the manuscript I included a self-addressed postcard so that the publishers could notify me of their rejection by mail. Then I would travel north and pick up my book, saving the cost of postage. After all, a subway token was only fifteen cents.
    I spent an hour going over my list of publishers. Then I made a decision. The Lexington Avenue line took me to mid-town Manhattan where I approached the front desk of my first choice. I explained to the receptionist about the postcard inside. She took the slim package from me and weighed it in her hands. “What have we here?” she smirked. “
Moby Dick
?
David Copperfield
?
The Brothers Karamazov
?”
    I departed feeling breathless and humiliated. Back downtown, I hurried west on Bleecker Street as nervous and hungry as a wolf. When I turned the corner at the Figaro, Chuy’s accountant, Greta Garbo, was standing at the kiosk’s window nursing a cup of coffee while smoking a Tiparillo. She had on a fashionable overcoat and tall suede boots. To celebrate the submission of my novel I had decided to order a pork empanada. Eating it would be ecstasy.
    â€œI want a pork empanada the size of the Empire State Building,” I told the cocinero.
    â€œI’ll pay for the pie,” Greta Garbo said. “It would be my pleasure.”
    I balked. “Oh no, thank you, but no.”
    She said, “I’m serious. You look like a starving artist to me.”
    â€œBut I have
money,
” I protested. I took out my wallet and showed her. “Yesterday I unloaded garment bales on Canal Street.”
    Greta Garbo said, “That’s not money, it’s chicken feed. Cookie crumbs.”
    While we were arguing, Eddie Ortega appeared at the window still wearing his black leather jacket and the red Converse All-Stars. Also blue jeans with rolled-up cuffs. That was his uniform. Roldán plucked a half dozen bills from the register drawer and handed them over. Eddie scribbled in his notebook. He said, “Gimme a pastelito,” so the boss gave him a pastelito and a napkin. Eddie gobbled the treat, wiped off his fingers, and handed back the napkin.
    As he departed Greta