LEONARD KRIEGEL
109
lunch. The Mexican busboy is a good boy. He works hard, he does not
complain. The Mexican busboy has no papers or else he is waiting for his
papers. The Greek owner does not want to know which. He only wants
to know why his coffee shop is empty and the Burger King across the
avenue is half-full.
The Greek owner turns his eyes from the Mexican busboy to the
woman with the cascading dyed red hair. Every few minutes, the red–
headed woman's shoulders spasm, a sudden jerk that the Greek owner
nervously watches in the mirror behind the counter she faces. It occurs
to him that this woman is crazy. The Greek owner wonders whether sit–
ting in his coffee shop right now is one of those crazies who live on the
streets and who come in and drink coffee and eat and then get up and
walk out without paying, the ones who talk to themselves and slash in–
visible knives at the empty air. It has happened to him before and when
he complains to his college boy son, he is met by a shrug. "It's the price
of doing business in New York, Pop. You have to factor it into your
costs. Like electricity."
Only why should he pay for the world's misery? He works hard, he
pays his children's tuition, his portions are generous, and even if he
sometimes thinks about it he does not mess around with other women.
He shakes his head, then glances furtively at the woman with dyed red
hair at the counter. The Greek owner takes comfort in the fact that the
woman is dressed well, even if her shoulders spasm. On the stool next to
. the stool she is sitting on lies a black wool coat. The coat looks expen–
sive. She is dressed in a knit green outfit with brown wooden buttons
down the front. Not a shabby woman. Despite jerking shoulders and
dyed red hair, she does not smell bad either. A hopeful sign, he reminds
himself. Street people smell of piss and shit and unwashed flesh .
"It must have been a different city," the good-looking woman says
to the old man. She smiles. Teeth white and even, her smile is as perfect
as a good-looking woman's smile should be. "It's hard for me to get a
picture of New York then." She tugs at the white rabbit collar as if she
felt a sudden chill. But it is warm and bright in the coffee shop. "When
was it he gave you the money?"
"Lent," the old man corrects. "He lent me."
"Lent," the woman repeats. She accepts the correction with a shrug.
Lent is a word. That is all it is, a word.
"In 1962. End of April. A warm spring that year. You don't get
warm springs in New York no more. I don't know why. I had a tip. A
killing at Belmont. Spring was always the killing time. You go to the
track, you make a day of it in spring." He pauses, voice quivering. "It's
