“Which Louie’s?”

“Delicatessen. He was due for a new stack today and for a collection. And our man couldn’t get in.” He drove off and left me standing there in my workday tuxedo.

Louie’s restaurant was way off on the East Side, and the errand could as easily have waited till morning. Except Lippit, not having talked much at all after Stonewall, must have been preoccupied with that repair man’s dumb stunt, or with his party that evening, or maybe with his girl, Pat. That would have been my reason, though the thought was useless. I got into my car and drove over to Louie’s, where he sold matzo balls, pizza, Danish pastry, and klops. I think Louie, in that way, took care of all the minorities on that side of town.

The restaurant was dark and two couples stood in front of the door, complaining and arguing. I couldn’t make out the language. I left the car and walked past these people when one of them looked at me and said, “Gangster-”. That lousy tux again. I had no time and went up the back stairs.

Louie had three rooms on top where he lived alone. At first he wouldn’t open.

“It’s Jack,” I said through the door. “Honest, Louie.”

“How do I know?”

“Come on, Louie. I’m in a hurry.”

“That’s Jack,” and he opened the door.

I didn’t recognize Louie. One ear was big and purple, one cheek was big and purple, and one eye was all gone where the purple cheek had blown up all over it. I said, “Jeesis Christ,” and closed the door.

Louie just nodded and sat down in the plush easy chair he had in the room. There was a lot of furniture that color. Like his cheek.

“Benotti?” I said.

“He was all right the first time,” Louie said.

“When you told him no.”

“And the second time he said he was sorry I don’t understand the polite-type English he talks.”

“And then he talked that kind,” I said, and nodded at Louie’s face.