40 
Memo led him back to the table. She pointed out what she wanted for Roy and the chef ladled it into the plate. Her own came back with a slice of ham and a roll on it. He followed her to the corner table. He wondered if Flores was still standing in the opposite corner, watching, but he didn’t look.
Gazing at the mountain of stuff Memo handed him, he said, “I am getting tired of eating.”
Memo had returned to the subject of his mother. “But didn’t you love her, Roy?”
He stared at her through one eye. “Who wants to know?”
“Just me.”
“I don’t remember.” He helped himself to a forkful of food. “No.”
“Didn’t she love you?”
“She didn’t love anybody.”
Memo said, “Let’s try some new combinations with the buffet. Sometimes when you eat things that you didn’t know could mix together but they do, you satisfy your appetite all at once. Now let’s mix this lobster meat with hidden treats of anchovies, and here we will lay it on this tasty pumpernickel and spread Greek salad over it, then smear this other slice of bread with nice sharp cheese and put it on top of the rest.”
“All it needs now is a shovel of manure and a forest will grow out of it.”
“Now don’t be dirty, Roy.”
“It looks like it could blow a man apart.”
“All the food is very fresh.”
After making the sandwich she went to the ladies’ room. He felt depressed. Now why the hell did she have to go and ask him questions about his old lady? Thinking about her, he chewed on the sandwich. With the help of three bottles of lemon pop he downed it but had to guzzle three more of lime to get rid of the artificial lemon taste. He felt a little drunk and snickered because it was a food and pop drunk. He had the odd feeling he was down on his hands and knees searching for something that he couldn’t find.
Flores stood at the table.
“If you tell them to go home,” he hissed, “they weel.”
Roy stared. “Tell who?”
“The players. They are afraid to stay here but they don’t go because you stay.”
“Go ahead and tell them to go.”
“You tell them,” Flores urged. “They weel leesten to your word.”
“Right,” said Roy.
Memo returned and Flores left him. Roy struggled to his feet, broke into a sweat, and sat down again. Fowler grabbed Memo and they whirled around. Roy didn’t like them pressed so close together.
His face was damp. He reached into his pocket for a handkerchief and felt Iris’ letter. For a second he thought he had found what he was looking for. More clearly than ever he remembered her pretty face and the brown eyes you could look into and see yourself as something more satisfying than you were, and he remembered telling her everything, the first time he had ever told anybody about it, and the relieved feeling he had afterward, and the long swim and Iris swimming down in the moonlit water searching for him, and the fire on the beach, she naked, and finally him banging her. For some reason this was the only thing he was ashamed of, though it couldn’t be said she hadn’t asked for it.
Fat girls write fat letters, he thought, and then he saw the little chef looking at him and was astonished at how hungry he felt.
Roy pushed himself up and headed for the table. The chef shined up a fast plate and with delight lifted the serving fork.
“I’ve had a snootful,” Roy said.
The chef tittered. “It’s all fresh food.”
Roy looked into his button eyes. They were small pig’s eyes. “Who says so?”
“It’s the best there is.”
“It stinks.” He turned and walked stiffly to the door. Memo saw him. She waved gaily and kept on dancing.
He dragged his belly through the hall. When the elevator came it dropped him down in the lobby. He went along the corridor into the grill room. Carefully sitting down at the table, he ordered six hamburgers and two tall glasses of milk — clean food to kill the pangs of hunger.
The waiter told the cook the order, who got six red meat patties out of the refrigerator and pressed them on the grill. They softly sputtered. He thought he oughtn’t to eat any more, but then he thought I am hungry. No, I am not hungry, I am hungry, whatever that means… What must I do not to be hungry? He considered fasting but he hadn’t fasted since he was a kid. Besides, it made him hungry. He tried hard to recapture how it felt when he was hungry after a day of fishing and was sizzling lake bass over an open fire and boiling coffee in a tin can. All around his head were the sharppointed stars.
He was about to lift himself out of the chair but remembered his date with Memo and stayed put. There was time to kill before that so he might as well have a bite.
A hand whacked him across the shoulders.
It was Red Blow… Roy slowly sat down.
“Looked for a minute like you were gonna murder me,” said Red.
“I thought it was somebody else.”
“Who, for instance?”
Roy thought. “I am not sure. Maybe the Mex.”
“Flores?”
“Sometimes he gets on my nerves.”
“He is really a nice guy.”
“I guess so.”
Red sat down. “Don’t eat too much crap. We have a big day comin’ up.”
“I am just taking a bite.”
“Better get to bed and have plenty of sleep.”
“Yes.”
Red looked glum. “Can’t sleep myself. Don’t know what’s the matter with me.” He yawned and twitched his shoulders. “You all right?”
“Fine and dandy. Have a hamburger.”
“Not for me, thanks. Guess I will go for a little walk. Best thing when you can’t sleep.”
Roy nodded.
“Take care of yourself, feller. Tomorrow’s our day. Pop’ll dance a jig after tomorrow. You’ll be his hero.”
Roy didn’t answer.
Red smiled a little sadly. “I’m gonna be sorry when it’s over.”
The waiter brought the six hamburgers. Red looked at them absently. “It’s all up to you.” He got up and left.
Through the window Roy watched him go down the street.
“I’ll be the hero.”
The hamburgers looked like six dead birds. He took up the first one and gobbled it down. It was warm but dry. No more dead birds, he thought… not without ketchup. He poured a blop on three of the birds. Then he shuffled them up with the other two so as not to know which three had the ketchup and which two hadn’t. Eating them, he could not tell the difference except that they all tasted like dead birds. They were not satisfying but the milk was. He made a mental note to drink more milk.
He paid and left. The elevator went up like a greased shot. As it stopped he felt a ripping pain on the floor of the stomach. The wax-faced elevator man watched him with big eyes. He stared at the old scarecrow, then stumbled out. He stood alone in the hall, trying to figure it out. Some — thing was happening that he didn’t understand. He roused himself to do battle, wishing for Wonderboy, but no enemy was visible. He rested and the pain left him.
The party was quiet. Flores had disappeared. The lights were dimmed and there was some preliminary sex work going on. Olson had his blonde backed into a corner. A group near the piano were passing a secret bottle around. In the center of the darkened room one of the girls held her dress over her pink panties and was doing bumps and grinds. A silent circle watched her.
Roy buttonholed Fowler. “Stay off the rotgut, kid.”
40 
