“Is it because you haven’t any place to live? I could—”

“Naw, naw, I know a chick on Central Park West and I moved in with her and her five sisters.”

“Well, if it’s money, I could—”

“Naw, naw. Thanks, kid. I got tons of money. I get paid by the job and under the counter and that’s the trouble. The parole officer made it a condition that I get a regular job. Imagine that, kid. A regular job, an artist like me! The job I do have nobody dares report and that leaves me bango right out in Times Square with no clothes on. Nobody will hire an ex-con. Babe said she’d arrange a regular pay social security job in one of the Corleone enterprises but that connects the family up to legit business — I’m too famous. I won’t risk getting Babe in trouble, never. She’s a great capa. So that’s what I’m up against. They said, ‘Regular job: social security, withholding tax or a charge of vagrancy and back you go this next Wednesday.’ That’s what the parole officer said.”

“Gosh, I’m awful sorry,” said Heller.

“Well, it made me feel better just getting it off my chest, kid. I feel tons better. Headache gone?” He shook his head experimentally. “Yep. Let’s get a shower and get out of here and have some dinner!”

They were soon dressed. As they passed out through the training room, I suppose Heller just plain could not resist socking something — it’s his vicious character. As he passed by a punching bag, he hit it. It flew off its springs.

“I’m sorry,” said Heller to the attendant.

“Hey, boss!” the attendant yelled at somebody.

A very fat man with a huge cigar in his mouth came over.

“Look at what this kid did,” said the attendant.

“I’ll pay for it,” said Heller.

“Hmm,” said the fat man. “Punch this one over here, kid.”

Heller went over to it and punched it. It simply vibrated back and forth — slam, slam, slam, slam.

“That other one just had a weak spring, Joe,” said the fat man. “You ought to keep this equipment under repair.”

I laughed. Heller couldn’t punch so hard after all. He’s always bragging and showing off. Good to see him come a cropper now and then.

The theater crowds had gone in. “Y’ever want to see the last end of a show,” said Bang-Bang, “wait for intermission when the crowd comes out to smoke and then walk back in with them. You get to see the last acts but I always get to wondering how they got into all that trouble in the first acts, so I don’t do it.”

They came to a huge, glittering restaurant with a huge, glittering sign:

The maitre d’ spotted Bang-Bang in the line and dragged him out. He led them to a small table in the back.

“Some of them diners,” said Bang-Bang, “is celebrities. That’s Johnny Matinee over there. And there’s Jean Lologiggida. The theatrical stars all come here to eat. And after the opening night, when the stars come in, if it’s a hit everybody claps and cheers. And if it’s a bomb, they turn their backs.”

The maitre d’ put them at a small, secluded table and handed them menus. Heller looked at the prices. “Hey, this place isn’t cheap. I didn’t intend for you to invite me to dinner. I’ll pick up the tab.”

Bang-Bang laughed. “Kid, for all the glitter, this is an Italian restaurant. The Corleone family owns it. There ain’t no tab. Besides, he’ll just bring us antipasto, meatballs and spaghetti. Good, though.”

Bang-Bang was hauling at his side. He brought out a full, unsealed fifth of Johnnie Walker Gold Label and set it on the table. “Don’t look so surprised, kid. It’s just going to sit there and be admired by me. I got cases of it left but I won’t have any in Sing Sing for eight months. I just want it to tell me I’m not in Sing Sing yet.”

The antipasto came and they got busy on the crisp odds and ends.

A waiter drifted by, a different one, with huge spiked mustaches. “Che c’e di nuovo, Bang-Bang?”

“All bad,” said Bang-Bang. “Meet the kid here. One of the family. Pretty Boy Floyd, this is Cherubino Gatano.”

“Pleased,” said Cherubino. “Can I get you anything, Floyd?”

“Some beer,” said Heller.

“Hold it, hold it!” said Bang-Bang. “Don’t let this bambino kid you, he’s a minor and they’d have our (bleep). Got to keep it legal.”

“Hold it, hold it yourself,” said Cherubino. “If he’s a minor, he can still have some beer.”

“Since when?”

“Since now.” Cherubino went off and came back shortly with a squat bottle and a tall Pilsener glass on a tray.

“You’re breaking the law!” said Bang-Bang. “And me about to go back up the river. They’ll add ‘contributing to the delinquency of a minor’ this time and never let me out!”

“Bang-Bang,” said Cherubino. “I love you. I have loved you since you were a child. But you are stupid. You can’t read. This is Swiss beer all right and the very best. But in this case they have taken all the alcohol out!” He pushed the bottle label at Bang-Bang. “Imported! Legal!” Then he poured the Pilsener glass full and gave it to Heller.

Heller tasted it. “Hello, hello! Delicious!”

“You see,” said Cherubino, starting to take the bottle away. “You always were stupid, Bang-Bang.”

“Leave the bottle,” said Heller. “I want to copy the label. I’m so tired of soft cola I could burp!”

Cherubino said, “Bang-Bang and I used to stand off all the Greeks in Hell’s Kitchen together, so don’t get the idea we’re not friends, kid. But he was always stupid and when he came back from the war they’d made him even stupider and that’s impossible. See you around.” He left.

Bang-Bang was laughing. “Cherubino was my captain in that same war, so he ought to know.”

“What did you do in the war?” asked Heller.

“Me? I was a marine.”

“Yes, but what did you do?” said Heller.

“Well, they say a marine is supposed to be able to do anything. They have to handle all kinds and types of weapons so they specialize less than the Army and get shot at with more variety.”

“What training did you get?” said Heller.

“Well, it was pretty good. I started out real good. When I got out of boot camp, I went right to the top. They made me a gunship pilot.”

“What’s that?”

“Gunship, whirlybird, Green Giant, chopper. A helicopter, kid. Where you been? Don’t you ever see old movies? Anyway, there I was dashing about shooting the hell out of anything that moved on the ground and suddenly they sent me to a specialist school.”

“In what?”

“Demolitions.” Their meatballs and spaghetti had arrived. “Oh, well, hell, kid. We’re pals. I might as well tell you the truth. I crashed so many whirlybirds a colonel one day said, ‘That God (bleeped) Rimbombo shows talent but he’s in the wrong branch of the service. Send him to demolitions training school.’ I tried to point out that choppers full of bullets don’t fly well but there I went and here I am. Nobody else knows that, kid, so don’t spread it around.”

“Oh, I won’t,” said Heller. After a bit he said, “Bang-Bang, I want your opinion about something.”

Ah, now we were getting to it. This Heller was sneaky. I knew all the time he was not there for nothing. I was alert. Maybe he would antagonize Bang-Bang. He sets people’s nerves on edge. I know he does mine. Dangerous!

He was taking a form out of his pocket. It said:

It was an enrollment form.

“Bang-Bang,” said Heller, “look at this line here. It makes one promise to be faithful to the United States of America and support the Constitution. One is supposed to sign it. It looks like a pretty binding oath.”

Bang-Bang looked at it. “Well, that’s not the real oath. This next line here says you promise that when you graduate from the ROTC you will serve two years in the U.S. Army as a second lieutenant. Hmm. Yes. This is the junior or senior year form. Now, when you get out of the ROTC, they make you take the real oath. You stand up, hold up your right hand and repeat after them and get sworn in for real.”