Evan Hunter: Sons

“I know just what you mean,” I said, and began laughing.

“I was with the Fifth Army in Italy,” he said. “I just got back to Chicago in August.”

“I was with the Fifteenth Air Force,” I said. “Also in Italy.”

“Oh? Where?”

“Foggia.”

“Where’s that?”

“Near Bari. Down on the heel.”

“I didn’t get over to that side of the boot. We landed in Salerno.”

“No, Foggia was on the Adriatic side.”

“Yeah. Well, I’m glad all that shit’s behind me. What are you drinking there?”

“Scotch and water.”

“Bartender, let’s have another scotch and water, and a bourbon on the rocks here. My name’s Bob Granetta, I play under the name of Bobby Grant, you can call me both or either.” He extended his hand.

“Will Tyler,” I said.

“Pleased to meet you, Will.”

He was taller than I, leaner, with a thatch of curly black hair, dark brown eyes, a grin that climbed crookedly onto his face as he shook my hand briefly and then picked up his drink again. Leaning on the bar, he said, “How do you like being home, Will?”

I shrugged.

“Yeah, me too. I kind of got a kick out of Italy, you know. Hell, I ran into half my goombahs over there, it was like Christmas on Taylor Street. Were you born in Chicago?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Me too. Ah, thanks,” he said to the bartender, and then raised his glass. “Will,” he said, “here’s to rehabilitation or whatever the hell they call it, huh?”

“Here’s to it,” I said.

“Salute” he said in Italian, and drank. “When I think of some of that piss we were drinking overseas,” he said, “I get just sick thinking about it. Where do you live, Will?”

“Over on East Scott Street.”

“Oh boy, I’ve met my first millionaire,” Bobby said, and began laughing.

“No, not quite.”

“I’m only kidding. I used to walk that whole Astor Street neighborhood when I was a kid, though, wishing I could live in one of those great old houses. Are you living with your folks?”

“With my father and sister. My mother’s dead.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Well, it was a long time ago,” I said, and suddenly realized that it was.

“I couldn’t stand living with my folks any more,” Bobby said. “I was in the Army for three years, you know, I couldn’t come back and all of a sudden have my mother telling me to pick up my socks. Pick up your own socks, I felt like telling her. So I have a place of my own now over on South Kimbark, do you know that area?”

“Yes, I do.”

“It’s a nice place, this guy I know helped me fix it up real nice. Also, it’s close to where I’m playing, which is very convenient. I don’t finish till three, four in the morning, later on weekends because we usually hang around to jam, you know. It’s great to be able to walk only two or three blocks and flop right into bed. How’s that scotch doing?”

“I’ll get the next round,” I said, and signaled to the bartender. “I feel like getting drunk tonight.”

“You and me both. We’re lucky we ran into each other. I hate drinking alone, don’t you?”

“Worst thing in the world.”

“Hate doing anything alone, matter of fact.”

“I had to fly that mother-fuckin’ airplane alone,” I said.

“What kind of plane did you fly, Will?”

“The P-38. The Lightning,” I said. “Bartender, another round here, please.”

“That’s a pretty plane,” Bobby said. “That’s the one with the tail like this, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, with the twin booms.”

“Yeah, that’s a great airplane.”

“A great airplane,” I said. “How come you didn’t get into an Army band?”

“Not good enough, I guess,” Bobby said, and shrugged. “You’ve got to realize the Army had its pick of some of the best musicians in the country. They were drafting guys from Benny Goodman’s band, Glenn Miller’s, even Al Di Luca’s — which happened to be the band I was playing with before they grabbed me. I’m sure you’ve heard of him,” he said, and laughed.

“Everybody’s heard of Al Di Luca,” I said.

“Certainly. So with all those musicians going in, there just weren’t enough Army bands to go around. Really, Will, you can’t win a war by sending people out to play ‘American Patrol.’”

“Here we go,” I said. “Drink up, Bobby.”

“Here’s to Al Di Luca,” Bobby said, “wherever he may be.”

“And here’s to...” I started, and shook my head.

“Yeah?”

“No,” I said, and drank.

“Have you got a quarter?” Bobby asked.

“Let me see.” I took out my change and spread it on my palm. Bobby picked up a quarter, and then went over to the jukebox. By the time he returned, I’d finished my drink and ordered another one. A hooker came over to chat with us about the weather, and Bobby matter-of-factly asked her how much it cost for the night and she told him it would be twenty-live dollars but that she didn’t French. If he wanted somebody who Frenched, he was barking up the wrong tree. He told her to go peddle her ass someplace else, and then ordered another drink and angrily said, “High-class whore, working a bar on Stony Island Avenue. What’s so special about her mouth, would you mind telling me?”

“They’ve been spoiled,” I said. “Too many servicemen around.”

“I’d rather go home and jerk off than risk getting a dose from something like that,” Bobby said.

“You and me both,” I said.

“Besides, there’re too many nice girls in Chicago.”

“Right.”

“Have you got a girl, Will?”

“Not here.”

“Where?”

“New York.”

“That’s a long way off.”

“Not even a girl, really.”

“What then, a boy?” Bobby said, and laughed.

“Not a girlfriend, I mean. Just somebody I was fucking steady.”

“What’s her name?”

“Well,” I said, and shrugged.

“Listen, I’m not going to dash down to New York and call her,” Bobby said, and put his hand on my shoulder.

“Dolores,” I said.

“I knew a girl named Dolores in Georgia. Dolores Greenberg. I suspect she was the only Jew in the state. She was fabulous in bed.”

“So was mine.”

“Do you think maybe all Doloreses are marvelous in bed?”

“Maybe so.”

“Or maybe it’s just you and I who’re marvelous, and we made them look good.”

“Maybe, who knows?”

“Are you finished with your scotch? We’d better order another round.”

“Must be a hole in this glass,” I said.

“Listen,” Bobby said, and put his hand on my shoulder again, “why are we wasting a fortune for liquor here when I’ve got a bar full of the stuff at home? Why don’t we go up there, listen to some records, and drink all we want to, without having to call the bartender every two minutes. What do you say?”

“Well,” I said, “we’re here now, we might as well stay.”

“I’ve got some really good records,” Bobby said. “I don’t know if you dig jazz or not, but I’ve got stuff that goes all the way back to Jimmy Blythe and King Oliver. What do you say?”

“Well, it’s kind of late,” I said. “I thought maybe I’d have a few more drinks and then head home.”

“Why? Is your Daddy waiting up for you?” Bobby said, and laughed.

“It isn’t that,” I said, “but we’re here now, what’s the sense moving?”

“Come on up to my place,” Bobby said.

We were facing each other now, we had turned our stools to face each other, our knees touched, our eyes met.

“Come on,” he said.