12

AFTER A DRAG-ASS WEEK and weekend made even more drag-ass by Stony's hunger to get started at the hospital, Monday came as a total shock. His first day at work was like nothing he expected, and by the end of the day he was completely blown out the back door. Devastated. That night it took all his strength to drag himself downstairs into Butler's waiting car.

"You wanna do D'Artagnan's?"

"Nah." Stony picked his teeth with his thumbnail, occasionally examining whatever stuck between flesh and nail.

"Camelot?" Butler moved out on the street, leisurely following the curving road dwarfed by the gigantic high rises of Co-op City.

"Nah, you wanna do some clams?"

"City Island?" Butler suggested.

"Yeah."

Butler floored the accelerator and tore ass onto the Hutchinson River Parkway. "How'd it go today?"

"The pits, Butler. Fuckin' blue Monday the likes of which I never seen. They got no jobs in the children's ward, so they gave me a gig in geriatrics."

"What the fuck is that?"

"Old people, very old people. The fuckin' joint is like the Greyhound terminal for death. An' all these scuzzies is waitin' with their bags packed."

"Whyncha quit? You can do construction work witcher ol' man."

Stony sighed. "I'll stick it out. There might be an openin' in the children's ward next week. If I split now I can't get nothin'."

"So whadya do there?" Butler readjusted his rearview mirror.

"I'm a lifter. I lift people outta beds, into wheelchairs, outta wheelchairs, onta toilets, outta toilets, into whirlpool baths, outta whirlpool baths, back into wheelchairs, outta wheelchairs an' into beds."

"Hey, that sounds all right." Butler turned off the Parkway and drove across the bay bridge onto the mile-long strip of seafood joints and marinas of City Island. "Lobster Box?"

Stony nodded in agreement. They drove slowly along City Island Avenue. The streets were packed with Puerto Ricans. "Geriatrics, hey?" Butler parked the car in front of a bayview restaurant.

"I tell you somethin' though, Butler, the worst thing about that fuckin' place is all the help, all the nurses an' aides an' orderlies. They're all West Indians, man, an' you know I ain't a prejudiced dude, but I hate the fuckin' Bimis with a passion." They sat at a small red-and-white-checked table overlooking Long Island Sound and a parking lot. Butler lit his cigarette from the flame of the candle on their table.

"Whatta you havin', boys?" A white-uniformed, middle-aged waitress in harlequin glasses stood over them, order pad in hand.

"Dozen cherrystones and a Seven-up."

"We got Sprite, orange and root beer."

"A Sprite."

She nodded to Stony.

"Ah, gimme some steamers and a Coke."

"Sprite, orange or root beer."

"Some water with a lot of ice." Stony watched her walk away. "You know what I mean about West Indians? They're the fuckin' angriest, meanest, snottiest people goin'."

"How 'bout Reggie Powell?" Butler leaned back in his chair, tilting it on two legs.

"He's all right." Stony thanked the waitress as she brought over the water. "So they all suck except Reggie."