For five minutes after the smiling Probation Officer led the fat whore in a miniskirt out of the courtroom, there was the sound of muffled laughter and occasional sniffles and movements in the seats. Then they settled down again and the Judge resumed his pacings and the Court Clerk, very slyly wiping his eyes with his sleeve, said in a very loud voice: “Angelico Carbone! Angelico Carbone! Come into Court!”

Private Domain

RODNEY FINISHED HIS BEER in slow, deliberate swallows, peering over the rim of his mug at the other black, who, having polished off three previous mugs of draft, now sat watching Rodney expectantly, being quite obvious with his eyes that he held no doubt that more beer was forthcoming. Rodney ignored his eyes. He licked his lips. He tabled the empty mug. “Now give it to me again,” he said to the heavily bearded beer-hungry black still eyeing him, now demandingly, from across the small booth. “Let me see if I have it all down.”

“How ’bout throwing some more suds on me?” said the black.

“In a minute,” said Rodney.

The black considered. “I’m dry again. Another taste.”

Rodney sighed, considered his position from behind the sigh, made himself look annoyed and then grudgingly raised his hand until the cigar-chewing bartender noticed, stopped his stooped glass-washing dance behind the counter, and nodded to the waitress, sitting on a stool at the bar, to replenish them. She was slow about getting up. It was a lazy day: the two men in the booth were the only customers.

“Now,” said Rodney. “Give it to me again.”

The other man smiled. He had won again. “It’s this way,” he said to Rodney.

Rodney ignored the waitress as she pushed the two fresh mugs onto the table while his companion paused to consider her ass bouncing beneath the cloth of her blue dress. Lighting another cigarette, Rodney observed that the waitress wore no stockings and felt himself getting uncomfortable.

“Well?” he said.

“It’s this way,” his companion said again. “Your bag is where you keep whatever you do best. Whatever is in your bag is your thing. Some cats call it your stick, but it means the same. Now, when you know you got your thing going all right, you say ‘I got myself together’ or ‘I got my game together.’”

“All right, all right,” said Rodney. “I’ve got it down now.” He was growing very irritated at the other man, who smiled all the time in a superior way and let the beer wet his gold tooth before he swallowed, as if expecting Rodney to be impressed with its gleam. Rodney was not impressed. He disliked condescension, especially from Willie, whom he regarded in most respects as his inferior.

“Anything else I should know?” Rodney snapped.