OTIS AND I DIDN’T SPEAK at all on the ride back uptown. When we got to Wells’ it was dawn. I figured Alice would be pissed by my getting there over an hour past the time I said I would meet her. Wells’ had a pretty good-size crowd made up of people who were probably still high from Friday night and had a bad case of the munchies. Alice and Pauline were in a booth in the rear of the restaurant.

“We had just about given you two up,” Pauline said. Alice didn’t say anything; Otis sat down and looked up at the ceiling.

“Sorry I’m late,” I said to Alice.

“Sorry didn’t do it,” she said. I ordered and went up to the front, put some money in the jukebox, and played a side as a way of apologizing to Alice.

“You always let records do your talking?” Otis asked when I sat back down. “Hey, I’m talking to you, man.” I continued to ignore him. “I bet you let dudes fuck you in the ass the whole time you was in the joint.”

“Maybe if I’d gone in the service like you, I’d be more together,” I said.

“That’s the difference between you and me. I don’t let nobody fuck with me!”

“When’s the last time you looked at the end of your arm?”

“I’m still twice the man you’ll ever be. And if you don’t believe me, hit the floor, muthafucka!”

“No thanks, Otis. I’m through playing your games.”

“Through? Shit, you ain’t never played, chump. I carried your ass all those years. I thought there might be some more to you after you got out the joint. But you ain’t never gonna be the real thing… What I need is somebody to keep me in shape. Like that dude sitting behind you.”

He was sitting alone, sporting a black wide-brimmed hat, broken-down ace, deuce, trey, a ruby-red suit, and rings that looked like pieces of planets. There was a worm of a scar on the side of his face that jerked when he ate.

“He looks a lot like Slick Swanson. He probably thinks he’s slick too. I think I’ll go over and find out what he’s into.”

“You better be cool, Otis.”

“No, you be cool, punk! You’re good at it. And anyway, push ain’t gonna come to shove unless I’m the one doin the shovin.” He got up and walked over to the dude’s table.

“Excuse me, home,” Otis said, “but has anyone ever told you, you resemble Slick Swanson, the disc jockey?”

The dude looked up from his plate, pried some food loose from between his teeth with a fingernail, and sucked his teeth.

“Yeah, you just did.”

“Well, I just wanted to know if you were aware of it.”

“Is there anything else you wanna hip me to?”

“No, that’s about it—except do you believe that style is character?”

“Okay, my man, I think you better raise.”