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She released my hand. “The human race. That’s what it’s about. The good guys against the bad guys. I said that to Desmond. That’s what the last scene in My Darling Clementine is about. Wyatt Earp has a higher destiny.”
“That scene is about death,” I said.
She stood up and swiped off her rump. I stood up also. She looked up in my face. “Can I say something?”
“Go ahead.”
“I don’t care about convention.”
I looked away from her, then back at her face. My mouth was dry. I couldn’t read her expression. I cleared my throat but didn’t speak.
“I don’t measure people by their age,” she said. “I think those things are stupid. Am I getting through here?”
“Yes, ma’am, you are,” I said. I picked up my hat and dumped the pecans on the ground, put my hat on my head, then removed it. “Bailey Ribbons. Did I ever tell you I love that name?”
“I think that is one of the nicest things anyone has ever said to me,” she replied.
I heard Mon Tee Coon springing from limb to limb overhead. I wanted to believe the natural world had given me an exemption that people my age do not earn and are seldom granted.
• • •
I HAD LUNCH WITH Clete at Victor’s and told him of Bailey’s visit. His eyes roamed around the room as though the earth were shifting. “Are you thinking what I think you’re thinking?”
“I’m just quoting what Bailey said.”
“There are two types of broads who get involved with old guys: gold diggers and basket cases who don’t mind sleeping with mummies or guys in adult diapers.”
People at the next table turned and stared.
“Will you lower your voice?” I said.
“When you stop lying to yourself,” he said.
“She was trying to be kind.”
“What, you’re a charity case?”
I didn’t try to argue. My behavior and thinking were foolish, and I knew it.
“We’re simpatico?” he said. “All thoughts about boom-boom with the wrong woman out of your head?”
The people at the next table moved.
“Yes,” I said.
“Good. I don’t know what you’d do if I weren’t around.” He rubbed his eyes, his face tired. “Know what the real problem is? You hear the clock ticking. You want to go out like a Roman candle instead of dripping into a can.”
I had just started on my dessert. I put my spoon down.
“You mentioned Little Nicky Scarfo,” he said. “There’s a guy I want to talk to on that subject.”
“Which guy?”
“Remember Cato Carmouche?”
“The midget who got fired out of a circus cannon into a steel pole?”
“Eat up and let’s boogie,” he said.
