voice; and the Sten got raised. âBet you made that scrap iron in the basement,â Frankie said. But he knew the box magazine held 32 rounds of 9-millimeter and this zombie could spray the lot in three seconds. âTell Eugene that Maurice the Florist called,â he said, and went. Eddie Lutz, for Chrissake. Guys like him shouldnât be allowed to vote and make change. Just from the way Lutz held the Sten, Frankie knew he was a cowboy. Lutz the putz.
Slug Murphy called Fitzroy at the Bristol. âHe just left,â he said.
âGive you a number? An address?â
Murphy thought about it. âMaurice the Florist.â
âNo such place. Not in this town.â
Murphy thought about that. âCould have been maybe Horace. Horace the Florist.â
âYeah, sure. Or Boris. Doris, even. Remember Doris Olivier? Big English actor, got the Oscar. Lock up, Slug. Go home.â
Tony Feet had been listening. âThat name, Slug Murphy. Itâs got no class. In Chicago, Sam likes everyone in the family to have some class. So you can shoot straight and still do the crossword. That was always Frankie Blancoâs problem. No class.â
âYou can tell him that,â Fitzroy said. âReal soon.â
In the kitchen at Cliff Boulevard they were arguing about art, honesty and money, but mostly money.
âPrincessâs art is unique,â Julie said. âWeâre not going to give it away just so some dealer three stops down the line can make a killing from it.â
âEvery journey starts with a single step,â Luis said. âWhatâs the most we can get
now?â
âEach pictureâs worth a thousand dollars.â
âYou got me cheap, then,â Princess said. She was grilling steaks. âEight hundred bucks for seven lousy pictures, you paid.â She shook a bottle of Worcester sauce. âEmpty.â
âForget what itâs worth. What will it fetch?â Luis asked.
âThat stuff cost four bucks a bottle.â Julie said. âItâs a rip-off. Iâm not buying any more.â
âWe should go back to Ma Chandler,â Princess said. âHer man can catch a ten-pound salmon anâ play America The Beautiful on his harmonica, both at the same time, Iâll do it for 250 bucks includinâ tax. How dâyou want your steak?â
âIâd sooner take in washing than betray great American art,â Julie said.
âYouâve gone very noble all of a sudden,â Luis said. âSix months ago you were broke and slinging burgers in an Irish bar on 86th Street.â
âSix months ago
you
were a lot broker than
me.â
Princess said. âSix months ago I was too poor to be a genius, anâ the way things are goinâ I was probably right. This genius shit ainât foolinâ nobody.â
âWe canât let the Ma Chandlers of this world buy us out,â Julie said. âIf they could theyâd give the Mona Lisa a big fat shit-eating grin. Theyâd give Hamlet a snappy ending, for Christâs sake.â
âGrub up,â Princess said.
âShakespeare was a gloomy bugger,â Luis said. âGive me Cole Porter every time. You seen
Anything Goes?
Hot stuff.â
âI wanted rare,â Julie told Princess.
âShould of spoke up earlier. Everythinâs medium.â
âWe took a poll,â Luis said. âMedium is the majority taste. Mrs. Chandler agrees entirely.â
âWe canât go on like thisâ Julie said. âItâs a clash of cultures.â She stopped. Someone was pounding on the front door.
âSee what happens when you mention culture in Texas?â Luis said. âThey send men with clubs.â
He went to the door and came back with Stevie Fantoni. She was wearing sneakers and a tracksuit that had
Ace Waste
stenciled on it, and carrying a canvas shopping bag, not full, not clean. âI could murder a