Part 4 (1/2)

”You want some raviolis?” I said.

”Just one,” he said, ”to try. They look gross.”

”I thought you liked to eat here.”

”My mother just said that. I never been here.”

”Put some of the oil on it,” I said. ”Not much. It's sort of hot.”

He cut his ravioli in two and ate half. He didn't say anything but he ate the other half. The waiter brought the rest of the food. We each ate four of the raviolis.

”You put the moo shu in one of these little pancakes, see, like this. Then you roll it up, like this. And you eat it.”

”The pancake doesn't look like it's cooked,” Paul said.

I ate some moo shu pork. He took a pancake and did as I'd showed him.

I said, ”You want another c.o.ke?”

He shook his head. I ordered another beer.

”You drink a lot?”

”No,” I said. ”Not as much as I'd like.”

He speared a piece of duck with his fork and was trying to cut it on his plate.

”That's finger food,” I said. ”You don't have to use your knife and fork.”

He kept on with the knife and fork. He didn't say anything. I didn't say anything. We finished eating at seven fifteen. We arrived back at his house at seven thirty. I parked and got out of the car with him.

”I'm not afraid to go in alone,” he said.

”Me either,” I said. ”But it's never any fun going into an empty house. I'll walk in with you.”

”You don't need to,” he said. ”I'm alone a lot.”

”Me too,” I said.

We walked to the house together.

CHAPTER 6.

It was Friday night, and Susan Silverman and I were at the Garden watching the Celtics and the Phoenix Suns play basketball. I was eating peanuts and drinking beer and explaining to Susan the fine points of going back door. I was having quite a good time. She was bored.

”You owe me for this,” she said. She had barely sipped at a paper cup of beer in one hand. There was a lipstick half moon on the rim.

”They don't sell champagne by the paper cup here,” I said.

”How about a Graves?”

”You want me to get beat up,” I said. ”Go up and ask if they sell a saucy little white Bordeaux?”

”Why is everyone cheering?” she said.

”Westphal just stuffed the ball backward over his head, didn't you see?”

”He's not even on the Celtics.”

”No, but the fans appreciate the shot. Besides, he used to be.”

”This is very boring,” she said.

I offered my peanuts to her. She took two.

”Afterwards I'll let you kiss me,” I said.

”I'm thinking better of the game,” she said.

Cowens. .h.i.t an outside shot.

”How come most of the players are black?” Susan said.

”Black man's game,” I said. ”Hawk says it's heritage. Says there were a lot of schoolyards in the jungle.”

She smiled and sipped at the beer. She made a face. ”How can you drink so much of this stuff?” she said.

”Practice,” I said. ”Years of practice.”

Walter Davis. .h.i.t a jump shot.

”What were you saying before about that boy you found Wednesday? What's his name?”

”Paul Giacomin,” I said.

”Yes,” Susan said. ”You said you wanted to talk about him.”

”But not while I'm watching the ball game.”

”Can't you watch and talk at the same time? If you can't, go buy me something to read.”

I sh.e.l.led a peanut. ”I don't know,” I said. ”It's just that I keep thinking about him. I feel bad for him.”

”There's a surprise.”

”That I feel bad for him?”