The sailor walked to where Luis was standing, put his hands on his hips and said, "Well, maybe I am perhaps a li'l drunk. So ain't you never been perhaps a li'l drunk?"
"I have been a little drunk," Luis said, "and I have been a lot drunk. Come. I'll make you a cup of coffee."
"Whuffor?"
"What for?" Luis shrugged and walked into the luncheonette. The sailor followed him. "Because I like sailors," Luis said. "I used to be a sailor myself once."
"Did you find it, pal?" Zip interrupted.
"Yeah. It's closed."
"So why dinn you?"
"You didn't ask."
"Oh, you're one of
"Which guys?" Zip asked, and he stiffened suddenly on the counter stool, as if expecting an attack.
"The guys you got to ask."
"Yeah," Zip answered. "I'm one of
Rapidly, perhaps because he sensed Zip's sudden belligerence, perhaps because he simply wanted to switch the conversation back to himself, Luis said, "Yes, I was in the Navy from 1923 to 1927. Yes, sir."
"Was you on a ship?" the sailor asked. If he had detected any challenge in Zip's voice, he was studiously ignoring it. Either that, or he was too drunk to have noticed.
"A man who has not been on a ship is not a sailor." He looked over at the bubbling Silexes. "The coffee is almost ready."
"What kind of a ship?"
"A garbage scow," Zip said quickly, and he grinned.
"Never mind this smart one. I was on a mine sweep."
"What was your rate?" the sailor asked suspiciously.
"You never heard of Rear Admiral Luis Amandez?" Zip asked, mock surprise spreading over his uneven features.
"I was a steward's mate," Luis answered with dignity. "And you shut up, you little snotnose."
"Wha'd he say your name was? Louise?"
"Yeah, that's right," Zip answered, chuckling. "This here is Aunt Louise."
"Louise? Yeah?"
"No, Luis. Luis."
"No, Louise," Zip insisted.
"Are you a Mexican, Louise?" the sailor asked.
"No." Luis shook his head. "Puerto Rican."
"Well, that's the same thing, ain't it?"
"Well-" Luis thought for a moment, and then shrugged resignedly.
"What part of Mehico you from?" the sailor asked obliviously.
"The part down in the Caribbean," Luis said dryly.
"The annex," Zip put in. "South. You know?"
"And whereabouts in Puerto Rico?"
"A town called Cabo Rojo, do you know it?"
"I only know Tia Juana," the sailor said, "and I ain't even been
"Here," Luis said, pouring a cup of coffee. "Drink this."
"Where's mine?" Zip asked.
"I have only two hands." He finished pouring the sailor's coffee, and then poured a cup for Zip.
"What brung you all the way here from Puerto Rico?" the sailor asked.
"Work," Luis said. "A man has to work, you know."
"Where
"Fletcher," the sailor said. "That's in Colorado."
"I never heard of it."
"It's there, all right."
The three fell silent.
Zip and the sailor sipped at their coffee. Luis got to work behind the counter. There seemed to be nothing more to say to each other. The three, after all, had very little in common. One had inquired about the whereabouts of a bar-quasi-whorehouse. The other had told him where it was. The third had served them both coffee. One was in his early fifties, the other was perhaps twenty-two, and the third was seventeen. One was born in Puerto Rico, the other in Fletcher, Colorado, and the third was a native of the city. Thus divided by time and space and natural inclination, there was nothing each could say to the other at the moment, and so they fell silent.
And yet, within the silence, their thoughts ran in strangely similar patterns so that, if the thoughts had been voiced, each would have instantly understood - or thought he'd understood - the other.
