Tom laughs, an unamused bark. “Maybe he’ll tell you to quit hanging around with jerks that get in trouble with the cops.”
This is a point, all right. Come to think, I don’t know why I said I’d ask Pop anyway. I usually make a point of not letting his nose into my personal affairs, because I figure he’ll just start bossing me around. However, I certainly can’t do anything for Tom on my own.
I say, “I’ll chance it. The worst he ever does is talk. One time he made a federal case out of me buying a Belafonte record he didn’t like. Another time playing ball I cracked a window in a guy’s Cadillac, and Pop acted like he was going to sue the guy for owning a Cadillac. You just never know.”
Tom says, “With my dad, you know: I’m wrong.”
Hilda comes back just then. She snaps, “If he’s such a drug on the market, why don’t you shut up and forget about him?”
“O.K., O.K.,” says Tom.
The beach is getting filled up by now, so we pull on our clothes and head for the subway. Tom and Hilda get off in Brooklyn, and I go on to Union Square.
After dinner that night Mom is washing the dishes and Pop is reading the paper, and I figure I might as well dive in.
“Pop,” I say, “there’s this guy I met at the beach. Well, really I mean I met him this spring when I was hunting for Cat, and this guy was in the cellar at Forty-six Gramercy, and he got caught and....”
“Wha-a-a-t?” Pop puts down his paper and takes off his glasses. “Begin again.”