“Absinthe for breakfast.... Good Lord.”
They drove west along Twenty-third Street that shone with sheets of reflected light off windows, oblong glints off delivery wagons, figureeight-shaped flash of nickel fittings.
“How’s Ruth, Jimmy?”
“She’s all right. She hasnt got a job yet.”
“Look there’s a Daimlier.”
Jimmy grunted vaguely. As they turned up Sixth Avenue a policeman stopped them.
“Your cut out,” he yelled.
“I’m on my way to the garage to get it fixed. Muffler’s coming off.”
“Better had.... Get a ticket another time.”
“Gee you get away with murder Stan ... in everything,” said Jimmy. “I never can get away with a thing even if I am three years older than you.”