“Are you married now?”
He shook his head. “I'm done with marriage. Had a prostate operation last year. Used to be, women married me for my balls and my money. Now they'd just marry me for my money.” He shook his head. “It's not enough. You've gotta have standards, you know?”
I stopped at the store, and he jumped out of the car. “Don't go away. I'll be right back.”
Part of me wanted to flee the scene. That was the cowardly part. And part of me wanted to go Yippee! That was the stupid part.
In two minutes he was back in the car, lighting up.
“Hey,” I said, “no smoking in the car.”
“I'll give you another twenty.”
“I don't want the first twenty. And the answer is no. No smoking in the car.”
“I hate this country. Nobody knows how to live. Everybody drinks fucking skim milk.” He pointed to the cross street. “Turn up there and take Shoreline Avenue.”
“Where are we going?”
“I know this bar.”
Just what I need, to have Hannibal come out looking for his father and find me buddy-buddy with him in a bar. “I don't think this is such a good idea.”
“You gonna let me smoke in the car?”
“No.”
“Then we're going to Sal's.”
“Okay, I'll drive you to Sal's, but I'm not going in.”
“Sure, you're going in.”
“But my dog . . .”
“The dog can come, too. I'll buy him a beer and a sandwich.”
Sal's was small and dark. The bar stretched the length of the room. Two old men sat at the end of the bar, silently drinking, watching the television. Three empty tables were clustered to the right of the door. Ramos sat at one of the tables.
Without asking, the bartender brought Ramos a bottle of ouzo and two shot glasses. Nothing was said. Ramos drank a shot; then he lit up and dragged the smoke deep into his lungs. “Ahh,” he said on the exhale.
Sometimes I envy people who smoke. They always look so happy when they suck in that first lungful of tar. I can't think of many things that make me that happy. Maybe birthday cake.
Ramos poured himself a second shot and tipped the bottle in my direction.
“No thanks,” I said. “I'm driving.”
He shook his head. “Sissy country.” He knocked the second shot back. “Don't get me wrong. I like some things okay. I like big American cars. And I like American football. And I like American women with big tits.”
Oh, boy.
“Do you flag people down a lot?” I asked him.
“Every chance I get.”
“Don't you think that's dangerous? Suppose you get picked up by a nut?”
He pulled a .22 out of his pocket. “I'd shoot him.” He laid the gun on the table, closed his eyes, and sucked in more smoke. “You live around here?”