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“Sure.”
“I’ll see,” Frankie said. “Where will you be?” “I’ll be at the Perla,” I told him. “I have to eat.” You can get a good meal at the Perla for twenty-five cents. Everything on the menu is a dime except soup, and that is a nickel. I walked as far as there with Frankie, and I went in and he went on. Before he went he shook me by the hand and clapped me on the back again.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “Me Frankie; much politics. Much business. Much drinking. No money. But big friend. Don’t worry.”
“So long, Frankie,” I said. “Don’t you worry either, boy.”
