Second Breakfast

his managers, his lawyer, his priest--they were all tearing him apart, and now it was this big thing with his father

The Cadillac was a mistake.

Nick began to suspect that even before Mike pulled the car up in front of the candy store. A couple of moments later, when Mike came out from behind the wheel to open the rear door for Nick and he stepped out on the sidewalk, Nick's suspicion turned to certainty. The Cadillac was a mistake.

The Cadillac was green, and it had California license plates. Nick had forgotten a lot about this corner of the Borough of Queens, but one thing he saw now he should not have forgotten: It had never been a green-Cadillac and California-license-plate neighborhood, and it still wasn't.

Already, a woman with a shopping bag on the other side of the street, two kids on their way to school, and the man sorting clothes in the window of the drycleaning store had stopped to stare.

"There's gonna be a crowd, goddamn it," Nick said. "We should a taken the Mercedes. It's got New York plates."

"Yeah," Mike said. "Even a taxi would a been better. You want sunglasses, boss?"

"No, that only makes me more conspicuous," Nick said. He pulled the brim of his Tyrolean hat a bit lower. "Maybe you better get back in the car."

"Don't you want me to go with you?"

"What for?" Nick said. "To handle Mr. Imbesi? I started buying my Juicy Fruit from him when I was six. You get back in behind the wheel. If it gets rough, hit the horn. I'll wrap this fast."

Nick stepped quickly across the broken sidewalk. Too quickly. As a result, the skirt of his camel's-hair sports jacket was caught by the corner of one of the upended orange crates on which Mr. Imbesi had started displaying the morning papers for his customers long before Nick Santora had been able to spell out the headlines. He heard the small rip. Nick muttered something that would have brought a frown to the face of Father Calucci. It wasn't the three-five-oh the goddamn (continued on page 108)Second Breakfast(continued from page 83) jacket had cost. It was the time. All he had was 36 hours in New York. He was cutting things fine enough to make it out here at all. If now he had to go back to the hotel to change his clothes, how the hell was he going to make the recording session on time?

It wasn't until the door of the candy store crashed shut behind him that Nick realized it had been a mistake to bang it. The white-haired old man in thick glasses who came out of the back looked terrified.

"What do you want?"

"I'm sorry about the door, Mr. Imbesi. I didn't mean to slam it."

"What do you want?"

What the hell was he scared about, Nick thought. Didn't the old boob ever hear a door slam before?

"It's Nick Santora," he said. "I came to see you about my father."

That was another mistake. Nick could see the confused old man struggling to handle the two statements. Not so fast, Nick said to himself. Take it easy. You're the only one knows you're in a hurry.

"Nick Santora?" the old man said slowly.

"That's right," Nick said.

He tried a smile. It didn't seem to help.

"Nicky?" the old man said, even more slowly, feeling his way toward what was clearly an improbable idea. Nick could understand that. A crappy little candy store at the back end of Queens was not the place where you expected Nick Santora to show up in a $350 sports jacket at 9:30 on a lousy Tuesday morning.

"Look," Nick said, and he took off his hat. "It's me."

That did the trick. Probably because for the first time Mr. Imbesi actually saw the famous smile.

"Nicky!" he said, almost screaming the two syllables in a strangled mixture of wonder and joy and disbelief. "Maria!" the old man shouted as he started to run back, along the edge of the yellowish marble soda fountain, toward the beaded curtain that shielded the store from the two rooms in which he lived with Mrs. Imbesi. "Maria!" he shouted. "It's Nicky! Little Nicky Santora! He's here! Here in the store!"

He disappeared through the beaded curtain, but out in the store Nick could hear the old man yelling his wife's name and telling her about the miracle. Nick supposed he should be flattered, but who the hell wanted to be flattered on a street called 132nd Avenue? In the goddamn Borough of Queens. At a time when he had a recording date on West 53rd Street in like say 90 minutes?

"Mr. Imbesi?" Nick called. He walked toward the rear of the store, past the old jukebox and the rack of girlie magazines. "Mr. Imbesi?"

The old man came poking back through the beaded curtains. He still looked exalted, but some of the radiance was gone.

"She went to the butcher," Mr. Imbesi said. "She always goes early, before it gets crowded. She likes to have the meat for the night in the icebox before the kids start coming in for candy. She won't be long. A few minutes. When she sees you, Nicky, when Maria sees you----"

"I haven't got much time," Nick said. "It's about my father. I got this call from my mother, see. She----"

"She won't believe it," Mr. Imbesi said. "Maria won't believe it." He laughed. A foolish old man's laugh, uncontrolled and giggly. "I don't believe it myself," Mr. Imbesi said. "Nicky Santora, here in my store. In the papers, the magazines, on television, sure. We always watch. Here, look." He came out from behind the fountain and touched the jukebox. "Your records," the old man said. "All the time, they play them. The kids. They're in school now, in the morning. But after school, at night, you should see them. They're crazy about Nick Santora from the old neighborhood. You should see when I tell them you were here."

Mr. Imbesi stopped babbling abruptly, as though he were a child in school and a teacher had reprimanded him for talking in class. "Nick." he said shyly, and the old man rubbed his palm on his spotted apron before he put out his hand. "It's a pleasure to see you again, Nick. Here in the old neighborhood. It's--I don't know how to say it, Nick."

"Me, too," Nick said, shaking the old man's hand. "I wish I could get back here more often, but you know how it is."

"Of course," Mr. Imbesi said. Nick gave him a sharp look. But there was no room for sarcasm in that lined, leathery, guileless, adoring face. Then, abruptly, the face looked troubled. "Your father, Nick? You said your father?"

"Yeah," Nick said. "Momma called me. Two days ago. I was in Honolulu. I got this arrangement. Every night at six, no matter where I am, she calls the switchboard in New York, my music publishing company, and no matter where I am, they got their orders. They get me on the blower, and they put her through to me."

"I know," Mr. Imbesi said. The white head nodded like an adoring metronome. "The whole neighborhood knows. A few weeks ago, I forget exactly, my head it's not so good like it used to be, I remember your father came in. Every morning he comes, you know. He comes for the paper. Ten o'clock sharp, you could set your watch, that wonderful old man. like a watch, ten o'clock he comes in, and he said that morning, he said last night, six o'clock, guess where we talked to Nicky? Guess!"

Oh, Jesus, Nick thought, but he said, "It's hard to guess. I mean I sometimes don't know. I move around a lot."

"I know," Mr. Imbesi said. "We read in the papers. But guess anyway. Where you talked to Momma?"

Nick pretended to close his eyes, but actually he was comparing the clock over the Coca-Cola sign with his Patek Philippe. Eighteen minutes to ten. Jesus, he thought, and then remembered what happened to Father Calucci's face when someone used the name of Our Lord in vain.

"I'm sorry," Nick muttered to the portly man in Los Angeles who worried about the spiritual life of the world's most famous pop singer. "I'm in a bind, Father," Nick said silently. "I got this recording, Father. I came East especially for it. If it goes off right. Magna comes in on my Santora label and it's five big ones in capital gains. Five million, Father. I can't foul this up. They're not saying so, but they want to see if the pipes are still as good as they used to be. I gotta be there on time, Father. And I gotta be able to sing like I never sang before. Five big ones are riding on this lousy recording session. Five with six big fat zeros after it. Don't hound me now, Father. If this goes through, the Church gets its cut, like I promised. So be reasonable, for Christ's sake. Be reasonable, Father."

Mr. Imbesi's glowing face came closer, as though it were a taper and with it he was about to ignite a candle.

"Guess," the old man said again.

Oh, Jesus, Nick prayed, but he said, "Hong Kong?"

Mr. Imbesi laughed.

"No, but I think near there," he said. "You talked to Momma from Vietnam."

"Oh, yeah, Saigon," Nick said. "We were there for the troops. Entertaining the soldiers."

"And Momma spoke to you," Mr. Imbesi said. "And the next morning, your father, Poppa, he came in at ten o'clock for his paper, and he told us. Me and my wife." He turned toward the beaded curtain at the rear of the store and shouted, "Maria!" But there was no answer. "She'll be here," the old man said. "Any minute."

"Good, fine, OK, swell," Nick said. "Be nice to see her. It really will. But what I came out for this morning, Mr. Imbesi, I had this call from Momma two days ago. In Honolulu. She says every morning Poppa comes in here at ten o'clock."

"Like I said," Mr. Imbesi said. "Every morning. Sharp, on the dot, ten o'clock. You could set your watch. That wonderful (continued on page 150)Second Breakfast(continued from page 108) old man. He must be over eighty."

Nick, whose press agents had started lying about his age five years ago, let that go. He said, "Whatever he is, his age, I'm not sure, but he's too old to eat a second breakfast. The doctor told Momma he must cut it out."

"Dr. Gerstenberger," Mr. Imbesi said. "My Maria, she goes to him, too. A wonderful man, Dr. Gerstenberger. And so close. You know, his house, it's only two doors from the house your momma and poppa, they live? Right around the corner? Like from here to here. Almost next door."

"I know," Nick said, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice. He had to get the hell out of here. He had to get moving. "The thing is, Dr. Gerstenberger says he's got diabetes."

"Diabetes?" Mr. Imbesi said.

"That's what Dr. Gerstenberger says," Nick said. "It's not serious, but he's got to watch it. At home, that's easy. Momma sees he gets the right things to eat. But when he goes out, like he comes here at ten o'clock to get the paper, they found out he has himself a second breakfast. Is that right?"

Mr. Imbesi's face seemed to contract.

"A second breakfast, I don't know," he said cautiously. "He likes to sit down here at the fountain, you know. Have a cup of coffee. No sugar. Just black. A cup of coffee, that's not exactly a second breakfast. Just to talk, that's all. It gets lonely, two old people by themselves all day, your momma and poppa. He likes, you know, he likes it here. He sits here, this stool, and I give him the coffee, and we talk. He likes it, Nicky. He enjoys. A neighborhood like this, an old man, eighty-five, maybe more, he doesn't get anybody to talk to. It's all young people now. They move in with babies. Everything is babies now. It's diapers, it's school, it's you know, they're all young. They like Poppa fine. Who wouldn't like the father of Nicky Santora? They're crazy about him. But to talk--you know, Nick, they don't know what to talk to him about. Here, here in the store, every morning, over a cup of coffee when he comes for the paper, he likes to talk."

"Fine, great," Nick said. "That's OK, but what worries Dr. Gerstenberger, the reason Momma called me in Honolulu, with the coffee he always has a piece of Danish, doesn't he?"

"So what's wrong with a piece of Danish?" Mr. Imbesi said. "It's fresh? Every morning the box comes eight o'clock? By the time Poppa sits down here by the counter, it's out of the oven maybe less than three hours? We have it together. He and I, the coffee and the Danish. A wonderful old man like that, it's a pleasure, Nick. Honest."

The minute hand on the electric clock over the Coca-Cola sign jumped.

"I know it is," Nick said. "I'm sure of it, Mr. Imbesi. The trouble is, Momma says Dr. Gerstenberger doesn't want him to have the Danish. On account of his diabetes. You see what I mean? The sugar. Dr. Gerstenberger says the sugar is bad for him. He told Poppa, but he won't listen. He says he likes Danish. So Dr. Gerstenberger told Momma, and she told Poppa, but he won't listen. So she called me. You see what I mean, Mr. Imbesi?"

The old man shook his head.

"What's there to hurt him a piece of Danish?" he said. "It's fresh. Look." Mr. Imbesi stepped to the counter and lifted the glass bell from a tray. "Taste yourself, Nick. It came this morning. An hour ago. Fresh. Go ahead, taste."

"I know it's fresh," Nick said, holding onto his voice as though it had suddenly become a plunging horse, shooting another glance at the clock. "You always had fresh things. Even when I was a kid. I remember."

"Thank you," Mr. Imbesi said.

"But if Dr. Gerstenberger says he shouldn't have it, he mustn't have it. That's why I came out here this morning. To ask you please, don't give Poppa any Danish. It's bad for him."

Mr. Imbesi's hand, which looked like a slab of bark torn from a tree in the park, came up and moved slowly, doubtfully, across his mouth.

"A piece of Danish," he said slowly. "Something to eat for an old man he has nobody to talk to over a cup of coffee."

"It's not that he mustn't eat," Nick said. "It's just the Danish he mustn't eat. Because of the sugar. If you gave him a roll, Dr. Gerstenberger said, a roll with his coffee, that would be all right."

"A roll?" Mr. Imbesi said.

A roll, a roll, a roll, you stupid son of a bitch, Nick screamed silently inside his head, but he stepped across to another tray on the marble counter as though nothing was happening, as though he was not going crazy. What did they want from him? Why were they tearing him apart? Didn't they realize he was only flesh and blood? Father Calucci. Dr. Gerstenberger. The executives at Magna. His own lawyers and accountants. The whole goddamn bunch. Were they trying to destroy him? How the hell could he do all the things they wanted him to do? How could he sing in Vietnam for free? And meet the Santora payroll? And be at a recording session in 60 minutes? And tell this dopey old creep about rolls instead of Danish? How could he do it all? Did they think he was made of iron? What the hell did they want from him? Nick lifted the glass bell from the other tray.

"A roll like this would be fine," he said carefully, holding himself together. "Dr. Gerstenberger says if you gave him one of these rolls with his coffee, instead of the Danish, a roll would be fine."

Mr. Imbesi stared at the rolls on the tray as though he had never seen anything like them before.

"A little butter?" he said. "How about a little butter? A dry roll, for an old man like that, he has nobody to talk to, what's a dry roll without even a little piece of butter?"

"I don't know," Nick said, wondering if he was going to scream. "Momma didn't say, but I'll tell you what. When Momma calls me tonight at six, I'll tell her to ask Dr. Gerstenberger, and then she can come in and tell you."

"But what about today?" Mr. Imbesi said. He looked up at the clock over the Coca-Cola sign. The minute hand jumped again. "He'll be here any minute, now. It's almost ten o'clock. What about today? Should I give him with the roll a little butter?"

"How the hell should I know until I talk to Momma and she talks to Dr. Gerstenberger? What difference does it make just once, for Christ's sake? Are you joining the mob, too? Are you gonna tear off a piece of my skin along with the others? Is it gonna kill him if he eats a roll without butter just this lousy goddamn once?"

In the sudden silence, as the echo of his own screaming voice came hurtling back at him, Nick heard the horn outside sound its warning beep--beep, beep, beep, beep--beep beep. He tore his glance from the look on Mr. Imbesi's face, turned and ran.

Outside, on the sidewalk, just beyond the upended orange crates, Nick stopped short. There was no crowd around the Cadillac. The woman across the street with the shopping bag had been joined by a couple of friends, and the man in the window of the dry-cleaning store was pointing out the green car to another man, probably a customer. But there was no crowd. What the hell went on here? Where were the creeps? Was he beginning to slip? Was this how you found out? On a lousy street corner in a broken-down neighborhood like this, for God's sake? Was this why the Magna boys wanted this recording session before they closed the deal?

Nick shoved back the fear as though it were an open bureau drawer, and ran across the broken sidewalk. He was inside the car before Mike could get out to open the rear door.

"What the hell is the matter with you? I said hit the horn only if it gets rough. You call this rough?"

"No," Mike said. "I hit the horn because look."

He pointed across the steering wheel, toward the opposite curb. Nick moved his head, to get a better view, and saw his father. He was crossing the street slowly, looking to right and left, heading for the candy store. Nick could feel the astonishment grow inside him. How the hell did anybody get to look so old in a lousy three years? Or was it four since he had last been out here?

"You want to say hello?" Mike said.

Nick hesitated. He was suddenly thinking about something that had never crossed his mind before: how Nick Santora looked to the new kids coming up when he crossed the street. Then he saw the three women with shopping bags, and the two men in the dry-cleaning store.

"No, stupid," Nick said. "We're late already for 53rd Street. Move this thing. Move it, you stupid son of a bitch."

As the car started, he dipped down. Not to avoid the old man who didn't yet know he had been deprived of his Danish. Nick wanted to avoid the faces of the women with shopping bags on one side of the street, and the men in the window of the dry-cleaning store on the other. That's all he needed. To let creeps like that be able to tell a lot of other creeps they'd seen Nick Santora crying like a baby.