ravioliâbut no corned beef and cabbage and potatoes, either.â
âThere you go, babe.â Mike nodded. âTheyâve still got some kind of noodles here, though, so your sideâs probably ahead on points.â
âNoodles doused in this waddayacallit? Soy sauce? Forget it, Mikeâthatâs not Italian.â Stella was a little tiny gal, only an inch or two over five feet. She wasnât shy about coming out with what she thought, though. That was one of the things that drew Mike to her. Heâd never had any use for shrinking violets.
Her folks were from the Old Country. They wanted her to tie the knot with a
paisan
, preferably with one from the village south of Naples theyâd come from. Like Mike, Stella was no damn good at doing what other people wanted.
His folks were almost as disgusted that he was going with a dago as hers were that she was dating a mick. They werenât just as disgusted because theyâd been in the States a couple of generations longerâand because Charlieâs fiancée was Jewish. That really gave them something to grouse about.
Stella sipped tea from one of the small, funny handleless cups thechop-suey joint used. It wasnât as if she might not have gone out with a sheeny or two herself. She was a secretary at a theatrical booking agency, and almost all the guys she worked for were Jews. She didnât speak much Yiddish, but sheâd learned to understand it in self-defense.
Mike waved to the waiter. âCan we have another couple of fried shrimp, please?â he said.
âSure thing.â The waiter wasnât Chinese. He was tall and blond and skinny as a soda straw, and he swished. Fruit or not, he was a good waiter. He hustled back to the kitchen and brought them in nothing flat.
Just as he set them down, Charlie and Esther Polgar walked into Hop Singâs. Mike and Stella both waved; his brother and almost-sister-in-law sat down at the table with them. Esther had wavy red hair and a pointed chin. Her mother and father had brought her to America from Budapest when she was a little girl, bare months before the Great War started.
She grabbed one of the fried shrimp. Charlie snagged the other one. âOf all the nerve!â Mike said in mock indignation.
âYeah.â Stella wagged a finger at Esther. âThose things arenât even kosher.â
âTheyâre delicious, is what they are,â Esther answered.
âWeâre gonna need a couple of more fried shrimp,â Mike told the waiter. âAnd another pot of tea, and more chop suey, too.â He glanced at his brother. âUnless you can make supper out of our scraps. Thatâs what you get for showing up late.â
âWe get to have you watch us while we eat, too,â Charlie said. âNot that we care.â
The waiter hurried back to the kitchen again. He put a lot of hip action into his walk. If he wasnât careful, the vice squad would land on him like a ton of bricks one of these days. He wasnât a bad guyânot the sort of queer who annoyed normal people in the hope that they shared his vice. As long as he didnât, Mike was willing to live and let live.
âNot much been going on since we saw each other last,â Charlie said. His smile lifted only one side of his mouth. âHardly anything, matter of fact.â
âJoe Steele getting nominated? Roosevelt going up in smoke? Uh-huhâhardly anything,â Mike said.
âYou forgot Garner getting the nod for VP,â Charlie said.
âMm, I guess I did,â Mike said after a little thought. âWouldnât you?â
âYou guys are terrible,â Esther said. âYouâre worse when youâre together, too, âcause you play off each other.â
âNow that youâre both here, Iâve got a question for the two of you,â Stella said. âThe Executive Mansion burning down like it didâdo you