After supper, Abe would usually take a walk around the neighborhood, sometimes accompanied by his grandson. Sometimes he would read, organize his betting receipts, or tend to his stamp collection. One night a week he still played cards at Lena's.

On weekends, he was rarely home. He would fix his own breakfast, usually a boiled egg and toast and coffee, and then he was off to L Street or his club which met in a room over the Sunshine Bakery on Centre Street. Dutch was always there, along with Rocco, the barber from the shop at the end of Chestnut Avenue. On Saturdays and Sundays, Abe ate his evening meals out. His favorite spot was the Egleston Square Diner where he could enjoy a drink or two without Doris' disapproving stares. Abe was something of a regular at the diner. He knew many of the other patrons, and usually exchanged greetings with the likes of Tony Pino, Sonny Devlin, Sandy Richardson, and Joe McGinnis, the diner's owner and sometime bartender. Often, when things were slow, McGinnis would come over and talk with Abe.

"So how's things, Abe?"

"Okay, Joe. How's business?"

"Good. Good. Ya' comin' home from L Street?"

"Um-m-m," Abe answered, taking a sip of his beer. "Say, who's that guy down the bar? Near the end."

"Oh that's Joe... uh-h, Banfield. Joe Banfield. He just started comin' around. Lives in Roxbury, I think."

"Um-m-m," Abe replied, taking another sip.

"Want some food?"

"Sure, Joe. Anything ya' got."

McGinnis moved off behind the bar to see what was left in the kitchen.


A few weeks later, Abe was eating a late supper at the Egleston Square Diner with his newspaper spread out beside him. A younger man, somewhat heavy-set, wearing a hat and coat, walked over to the booth where Abe was sitting. "Hi," he said, "I'm Joe Banfield."

Abe recognized him. He remembered McGinnis pointing him out earlier. "Hello, Joe," Abe replied, hardly looking up.

"Can I sit down?" Banfield asked. Abe nodded at the seat across from him. "Anything good in the news today?" Banfield asked, trying to be sociable.

"Not much, "Abe answered. "Depends what you're interested in."

"Baseball," Joe said. "You think the Sox will take the Yankees tomorrow? They only need one game to win the pennant, you know."

"Yeah, I know." Abe had won $1500 as the Red Sox lost to the Yankees that afternoon, and he had $2500 riding on tomorrow's game.

"Go ahead, finish your supper. It'll get cold. I didn't mean to interrupt."

"It's not a problem," Abe said, pushing his newspaper aside, but continuing to eat.

A train roared by. The subway system was elevated at this point, and they could hear the cars outside rushing to and from the Dudley Street station.

Banfield leaned a little closer, his voice a little quieter. "Joe tells me you're a regular in here. Said you might be a good man to do business with."

Slowly, Abe replied, "Maybe." He paused. "What kind of business?"

Banfield glanced around quickly. It was late and there was no one else around except for two drinkers at the counter. "I need some license plates. A set of good plates."

"What makes you think I can get license plates? You think I work at Walpole?"

Banfield smiled at Abe's joke about the work done at the local prison where they made license plates for the state. "McGinnis says you got a son who's a tin knocker. Wrecks get towed in every day. Shouldn't be a problem for a smart guy to take the plates off a wreck. As long as they're not banged up or anything."

Abe thought a minute, looked around, and whispered, "How much?" He knew better than to ask what Banfield needed the license plates for. Obviously, it wasn't for anything kosher.

"A hundred for the set," Banfield answered.

Abe shook his head. "That's okay for my son, but that leaves nothing for me." Abe was in his element now. He'd always been good at bargaining. The only question was how badly Banfield wanted the plates.

Banfield leaned back in his chair. A good set of license plates was worth a lot of money to him, but he didn't want to seem too eager. "All right," he said. "How 'bout two hundred?"

"Make it two-fifty," Abe countered, "and you've got a deal."

Banfield hesitated a moment. "Done," he said.

"How soon do you want them?"

"Next week. Here. Around this time?"

"I'll be here," Abe said, taking a forkful of mashed potatoes. Banfield stood up to leave, and Abe went back to his newspaper.

"Hm-m-ph," he thought, "must be some big job to be worth $250 for a set of license plates."