A Matter of Conviction

DIABLO: Yeah?

BOTCH: He used to live over on the next street when he was little. He just moved back from someplace out on Long Island.

DIABLO: Where on Long Island?

BOTCH: I don’t know. Someplace where they got the plane factories. His mother knows mine from when they were kids. She was up the house the other day.

DIABLO: We got branches in some Long Island towns, you know.

BOTCH: Yeah, but this guy’s a coolie, I think. Look at him.

(Danny has purchased a pack of cigarettes. He tears off the cellophane top, rips the package open and puts a cigarette between his lips. He is lighting it when Bud walks over to him.)

BUD: Hey, got a butt?

DANNY (shaking one loose, extending the pack): Sure. Help yourself. (He smiles. He is obviously making a thrust at friendship.)

BUD (taking the pack): Thanks. (He strikes the pack against his hand, shaking loose one cigarette. He tucks this behind his ear. Then he shakes loose another.) For later. (He smiles, then shakes a half-dozen cigarettes into the palm of his hand.) In case any of the boys want one. (He is about to hand the pack back to Danny. He changes his mind, shakes another half dozen into his palm.) I got a very big family, and they all smoke. (He hands Danny the near-empty pack.)

DANNY (studies it for a moment; then, handing the pack to Bud): Here. Keep the rest.

BUD (smirking): Why, thanks, kid. Hey, thanks.

DANNY: And buy me another pack. Pall Mall’s the brand.

BUD: What?

DANNY: You heard me. I ain’t running a Salvation Army soup kitchen. Those butts cost me twenty-seven cents. You can just shell out the same for a fresh pack.

BUD: You can just go to hell, little man.

(He turns to go. Danny claps his hand on Bud’s shoulder and whirls him around, then drops his hand immediately, spreading his legs wide, bunching his fists at his sides.)

DANNY: I still ain’t got the cigarettes.

BUD: You touch me again, little man, and you’re gonna get a hell of a lot more than the cigarettes. Believe me.

JOEY (coming around the counter, wiping his hands on a rag): Cut that out. I don’t want no trouble in here, you understand? (To Danny) You get out of here, you little snotnose.

DANNY: Not until he buys me a new pack of cigarettes.

BUD (turning away from him): Don’t hold your breath, kid. I ain’t—