Then I got hungry. The morning had closed up shop so I opted for a slice. Two Boots was, happily, just across the street when my stomach started grumbling. I sidestepped between a couple of parked Toyotas, let a few cabs shark their way by, and made for its welcoming doors.

Two Boots on Avenue A is one of those terrific spots that purists — partisans of Ray’s this and Ray’s that — turn their noses up at, but after too many years of getting burnt by the too-often mediocre results of tradition I had come to love it. At Two Boots, you can have your so-called plain slice with just the right amount of marinara and not too much cheese, or you can put your money down, as I like to, on one of the many slices with unusual names: The Night Tripper, Mel Cooley, Mr. Pink, Mrs. Peel, Big Maybelle, and so on. I had in mind a slice of Bayou Beast (shrimp, crawfish, andouille, jalapeño, and mozzarella), one of The Newman (Soppressata, sweet Italian sausage, ricotta, and mozzarella), a few shakes each of Parmesan, oregano, and hot pepper, a large, well-iced fountain Diet Pepsi, and a seat at the back booth by the john. I saw all of this as I crossed Avenue A, then felt and smelled and tasted it — for some reason the icy imagined Diet Pepsi coming up under my top lip as I sipped between imagined bites was particularly vivid — and, in short, worked myself into the kind of minor frenzy I began experiencing during my rougher days in the city whenever low blood sugar or whatever had kicked in and, money in pocket, I was minutes away from food.

Gratification was put off by a beleaguered-looking couple making the classic big production of getting out the front door with a stroller. I sort of theatrically stepped aside and swept my arm out to let them know that I wouldn’t be interfering, in any way whatsoever, with their forward baby-propelling propagation, and they both said thanks so simultaneously that I couldn’t help blurting “jinx.” This made the woman laugh and the guy smile. The baby, who had a lot of blond hair for such a shrimpy customer, let out a squawk, and they were off.

I only mention this because as I stood at the counter surveying the Pinks and Beasts and Big Maybelles, thinking that they ought to add a Mr. Kindt to their lineup, a kind of prestige slice with cracker crumbs and pickled herring on a white pie, two people said “I got it” at the same time, and a third voice, older, gravelly, accented, familiar, said “jinx.” Given that I never say “jinx” and that I haven’t heard it said in years, I turned to see who had spoken. But just then my order was taken and, because I occasionally frequented Two Boots and knew some of the guys there, a little chitchat was indicated, and by the time my slices were up and I had taken a spot not in the back, but in one of the big booths on Avenue, the “jinx” thing had slipped my mind. It came back to me though when the two “I got it” guys burst into conversation in the booth behind me about some book one of them was reading called Stranger Things Happen. Deep into the baked aquatic mysteries of my first bite of Bayou Beast, I half expected — in that bleary mind-fried way — the one who was reading it to start talking about Mr. Kindt or maybe the contortionists. Instead he went into a detailed description of a story about a ghost who can’t remember his name, which elicited a few too many guffaws from his companion for me to relax and enjoy my slices, so I moved to the table by the front door where, even though you have to stand and the foot traffic is pretty steady, the experience would be relatively untainted by over-easy joke-trued book talk.

As I was standing there an old guy wearing a fedora and a wife beater came over with a slice of Mel Cooley, slapped a Miller down on the table, and, in that vaguely familiar voice, asked me to slide over the oregano.

Jinx, I said.

He looked blankly at me for a second then laughed.

This time of the day you can usually count on eating and maybe conversing in some peace here but not today, no sir, they’re even talking at the same time as each other, he said.

Amen, I said.

Mel the Hat, he said.

It took me a moment to realize I had just been told what I should call him. I nodded and said my own name.

I used to know a Henry, years back. We used to do business together. Small stuff. Good times. You ever do any business?

He looked at me with the kind of misty gray eyes that only the very old or very beautiful have. I wasn’t sure about the latter, but there was no doubt about the former. I figured he had to have at least fifteen years on Mr. Kindt. Maybe twenty.

No comment, I said.

He clapped his hands, let out a laugh, and said, I knew it. I could tell. I could have told you, this guy is doing business.

I took a sip of my drink. He lifted his Mel Cooley and sunk what had to be false teeth into a clot of ricotta and roasted pepper. His voice, which was high-pitched and Dominican-inflected, definitely sounded like something I had rattling around somewhere in my head.

I’m sorry, no offense, but what I said was, no comment.

Sure, he said. And much better that way too. You have to forgive me — I’m out now. I’m done. They got a box paid up and waiting for me up at Plascencia’s and some green space to go with it and all my scores are settled. I spot individuals and sometimes I talk to them. I’m too old now to matter, so generally they don’t care. I don’t usually ask specific questions. But I do got one for you.

I raised my eyebrow, bit into some Italian sausage, and nodded.

How’s your back?

My back? I said through the flecks of demolished crust, cayenne, and oregano scattered around my mouth like delicious storm debris.

You got any issues? Bad knees? You look pretty good.

The tassel of his fedora kept flipping back and forth as he spoke. He seemed to be hopping from leg to leg. He was old but the engine wasn’t sputtering yet. I said that my back and knees were fine.

He clapped his hands. I thought so. You look like you got highly functioning shoulders. You want to help me out?

I shrugged. I told him I was fairly busy. I asked him what he meant.

Just boxes, he said. My sister has some boxes up in the closet and she wants them down. I was thinking maybe you could come help me out.

We left via the video store attached to the pizza parlor. The Hat, as he said people called him for short, had gotten started on movies as we finished our slices, and movies for him meant vehicles for showcasing Steve McQueen. He listened to me talk a little about the movies I had watched with my old girlfriend at the Pioneer Theater, right around the corner, then said, that’s great, that’s great, but what about Bullitt? What about The Great Escape?

I told him I hadn’t seen much Steve McQueen, but that I’d no doubt get around to it soon.

Soon? How about now? That was always my philosophy: fuck “soon,” let’s do it now. I got a player at home. You help me with the boxes and then we can watch some of the maestro. I got some Bud in the fridge. I live nearby.

Despite my protests, offered up more out of fatigue than anything, that I really didn’t have time, The Hat made a beeline for the Steve McQueen section and selected a couple of fistfuls worth of tapes so that we could have “a choice for our viewing pleasure.” He talked Steve McQueen exploits most of the way to his place, which was, indeed, nearby. He lived on Second Street, across from the Marble Cemetery.

Lupe, he said. It’s me, open the door.

Lupe didn’t come to the door this time, so he handed me the tapes and dug around in the pockets of his baggy old-guy pants until, about three minutes later, he came up with a key.

Now listen, he said. My sister’s batteries upstairs are running down but she’s all right. She’s a good person. You allergic to cats?

I shook my head.