Free The Bialy Pimps by Johnny B. Truant

of course the answer would be no. But the question was actually closer to, “Is Bingham’s the center of unholiness and sinister happenings?” and so the game changed. The dwarf pretty much had to be involved if you saw the whole truth, but this time it was Captain Dipshit who decided not to push. Dicky hadn’t seen what he’d seen. Once he had, his mind would open, but for now he wasn’t hearing, and wouldn’t.
    “I’m just saying, that place isn’t normal,” said Captain Dipshit.  
    “Tell me about it.”  
    “I mean, it’s.... sinister .”  
    Dicky sighed and rolled his eyes.  
    “I can prove it to you.”  
    Dicky added an exasperated roll of his head.  
    “I can. I can go back in there and...” He stopped. And what? First of all, he didn’t want to go back in there, no way. But secondly, what could he do? He really needed to start planning his sentences more. Leaving thoughts hanging like this was sloppy and unprofessional. It was as bad as making decisions and being patient.  
    Dicky was looking at him, basically saying the same thing. And what?
    “What are your hours, here?” Captain Dipshit said instead.  
    “Six to eight weekdays. Eight to eight weekends.”  
    “And when are you here? All the time?”
    “I have a few employees who work during our nonexistent lunch rush, but I’m here all the time. I have an apartment in the back room. I live here.”  
    “Then you’ve got yourself a regular. And so I’ll see you, and maybe within a few days I can help you out with your... marketing problem.”  
    “How?”
    “Well, I’ll just...” And he didn’t know where that one was going, either. Dammit. He let it hang in the air, uncompleted. Then he got up, cleared his table (another first), thanked Dicky for the bagel, and promised to return.  
    Once out on the street, he looked both ways before merging into the foot traffic along High. You never knew what might be barreling down the street around here, and if you weren’t careful, you’d get flattened.

CHAPTER THREE
Roger

1.
    Roger was a tall, gaunt, thin-faced black man of about sixty with dark brown skin and a sallow, mopey expression eternally set on his sad, worn face. Every few days on average, he would drag himself through the door of Bingham’s with a defeated air which clung to him inexorably like a dirty brown cloud. His shoulders slumped and he cast a steady downward gaze as he let the door close behind him and searched despondently for a seat, where he would hang his long tan trenchcoat and place his brimmed felt hat before coming to the counter to order.  
    Roger’s wardrobe and manner placed him as a modern-day, black Humphrey Bogart. His intellect, however, seemed to place him at six years old, tops.  
    The vast majority of the time, Roger was as exciting and upbeat as a stone. His permafrown persisted no matter what anyone said to him, no matter what chit-chat was attempted to elicit a smile. He got his beverage (medium diet coke, eighty-five cents), said little, and kept his mouth shut – something that ended up affording him dignity. During his sober phase, he seemed to regard words as expensive, and spent them judiciously.
    But Roger had a weakness. Her name was Beckie.  
    If Beckie was working when Roger came in, he stopped being Humphrey Bogart and started being Jerry Lewis. A somewhat retarded Jerry Lewis.
    At these times, his face transformed from despondent to delighted and his voice rose several octaves, becoming nasal. His movements became faster, more purposeful. He waved at Beckie with wild, unashamed arms. And for her part, Beckie adored Roger’s attention despite the fact that it seemed obviously sexual (somewhat retardedly sexual) because he seemed harmless, and because he had the air of the virginal pervert. If she stripped naked and offered him what he seemed to want, it was doubtful that Roger would know what to do with her. Offer to play doctor, maybe.
    If Beckie was working during