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712. webfeet - 6/27/2006 2:23:59 PM No-one plays in the fountains, alistair. Not even frogs. OH GOD WHAT HAVWE I SAID? UM, that's a big no no.
We're not staying in Aix the whole summer..keep in mind Aix is now akin to Burbank or Cheddar Cheese, WI as it's perhaps the 17th time I'll be going there since the magical yeear of 1998. I usually fall captive to its charms in the late evening
And all of Europe and 'The Americans' flying in for the 'Cezanne' exposition which took 20 years to get afoot, at the Musee Granet. Looking forwarsd to it. No really. An un air conditioned little museum smaller than the Frick with hundreds of world class breathers in my face as I bend to peer into each portrait, rubbing buttocks with Italians. Oh, alrite, it does sound like fun. I'm thirsty just thinking aboutit.
Cezanne is buried, incidentally, in the cemetary behind BM's jardin gardenc omplex and you can see just the tippy tip of Sainte-Victoire, if you stand at the head of that colline, in the distance. I expect someone is going to force me to go on a hike there.
And thenit's down to the sud-ouest to Pau and its environs to have a small reunion with the second-generation paysans and their off-spring in bm's Bearnais clan. Everyone is exceedingly polite and I am carted before them like a circus animal..for their entertainment. An American! In our living room!
This is going to sound mean, and by golly, it is. I deliberately picked out espadrilles that put my already tall frame at a good inch or so taller than usual.Normally I never wear any shoe with even the slightest hint of a heel. A tiny one, just to give a little grace to my ankle, but not really. I did this especially to vex BM. When she orders me around, she will have to look up to me!!! Can you believe anyone could stoop so low? HAHAHAHAHAHAHA 713. webfeet - 6/27/2006 2:29:27 PM Well, I'm awake now. There!
And mags, the ordinarteur is in theory welcome at any time for my use, except that it never seems to work when I go near it. And whathisface, phi phi my beau pere, can play the 'mad professor' and shake his head and shrug, but he is more savvy than he lets on. He has a fucking imac laptop for god sake.
Never works. Never. When I'm near it.
That doesn't mean that I can't try.
Now I have to go. My children are away, my husbandis in paris and I have been blissfully alone for 2 solid nights. And I have no time to waste. 714. webfeet - 6/27/2006 2:32:16 PM ...the valise is open and they're coming back today. 715. wabbit - 6/27/2006 2:44:09 PM I am already looking forward to your return and the host of stories I've no doubt you will have to share! 716. alistairconnor - 6/27/2006 3:42:37 PM I was only joking about the fountains. Sort of.
My kids would be up to their armpits, and I'd probably get a ticket from the municipal police. You should have seen them tearing across the Bridge of Sighs against the flow of traffic, fearlessly facing down finger-wagging Germans.
Well I presume they were Germans. Perhaps they were Swiss. Or Aixois. 717. arkymalarky - 7/1/2006 1:20:06 AM This remind anyone of a certain American short story? 718. NuPlanetOne - 7/9/2006 4:12:55 PM Chapter 4 Scallops Istanbul and The Big Moon Clock
Being under the gun as we approach the dinner service was routine. Fabiano following me into the walk-in while getting last minute instructions was, in effect, me completing a thought. Throughout the course of the day and day before any service, nightly specials were discussed on the fly, pretty much in unison as we went along according to the daily prep sheet and informal daily meetings. It could seem complicated to an outsider but just based on the advance ordering for any particular week, as well as the daily order for seafood and produce, Fabiano always could figure out where I was going in terms of specials. He knew that morning upon seeing the seafood order that I had bought 4 gallons of Nantucket Bay scallops. My main fish guy, Jimmy, ‘Fishee Man’, as we called him, was a one man independent distributor. He had been in the business for forty years and now pretty much just kept a handful of customers so he could have something to do with himself since he sold his big fish house down in New Bedford. He was like seventy years old and had a million ailments peculiar to the trade, but had a robustness and optimism of spirit that could keep a fox hole of bleeding soldiers from realizing they were oozing entrails; just from the strength of his resolve and unshakable matter-of-factness. If I needed facts about fish, Fishee Man had them. If you needed something out of the ocean, Fishee Man could get it, describe it, and tell you every restaurant and Chef that has bought it or even asked about it recently. I say could, but only if he decided you were his pal, and I was one of his best pals. And during scallop season getting the very best real McCoy’s from the myriad coves and lagoons along Cape Cod and actually out of Nantucket Bay, you needed someone who knew someone. Fishee Man knew everyone. If he said he had Gold Nuggets, my mouth watered. Nantucket Bay scallops were prized, and they deserved to be, and aside from perfectly handled and indigenous muscles, Alaskan King Crab, or Wellfleet oysters, these little balls of flesh were like an aphrodisiac of the deep. They made you horny for seafood. No other way to put it.
“I got’em Fab,” I grunted as I pulled the scallops from a lower shelf in the walk-in.
“You gonna run’em out, or save one for tomorrow?” Fabiano was gently poking the risotto on the opposite side of the walk-in where three sheet tray racks held everything important for quick service pulls. “This is good now.” He said as he eyeballed the rice.
“What, oh, I haven’t seen the reservation list yet, but I’m betting all four gallons gone by 8.”
“Ya, this is ready,” I said as I lightly felt the bottom of one of the sheet pans holding the risotto.
“Why you wear that ring now? You never wear that before?” He gestured at my hand that now hung onto the side of the speed rack that held the trays and held me as I leaned there thinking.
“What? Oh, a good luck charm from my brother.” I looked at the ring and got the twinge of fear mixed with the flash memory of slapping my brother’s face when he was 12. All he did for the smack was cry like a girl because a bully threatened him. He never really forgave me.
“Who Boss? The dead one, yes?” I had three more.
“Oh ya. Loco grande.” I lampooned. He smiled the big dimpled pose as he recalled his own flash images.
“The Grip.” He raised his arm and formed an open hand like he was going to try to take hold of a basketball. On more than one occasion I had seen my brother smother the face of a loan client, and depending on the information that had been offered in terms of repayment, he squeezed in varying vise clenches until the new terms were understood. His hands fit around a human skull like a normal guy holding an orange. He was ‘The Grip.’ At 6’5, he was a mountain, and good speed might keep you out of reach, but if those talons snatched you, the only reason he didn’t snap your neck was because he wasn’t supposed to. I never saw him kill anyone on purpose. No one did.
“Ya. The Grip. Big stupid shit.” I muttered
“Boss, that time he picks up Julio by the head!”
“Ya, poco cabasa.” I grinned and shook my head at the memory.
“No one see his other hand hold him by his belt from behind, ha ha!”
“Bobo. Forget that. Here’s how it’s gonna go.” I gestured him out of the walk-in as Brian my pastry chef pushed in. Bingo. I had an idea. “Get some basmati going.” I said as I held the walk-in door slightly ajar and Fabiano drifted off backwards with the stress face that said he was not having fun. He knew I had assumed command and his comfort zone for the night was in jeopardy. “Oh, and tell Julio to clean 2 extra bags of muscles. Just shuck’em and save all the juice.” Almost a smirk and then he spun around the corner. But the head came back around.
“Boss, psssst…she is wearing the tuba.” As he hissed his eyebrows flickered then he rolled his eyeballs in a circle.
“Blue one?” I asked as if I was totally disinterested
“Beee…yankoo!” He sang in an exited drone.
“Bianco.” I said interested.
“Bianco,” he said with a head gesture to follow him.
“No. And that’s tube. Tube top. Now get hopping. We gotta move.”
“Signore Boss. Silver dollars for everyone to see.” I knew he just wanted to get me to abdicate and stay behind the scenes. Although the thought of Rosalie running around in the tuba made me think of moonlight and wanton silhouettes. I resisted. No time now for that. But it pulled hard.
“Fab. Focus. Go with the flow. Basmati, muscles.” I went all business on him then turned my head into the walk-in.
“Brian, I need some plain Anglais.” I barked it and he turned and stood with his snob face and smirky stare behind his thick framed, retro Buddy Holly glasses.
“What!” He looked like he was reacting to an imbecile that had made its second request for an explanation after the first one was exhaustive and precise.
“Hello, remember me? Executive Chef. Kept you. Got rid of Annetta. Anglais?” I grinned like an overfed fat man.
“On the left, back, behind those figs. What for? May I be so bold?” Still with the condescension of self absorption.
“Scallops Istanbul. Lobster Anglais. It’s all about to be invented.”
719. NuPlanetOne - 7/9/2006 4:13:28 PM He had that worried look he gets when he senses I’m about to trounce on his overly sensitive cuisine ethics. Brian is a food purist. Perhaps even an intellectual in a food history sense. And because he won’t ‘trend’ his desserts, as he calls the fusing and stretching of classical recipes, he remains on the outskirts of the downtown scene even though he is more than qualified and abundantly creative enough to land a job in one of those top kitchens. I love his end of the line and even did most of the desserts myself for six months, but trying to do both ends was hurting things in the middle, even if Fabiano loved having me diverted. Now, with Brian firmly in place, Fabiano feels crowded when I just step right back in and commandeer the rectangle on a busy Saturday night.
“Good Lord,” Brian half muttered. “Scallops aren’t necessarily a Turkish staple. They tend to favor muscles. And anchovies seem to be rife across all regions. Hamsi, I believe they are called.” He spit that out like he always does as if at some imaginary audience versed in encyclopedic recall.
“No kidding?” I never heard of Hamsi. “Julio is shucking muscles as we speak. Basmati pilaf is contemplated. I am thinking a minature Kabab vrs a Metze. The little fish don’t fit but eggplant and cumin are on board somewhere.” I waited for the smirk, besides I needed to know if I forgot anything perceptually Turkish.
“I see,” he said with the eyeglass magnified squint and blink of blond eyelashes that always precluded the smirk.
“The kicker, Sir Brian, is the olive oil. God neckta. Just a splash over the steaming scallops before the ride to the table.” I realized I had it worked out as I now saw shrimp on my mini Kababs. Piece of eggplant, poached muscle, baby mushroom, small shrimp, red onion. On the plate, 8 o’clock going clockwise: Pyramid of bay scallops. At noon, round mold of pilaf. Then at 4 o’clock the Kabab lying with one end at six to three o’clock. The Anglaise would flow out from under the pyramid from 9 to 5 o’clock. Figs.
“What are the figs for?” I interrupted Brian’s punctuated smirking by grabbing his Black Mission Figs from in front of the Anglais sauce.
“Take them,” he said somewhat expecting it. “You know the meringues didn’t move,” he added as if the world was all wrong and he was all right.
“Oh, ya. The fig apricot beauty. Hazelnuts. Damn delicious. I loved that thing.” We both knew it was world class.
“If it isn’t chewy and gooey, this crowd is not buying it. Generally speaking,” he deadpanned, but brightened.
He was pleased. I won him over. He knew I knew his talent. As long as he prepared the standard classical desserts he was free to do one he really felt inspired about. Besides, he was pretty much in the restaurant six days a week, which meant he could monitor everything that transpired, and he loved to tell me about any little thing that caught his notice. It was his cross in the face of the ‘vampires’ at the other end of the line, the thugs, he said, that manned the grill and ovens. Grill guys tended to be loud, boisterous, machismo fascinated individuals. And Brian, being somewhat delicate and gay, actually, was adept at using my admiration of his skills and importance as his weapon to neutralize their homophobia. Plus, he was the smartest guy in the room, which could actually help in a physical conflict, at least if you were aware that one were imminent.
720. NuPlanetOne - 7/9/2006 4:14:00 PM “I hear that. And I know my attention to something actually resembling Turkish cuisine will mean nothing to 80% of our diners tonight. They will read Nantucket Bay Scallops, and that is all they will need. Toss in the words lobster and shrimp and voila, instant hit. It’s the other 20% I have to be careful with. They spend the real money. Alfred will do an exit poll as usual. I say we move 20 extra bottles of the Spottswoode Sauvignon Blanc Donna is featuring out there. And it’s fabulous. And they scoff at the mark-up.” Brian just nodded and reemphasized his agreement with some fresh fluttering of his lashes.
“How do you poach a muscle?” He asked. Worried there was a new way.
“Simmer it in something nice, out of shell. I use shrimp stock, lemon grass and garlic as a base. Tonight I add the muscle juice. Then cook it perfectly.” I said as if we were one brain talking in turns. “That way the succulence is guaranteed.”
“Suck who?” He grinned. “Where the figs going, skewer?”
“No. Pilaf molded in a ball. Figs, small dice. Pine nuts. Olive oil, a bit of garlic and cumin for color and a hint of flavor. The ball of rice sitting atop granny smith wedges that have been poached and impregnated in an intense Marsala reduction. And now that I’m thinking about it, grilled marinated asparagus sticking out from under like a house fell on them.” I pictured the extra asparagus I was going to pair with the salmon.
“And the Anglais?” He was holding 2 quarts he had fished out from his main dessert shelf.
“Simple. Double boiler back left corner to loosen it. Swirl in my lobster roe paste, salt and white pepper. I got a ton of baby lobster claws I save for garnish. I heat’em in the swirl and lay a few at the base of the scallop pile.” That was the picture I wanted in my head. “OK, make sure Rosalie is all set with the soufflés. What time you got?”
It is impossible. Futile really, to explain, to try to explain how the feeling takes hold. Something clicks somewhere within your inner ear, an alarm, a wash over of adrenalin, brief terror, a shortness of breath. Suddenly a big clock face sits above your eyes like a magnificent moon over a sparkled glittering sea with huge hands ready to tick off the seconds in a countdown in reverse time. You know that now your actions control the fall of the hands. Each thing you do, each task that you control from that point on keeps the clock from ticking. Any wasted action or distraction allows the clock to tick off one more second. You also know that if you let the big moon clock tick with the real clock instead of keeping at least a half beat behind, real time will take over. And people die in real time. Hardly anyone dies a beat behind. It is anti-time. If the two meet there is annihilation. Manipulating real time is what we all do. I mean, time doesn’t really exist; it’s just a local measurement of an orbit. It has nothing to do with the actual condition of the universe. But it is real time. The obvious acknowledged condition of our universe. The space we warp and inhabit. And the trick to getting things done in real time is to ignore the people or things measuring it. Just you and the big moon clock. And controlled breathing.
“Two minutes to four.” Brian stared at his wrist like he just set the fuse at Hiroshima. His alarm went off. He looked through me and was gone with an armful of artillery.
“Tell Fab the salmon is going over spinach.” I told his back.
He waved his left hand. No more words. I surveyed the walk-in with the eyes of a circling hawk. I would be able to see every inch of it in my mind for the next five hours. I instantly stacked the next half hour’s tasks in my inner cabinets like an efficient shopper putting away groceries. I noticed suddenly it was cold. Real world condition in a walk-in. I noted it and headed out to the dance.
721. Macnas - 7/14/2006 8:55:44 AM I still like it. 722. alistairconnor - 7/27/2006 3:50:21 PM That "scallops Istanbul" thing played out much as I surmised. Means I'm getting into the narrator's head, I suspect. 723. Jenerator - 10/11/2006 1:28:41 PM Webfeet? 724. NuPlanetOne - 12/1/2006 4:50:38 AM Proof it Existed
Tony stood looking down into the poolroom from the main level of the bowling alley. He was leaning on his arms, hunched slightly forward, with his hands pointing like he was praying in a pew. And he was preying. He was looking for a live one. A possible quick score. Not one of his regular marks, but some new blood. And Tony could spot them. It was better if they had heard of him or had seen him play, especially, if they had seen him win. Because Tony was always careful to never win convincingly. He would appear to win easily, at times, but he always left room for doubt. And that was the key aspect of hustling pool. Never destroy anyone. Leave them with the dignity to accept defeat, that way they held firmly onto the belief that they could win the next time. And there was always a next time. Because Tony would in fact lose sometimes. It was his working overhead. He had to allow losing as a fixed expense. A reinvestment in the business. A calculated loss that would eventually bear dividends. It was hard work and to lose in just the right way was the difficult part, the real skill necessary, because shooting nineball for Tony was like scratching your ass for you and me. He was the best. And everyone from here to Vegas knew it, that is, except the live ones. And the liveliest of all the live ones, were the ones with money. For them, the concept that they could be hustled out of some money, chump change, never entered into it. They lived for the oos and ahhs. They lived for that one crowning moment that might occur when they execute a really spectacular shot, that surreal feeling as they stood chalking their pool cue and surveying the table as if they were the Master of the universe. And Tony always acted dumbfounded. He not only gave them the moment, but he seemed genuinely startled. And if they believed he was sincere, if everyone around them saw the legend graciously acknowledge the accomplishment, well, then it really didn’t matter, in the end, how much money they forked over. They could slap the c-notes onto the felt table top with the expression and smirk of a boxer that had just been stripped of his title by a rigged decision. And although it might have taken four or five hours, Tony looked like the undeserving victor. The bad guy in the whole ordeal. I mean, Tony didn’t make spectacular combinations and reverse English two rail cross corner shots, they would say. No, in fact, it seemed that Tony hardly ever got fancy at all. And that was the other hard, easy part for Tony. He could literally make any shot or combination or trick shot that was conceivable on a pool table. But he had to make it look simple.
725. NuPlanetOne - 12/1/2006 4:51:08 AM You see, the thing about nineball is there really is a pure element of luck involved. Sometimes in attempting an intended and legitimate shot on the object ball in question, providing you hit the object ball first, a missed shot can actually result in the sinking of some other ball out of sequence, allowing for a second life, as it were. Ultimately, a missed shot could awkwardly go awry and knock in the nine ball, resulting in a sudden win. So this idea, this belief that one might get lucky, built up, in the wanabe’s mind, a real belief in luck. Yet, as Tony knew all too well, luck really contributed a fraction of a fraction to the final outcome. As on the other hand, he encouraged people when they would describe him as ‘being born with a horseshoe up his ass.’ Because for that matter Tony would exhort and apologize and just plain draw attention to the fact that he had just made an obvious lucky shot. Even if he did plan it. The point is they needed proof it existed. So he gave it to them. That way they could tell themselves that not even Tony could stage an incalculable ordering of caroms and careening that deliberately resulted in a desired outcome. But in that spatial globe where Tony saw things as an idiot savant processing the outcome of deflections and combinations and probabilities was, for him, tunnel vision. And aside from the margin of error, this unconscious gift, allowed Tony to recognize the percentages. Couple that with a rote memory of every shot he had ever played or witnessed, and only his ignorance of these unusual powers kept him from maybe being truly diabolical. And the fact is that he really only had this one special gift. That is, aside from an infectious and disarming charm that usually made anyone he chose, well, want to be his friend. And that is why, dear reader, I was only a few feet from Tony as he leaned in and surveyed the fish that night on that iron railing looking into the pond. I needed to be his friend.
726. NuPlanetOne - 12/1/2006 4:51:34 AM “Tony, isn’t it?” I said staring straight ahead and sliding a half foot closer. I felt only his pupils slowly track the origin of the question.
“Ya, who wants to know?” He said shifting his weight to my side without appearing to move.
“Let’s just say, the friend of a friend who is a big fan,” I said then quickly put my eyes up for contact. He looked into them then straight back at the fish pond.
“And?” Tony moved his fingers from praying to interlocked.
“You see the guy four tables down on the right?” I let my leaning arms gesture minutely in that direction. I knew his eyes found my guy.
“Ya, what about him?” Tony took another look at me then went through the process of fumbling out cigarettes and lighting up, then back to leaning with a butt between his fingers while leaning in exactly the same posture.
“How much is he good for?” I asked like we already got to the point.
“Three, maybe four hundred. If I don’t get bored.” He took a drag and blew a succession of smoke rings that drifted out then down into the poolroom.
“See the guy with him, sitting, holding the coats?” Again I gestured carefully.
“Yup, hard to miss.” Tony said describing the hard edged character of considerable bulk that sat stone faced waiting for orders.
“OK, here’s the deal. I work for the guy holding the coats. The Boss knows the legend. The Boss doesn’t believe in luck. The coat holder makes the Bosses wishes come true. Sometimes people get hurt feelings, or just plain hurt. I make sure you don’t get hurt.”
“Go on,” Tony said as he put his cigarette out in a floor ashtray to his left. Then he pretended he was laughing at something off in the distance and waved. He turned back to leaning. I went on.
“You convince the Boss he won. You get five large.” I tapped five times quietly on the railing. Tony didn’t move for three minutes. Then he tapped ten times and put his hands in his pants pockets.
“He gotta believe it,” I paused and looked him in the eyes. “Beyond any kind of doubt and my end is guaranteed.” Then tapped seven times. Four minutes went by. Tony stepped away, lit another butt, and talked on his cell. He settled back in next to me.
“Go to the snack bar,” he said. “Tell the blonde sitting on a stool nearest the coffee machine you are my uncle John. Give her the dough. She will give you my pool stick.” Tony turned to his left and headed for the restrooms. When I got back I handed him his pool case. His cell rang and he told the blonde what to do.
“OK, sell it,” I said.
“Does the guy holding the coats ever smile?” Tony asked with a serious burrowed brow.
“Not that I’m aware of,” I said as if it were common knowledge.
“What’s his name?”
“Lucky Louis,” I said quietly as Tony started down the stairs into the poolroom.
“Perfect.” Is all he said.
727. Magoseph - 12/3/2006 4:50:57 AM Nu,
If Proof it Existed doesn't bring Macnas to the Mote, nothing will. Do not wait too long to continue, please. For my husband and me,the suspense is too unbearable to stand at this time in our lives. 728. Macnas - 12/5/2006 12:03:12 PM Ah now Mago, these days, with things to do and people to avoid, I'm out of sync with the things on my usual orbit.
Nu's writing reminds me, in parts, of Seth Morgan's Homeboy, and it's characters like the Barker, Quick Cicero and the Fat Man.
Nu's writing is, for all that, wholly his own. But I love the way it's as if his character inhabits the same world and knows the same people. 729. NuPlanetOne - 12/8/2006 5:28:54 PM Thanks Mago & Mac. I was thinking of kinda just ending ‘Proof’ as a short story right there, but I think I’ll go for one or two more scenes. All the while keeping ‘Piccatta’ on a back burner. (Excusing the pun, if you will.) I am surprised at how much I enjoy writing fiction, but it really is, if one were serious, a full time job. At any rate, growing up in a poolroom, cooking in an Italian restaurant and being around the Mob are things I know. The rest I will make up as I go. Wherever that may be. Ciao. 730. NuPlanetOne - 12/23/2006 6:11:15 PM Tony Chapter 2
Tony hit the bottom stair, turned his head up at me and winked. It was Showtime. He had his pool case under his arm like the longshoreman heading off to the docks with his lunch box. Three steps in and the chatter picked up and followed behind him like the sparkle trail off Tinkerbell. And in his environment, his element, Tony did have an enchanted aura. He was only twenty eight years old but in the fifteen years since he first saw the inside of a poolhall he had personally shook the hand of every wiseguy that was in anyone’s who’s who of infamous thugs, lugs, bosses and assassins. He had crossed them, fleeced them, embarrassed them and even stole a couple of girls. But he did it all on the felt surface of a pool table. He did it in a way and in a venue that was non-business, non-personal and he always did it right. If he had to lose, if there was any chance the dark side could seep in and cross the line, then he would lose in a spectacular way. And later, when the time was right and the bad guy had had his feast and wore out the brag, there would be a rematch and in a close finish Tony would get paid. And that was the legend. A compilation of seemingly convincing defeats followed by a masterful return bout. And hopefully Tony saw this deal in just that light. Lucky Louis did not return things with a receipt looking for a refund. He tended to smash the hell out of an item he had purchased if it didn’t perform according to manufacturers’ expectations as he understood them. Tony needed to perform as expected. Lucky Louis paid cash. No receipt was involved.
Tony’s first stop was by table one. It was Saturday night and that meant old man Pappy was playing Kelly Pool with a few of the old timers and anyone else who had the patience to wait while Pappy waddled around the table giving diatribes and advice to anyone who so much as looked at him. Kelly Pool was an elimination game. Every pool hall rat played or watched it at some point during their days closed off from the real world or from afternoons skipping school. In Kelly there were 15 pills inside a container representing the balls 1-15. Each pill resembled a billiard ball and had a flat face with the pill’s number. You shook out a pill for each player and the highest number broke the rack, then, after putting them all back in and re-shaking, you got your secret pill telling you which ball you needed to pocket in order to win. You sank the balls in numerical order and any incidental balls you buried, stayed buried, providing you made the object ball in sequence. If a guy had that pill, that guy payed up for being buried. Otherwise incidental sinkings were respotted into play and you lost your turn. If you made your secret pill, game over. All the players fork it over for the win. If someone buried you, you try to kill someoneone else on your next turn, because even though you are buried, you are still in. You can’t get everyone’s cash, but you do grab the cash from the pills you eliminate. Twenty bucks a pill, twenty bucks a kill. If you got ten players, that’s three sixty a rack. It can add up. But it’s like roulette. Hard to control that many variables, fun, but not set up for serious hustlers. Not even Tony could control that many contingencies. Even if he could get nine other guys to play with him.
731. NuPlanetOne - 12/23/2006 6:11:59 PM “Eh, minchone,” Pappy barked at a young kid playing eight ball with two of his friends on table five across the way. “You play the eight in the side, you scratch. You lose!”
The kid frowned and thought about it. Then tried it and watched hopelessly as the cue ball sailed down into the corner pocket.
“Pappy!” Tony chirped as over his left shoulder the kid’s cue ball banged side to side in the pocket then fell in like a golf ball teetering on the edge of the hole.
“Ah, stupido.” Pappy snorted over Tony’s shoulder. He smiled big at Tony and Tony faked two kisses on both sides of his face. It was an inside joke between him and Pappy from when Tony was a kid at Zazee’s Billiard Lounge, the Mecca of pool halls back in the day. Back then Pappy was the man. The Underboss. Guys had to greet him like that. Kiss both cheeks. Hope that Pappy might do this or that thing for them.
“Hey, I used to be that stupid kid ova there,” Tony said as he gripped the old man around the shoulders.
“Bullshit. At that age you was on the tour. I remember when you was fourteen. You ran 167 balls in a 200 pointer. Lefty stood up and ran 200. The next day I had Shaky teach you Three Rail Billiards. Two days later you beat Shaky. Lefty’s guys put up ten large. I covered and you ran 16 three railers in a row. And I know you remember each and every one of those shots like it was yesterday. Switch, you ever play Three Rail?” Pappy looked over at a demure gaunt guy sitting rigid and holding his pool cue with the tips of his fingers as it stood vertical in front of him. Like he was hiding behind it.
“That the one with no holes on the table.” Switch coughed onto the empty chair next to him then sucked a big drag off his cigarette. Smoke seemed to exhale out of every hole in his head.
Pappy ignored him and finished the Three Rail story. He explained that Three Rail was the Mother of all Pool games. Bigger table. No pockets. Three balls. Bigger than normal. Two white cue calls and one red ball. Maroon really. But fuck the color. You know what I mean, he said. It’s all about English and finesse and thinking inside the head. And I don’t mean the fuckin English language. I’m talking about the spin you apply. I mean seeing the cue ball like it had buttons on it. Instructions. Like those computer things that tell a million things what to do. Except the computer is in your head. And this kid had the head. I knew it when I saw him play those fuckin pinball machines back at Zazee’s. I thought he was retarded. And any pool player, no matter how fuckin good they was, especially if they were just shot makers, shied away from Three Rail. They had no holes to hunt. Sure, they could play position and line up shots in their heads and maybe never miss in pocket pool. But in Three Rail, the world ain’t flat, my friends. We are talking astrogily, what’s that greaseball’s name, Galaleyo, Galupo, what ever. You had to see the planets moving. Things goin through curves and circling around shit. Taking screwy turns and goin opposite ways. Ways you don’t expect. You had to push your white ball into one of those other two balls, then make your ball hit three rails and then hit that third ball you didn’t hit the first time. Or you could hit three rails first then hit the other two balls. Boat ways, it all had to add up in one big dance around the table to hit one ball, three rails, then hit the other ball. Fuck the order. And this kid, at fourteen, did it sixteen times in a row. With ten large on the table.
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