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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.
732. NuPlanetOne - 12/23/2006 6:12:34 PM “You understand physics, Switch?” Pappy asked as he finished his rant.
“What, physical? Like at the Doc’s?” Switch said and looked around the pool cue as if he just come into view. He waved at the smoke around his head as if he was looking hopefully into a burning toaster to see if the toast could be saved.
“Ya, physical,” Pappy snorted. “Keep suckin on those fuckin things. You won’t need a physical. Just an autopsy.” Switch hid behind the stick again.
“So what’s the game, Pap?” Tony asked as he eyeballed Switch and made sure Switch wasn’t getting pissed. Switch was Pappy’s bodyguard. Nothing Pappy said ever pissed him off. But it wasn’t safe if you were anybody else and you pissed him off. His real name was Angelo Anzoni. He got the nickname Switch on account of his weapon of choice was a personally fashioned switchblade knife that was honed almost to a razor sharp ice pick. According to who you talk to, his method of taking care of business was a thrust into the back of the neck, or a clean slice across the throat. They say he was in that business. The back of the neck meant you had already had a face to face, and the slice meant you deserved a hug, from behind, and a final word in your ear. Tony shrugged as if to say, “What can you do?” and threw a sincere glance of respect and rolled his eyes. Switch raised the hand with the eternal cigarette a tiny inch. This time he moved the stick to the side and nodded through the smoke. He liked Tony.
“Kelly. That’s the game. What else is there now.” Pappy broke free from Tony’s grip and starting chalking his pool cue with the wrong side of the chalk. Switch coughed and Pappy snorted, then righted the chalk.
“How bout you? You got a game yet?” Pappy added smiling now at Tony. Tony looked sideways down at Lucky Louis who sat like a brick holding the coats on his lap.
“Me? Ya, any second now.” Tony put his index finger to his lips to shush Pappy as a guy on the next table stepped into their space to make a shot. They froze in position and watched the guy make a cross corner shot on the three ball. Pappy shook his head approvingly. Tony shook his head with a slight grin. He knew how it ended. It was a straight on bank shot. The guy played it straight on. His cue ball stopped dead at the point of impact. He stuck it there with bottom English. Now his shot on the four ball was partly blocked by the six. All he had to do on the three was suck it back with a little lower right hand English and he would have been sitting comfortably by the side pocket with a clear shot on the four. But this showed the guy was somewhat typical of the above average player. Stopping the cue ball was less challenging than making it do things after hitting something else. Even striking the cue ball dead center and easy still required a prediction as to how far it moves after impact. Never mind drawing it right back at you and using the rail and spin to stop it so it splats instead of bounces. It meant his mind had to watch the other ball going back and forth and he just couldn’t deal with that and making the cue spin at the same time. Not that I could either, consistently, but there was a time when I was way above his level, at any rate.
“What? You thinking the guy down on table six?” Pappy and Tony had turned back my way facing the railing with Louis and the Boss behind them. Pappy talked into Tony’s left ear like he wasn’t really talking to him.
“It’s all set up. I just gutta make it happen,” Tony said, paused, then added, “You know these guys?”
“No. But Switch says they are out of Phoenix. The Boss guy is connected to South American stuff. The pile of rocks is Lucky Louis. Used to work outta Vegas. New York connection. Nobody to fuck with. Switch seemed nervous saying his name. Anyway, nobody I know.” Pappy reached under the table and brought up the bridge to rest his cue on. His days of stretching down the table were over. “Six ball,” he barked.
Pappy cut the six ball into the right corner pocket and sent the cue ball around to the left and took a little piece of the huddled balls down center with the ensuing movement. The seven ball hung in the right side pocket and he had just enough room to sneak through the opened balls, giving him a clear shot.
“Ha! Who’s gut the six. Cough it up!” Before anyone could move he slammed home the seven and stopped his cue ball dead. “Rack’em Scratch! That’s my pill. Dig in. Toss it ova here! Everyone. Let’s go!” Pappy winked at Tony then collected the twenties that the other six players put by the corner pocket. Except for scratch who threw down a fifty. “We draw pills for the break, right Pap?” Scratch asked as he started to pull balls out of the corner pockets to set up the next rack.
“Bullshit, we called winner breaks. Ain’t that right,” Pappy demanded in his unthreatening expecting agreement tone. “And what’s this fifty shit ova here. I got no fuckin tens. Go change that at the snack bar, that better be tobacco you’re smoking ova there. And get me a Reeses. No, that asshole neva has the Reeses. Get me a Mars Bar. Go.” Pappy motioned with his head. Scratch was Gone. Pappy motioned to Tony to come stand with him at the head of the table. “Hey, Rocco, you still with us. Rack’em. What, you got like three fuckin houses down the Cape. Show a little life.” A squat huge bottomed guy with a greasy stupid looking hair piece begrudgingly lifted the side of his fat ass that fit in the rigid plastic seats lined around the walls and headed around the table to finish the rack up. Tony joined Pappy.
733. Magoseph - 12/27/2006 12:00:54 PM Boy, this story has me on pins and needles--How long for Chapter 3, Nu? 734. NuPlanetOne - 1/6/2007 5:48:06 PM O.K Mago, Chap 3. I wish I had more time to do this, it's getting easier, but the patience required makes for some slow going.
Tony chapter 3
The bowling alley was actually a sports complex. The bowling end of the business was the main draw, but it also had indoor tennis and a health club in an adjacent wing, as well as a sports bar, restaurant, game room, and of course, the poolroom. There was also a swank Motor Lodge on the North end of the property which brought the whole megaplex into one tight world of intrigue. I left Tony and Pappy to tail Switch and see if the blonde was still hanging about. From the railing I had watched Switch head toward the snack bar but he took a quick right in toward the main desk, then, after about five minutes, came back into sight and continued on toward the open snack area. The blonde was scrunch faced staring into a laptop all alone at one of the scattered tables and Switch was standing behind a square block of a woman in a massive New England Patriots team jacket. She might have been a linebacker and Switch stood on guard with antennae up like he was behind an ox that might step back and crush his foot. The cash register made its digital flurry of beeps, she got her change, then headed off toward the lanes with a tray of food packed to feed a small catering event. Switch sashayed with all her movements then eyed her as she strode off. She took a look back at him after a distance. It was a fuck you look if ever there was one and Switch smirked then shook his head. The blonde stayed in her own self absorbed world and Switch ordered a Mars Bar. The background noise was a steady squelch of balls sailing down alleys and muted shrieks and the ping crash of bowling pins being scattered. But the foreground noise was crisp and serene by comparison. I took a stool to the left of the cash register and watched Switch leave with the Mars Bar. Nothing was said about changing a fifty. He headed straight back to the pool hall and disappeared down the steps. Either he already had change of a fifty or that was his reason to stop at the main desk. Even if he wasn’t standing at the spot in front of it when he floated out of sight as I watched from the railing. From my angle now looking toward the pool room I could see a sitting area with a huge selection of bowling balls and other paraphernalia and a door marked office, all of which were the part he disappeared into from my previous angle. Could mean nothing, but I have survived many things sweating little nothings.
735. NuPlanetOne - 1/6/2007 5:48:56 PM “Uncle John,” the unbelievable mouth and smile of the blonde said as she noticed me sitting there looking past her into open space.
“Oh, hey. Hi.” I tried to match the smile.
“Uncle John. Right. My code name.” I grabbed the other plastic chair at her table and made myself at home.
“Ya. He calls the ones he takes a dive for his Johns.” This she said in a childlike way but it came from a place that was effortlessly sensual and mature and flowed like an air freshener that would never run out of scent.
“What does he call the other ones?” I asked then watched her throw a handful of blond hair over her right shoulder, totally grown up now, allowing a better look at her face, not to mention a quick peek at her somewhat boney chest but wonderfully shaped breasts. I promised myself not to mention those under any circumstances. At least not in that conversation. She showed a wry grin.
“Well, they are all various kinds of fish to him, but when he is paid in advance for his services it can make it a little less interesting,” she said softly through the grin. “Although, when he is paid well, it does improve the performance.” She added with an emphatic coo.
“What’s a girl looking at in a laptop meanwhile?” I said affirming the coo and nodding down at the laptop.
“Oh, real estate. I’m actually working. It’s what I do.” She said then spun her head toward the wall clock in the snack bar. This time she threw all her hair behind her. Wholesome is what she was. Not a line or wrinkle. The kind of skin that would tan perfectly and never age. Perfectly matched blond hair that would cost a fortune to duplicate, except she got hers for nothing. It grew right out of her head. And if the faint golden down that was on her forearms covered any other parts of her I decided I might have to hate Tony just a little, if only to allow me to imagine those other parts.
“Need to be somewhere?” I gestured at the clock. Although I wondered how she could miss the little clock down in the corner on the laptop.
“Ya,” she drooped. “I have to slip out and go over a showing for this weekend. Have they started playing yet?”
“No, he’s warming up to it though. Talking to an old coot that seems to be his Grandpa or something.” I watched her arm as it closed the lid on the laptop then looked up and saw a healthy diamond stud in her left ear. There was a gold star above that.
“Oh, that’s Pappy. He’s known Tony since he was twelve. Pappy gave him a job at his poolroom cleaning up the place. Took him under his wing. Made sure he stayed clear of trouble. Pappy was…” She kind of blinked upward and trailed off a second as if to omit knowledge of inside information. “He was connected to the Mob.” She declared leaning her head in a bit and not really whispering, like it was a secret.
“What about his sidekick? The skinny guy?” I figured since we were telling well known secrets it was worth a shot.
“Oh. That’s Angelo. He goes everywhere Pappy goes. I call him the Boogey-man. He gives me the creeps. He never makes eye-contact, but he’s always staring at you. Weird though, he really likes Tony.” She searched for my eyes. I had to look. We looked at each other for a long minute.
“Everyone likes Tony,” I said. I had to say something to break the spell. Look too long in there and all kinds of things start to percolate. Hormones being born. Yet you felt like little accomplices were sneaking around in the background taking unguarded stuff.
“Ya, Tony,” she breathed. Her eyes sparkled and everything fled from everything. Kind of like it was a wonderful problem that made a bigger problem more bearable. “Thank God for Tony.” She blinked then touched my wrist to straighten it and seemed able to read the time on my watch upside down. Her fingers were warm. I felt it in my toes.
736. NuPlanetOne - 1/6/2007 5:49:29 PM “Not gonna stick around to root for our boy?” I said once I stopped analyzing my feelings.
“Well, he never hangs around while I’m working. He’ll call with an update. I’ll be at least two hours going over the details of this house with the owners. If they don’t change things.” She grimaced. “But that would be a first.”
“Be careful with the pay stub,” I said alluding to the tidy sum I had handed over earlier. She tapped her open briefcase sitting next to the closed laptop.
“Safe and sound. Right here,” she said and tapped the briefcase again. “Paid in advance,” she added. “Not worried Tony would run out on you?” She feigned mock concern mildly across her face.
“No one runs out on Lucky Louis. Not much future in that, but I suppose,” I pretended to exaggerate an expectation of an offended reaction, “that you could run out on Tony.”
“Well,” she said flatly unoffended, “then I would be cutting my losses. I make more than that little paystub selling just one property. Even if Tony did care about money. And he really doesn’t. If I didn’t look after it for him, he’d be happy living in his car. Or one of those rooms next door at the motel.” She glanced north as if there was something there that really bothered her. “They give him a room there. Whenever he needs one. He brings in the players.” She finished and stared through the walls toward the motel. I could tell she didn’t like that accommodation.
“Sounds pretty sweet. Everything under one roof. Like a big cruise ship.” I said it quick to keep her going.
“Ya. He helps pick the poker players. The high rollers. There’s always a game over there. And a few pool tables. The game here moves there after hours. The House skims everything. And Tony settles for scraps and leftovers.” She made this last point like she was beating the skeleton of a dead horse. Then quickly brightened as if I had heard it all before.
“Well,” I said as if I had actually heard it all before, “That’s Tony. And don’t tell me about that place, I’ve left more than a few bucks sitting in one or more of those rooms. And I don’t mean the happy ending rooms.” She only considered that part.
“Well, a girl can have her happy ending too,” she said gathering up her gear. She gave me a look that made me want to go to confession and pray I was included in that happy ending. To say she was sexy, missed the point.
“O.K. I’ll go root for our boy.” I said trying to appear neutral in a court proceeding. She nodded and moved away like a schoolgirl lugging books in front of her forcing her hips to sway in response to no arm movement. I remembered why confession required an act of contrition. You could think a sin. I decided to interrogate the snack bar guy. He was holding an empty soda cup and a straw and was staring at me. I smiled.
737. NuPlanetOne - 1/19/2007 4:44:24 AM Proof it Existed Chapter 3
The bowling alley was actually a sports complex. The bowling end of the business was the main draw, but it also had indoor tennis and a health club in an adjacent wing, as well as a sports bar, restaurant, game room, and of course, the poolroom. There was also a swank Motor Lodge on the North end of the property which brought the whole megaplex into one tight world of intrigue. I left Tony and Pappy to tail Switch and see if the blonde was still hanging about. From the railing I had watched Switch head toward the snack bar but he took a quick right in toward the main desk, then, after about five minutes, came back into sight and continued on toward the open snack area. The blonde was scrunch faced staring into a laptop all alone at one of the scattered tables and Switch was standing behind a square block of a woman in a massive New England Patriots team jacket. She might have been a linebacker and Switch stood on guard with antennae up like he was behind an ox that might step back and crush his foot. The cash register made its digital flurry of beeps, she got her change, then headed off toward the lanes with a tray of food packed to feed a small catering event. Switch sashayed with all her movements then eyed her as she strode off. She took a look back at him after a distance. It was a fuck you look if ever there was one and Switch smirked then shook his head. The blonde stayed in her own self absorbed world and Switch ordered a Mars Bar. The background noise was a steady squelch of balls sailing down alleys and muted shrieks and the ping crash of bowling pins being scattered. But the foreground noise was crisp and serene by comparison. I took a stool to the left of the cash register and watched Switch leave with the Mars Bar. Nothing was said about changing a fifty. He headed straight back to the pool hall and disappeared down the steps. Either he already had change of a fifty or that was his reason to stop at the main desk. Even if he wasn’t standing at the spot in front of it when he floated out of sight as I watched from the railing. From my angle now looking toward the pool room I could see a sitting area with a huge selection of bowling balls and other paraphernalia and a door marked office, all of which were the part he disappeared into from my previous angle. Could mean nothing, but I have survived many things sweating little nothings.
738. NuPlanetOne - 1/19/2007 4:45:00 AM “Uncle John,” the unbelievable mouth and smile of the blonde said as she noticed me sitting there looking past her into open space.
“Oh, hey. Hi.” I tried to match the smile. “Uncle John. Right. My code name.” I grabbed the other plastic chair at her table and made myself at home.
“Ya. He calls the ones he takes a dive for his Johns.” This she said in a childlike way but it came from a place that was effortlessly sensual and mature and flowed like an air freshener that would never run out of scent.
“What does he call the other ones?” I asked then watched her throw a handful of blond hair over her right shoulder, totally grown up now, allowing a better look at her face, not to mention a quick peek at her somewhat boney chest but wonderfully shaped breasts. I promised myself not to mention those under any circumstances. At least not in that conversation. She showed a wry grin.
“Well, they are all various kinds of fish to him, but when he is paid in advance for his services it can make it a little less interesting,” she said softly through the grin. “Although, when he is paid well, it does improve the performance.” She added with an emphatic coo.
“What’s a girl looking at in a laptop meanwhile?” I said affirming the coo and nodding down at the laptop.
“Oh, real estate. I’m actually working. It’s what I do.” She said then spun her head toward the wall clock in the snack bar. This time she threw all her hair behind her. Wholesome is what she was. Not a line or wrinkle. The kind of skin that would tan perfectly and never age. Perfectly matched blond hair that would cost a fortune to duplicate, except she got hers for nothing. It grew right out of her head. And if the faint golden down that was on her forearms covered any other parts of her I decided I might have to hate Tony just a little, if only to allow me to imagine those other parts.
“Need to be somewhere?” I gestured at the clock. Although I wondered how she could miss the little clock down in the corner on the laptop.
“Ya,” she drooped. “I have to slip out and go over a showing for this weekend. Have they started playing yet?”
“No, he’s warming up to it though. Talking to an old coot that seems to be his Grandpa or something.” I watched her arm as it closed the lid on the laptop then looked up and saw a healthy diamond stud in her left ear. There was a gold star above that.
“Oh, that’s Pappy. He’s known Tony since he was twelve. Pappy gave him a job at his poolroom cleaning up the place. Took him under his wing. Made sure he stayed clear of trouble. Pappy was…” She kind of blinked upward and trailed off a second as if to omit knowledge of inside information. “He was connected to the Mob.” She declared leaning her head in a bit and not really whispering, like it was a secret.
“What about his sidekick? The skinny guy?” I figured since we were telling well known secrets it was worth a shot.
“Oh. That’s Angelo. He goes everywhere Pappy goes. I call him the Boogey-man. He gives me the creeps. He never makes eye-contact, but he’s always staring at you. Weird though, he really likes Tony.” She searched for my eyes. I had to look. We looked at each other for a long minute.
“Everyone likes Tony,” I said. I had to say something to break the spell. Look too long in there and all kinds of things start to percolate. Hormones being born. Yet you felt like little accomplices were sneaking around in the background taking unguarded stuff.
739. NuPlanetOne - 1/19/2007 4:45:46 AM “Ya, Tony,” she breathed. Her eyes sparkled and everything fled from everything. Kind of like it was a wonderful problem that made a bigger problem more bearable. “Thank God for Tony.” She blinked then touched my wrist to straighten it and seemed able to read the time on my watch upside down. Her fingers were warm. I felt it in my toes.
“Not gonna stick around to root for our boy?” I said once I stopped analyzing my feelings.
“Well, he never hangs around while I’m working. He’ll call with an update. I’ll be at least two hours going over the details of this house with the owners. If they don’t change things.” She winced. “But that would be a first.”
“Be careful with the pay stub,” I said alluding to the tidy sum I had handed over earlier. She tapped her open briefcase sitting next to the closed laptop.
“Safe and sound. Right here,” she said and tapped the briefcase again. “Paid in advance,” she added. “Not worried Tony would run out on you?” She feigned mock concern mildly across her face.
“No one runs out on Lucky Louis. Not much future in that, but I suppose,” I pretended to exaggerate an expectation of an offended reaction, “that you could run out on Tony.”
“Well,” she said flatly unoffended, “then I would be cutting my losses. I make more than that little paystub selling just one property. Even if Tony did care about money. And he really doesn’t. If I didn’t look after it for him, he’d be happy living in his car. Or one of those rooms next door at the motel.” She glanced north as if there was something there that really bothered her. “They give him a room there. Whenever he needs one. He brings in the players.” She finished and stared through the walls toward the motel. I could tell she didn’t like that accommodation.
“Sounds pretty sweet. Everything under one roof. Like a big cruise ship.” I said it quick to keep her going.
“Ya. He helps pick the poker players. The high rollers. There’s always a game over there. And a few pool tables. The game here moves there after hours. The House skims everything. And Tony settles for scraps and leftovers.” She made this last point like she was beating the skeleton of a dead horse. Then quickly brightened as if I had heard it all before.
“Well,” I said as if I had actually heard it all before, “That’s Tony. And don’t tell me about that place, I’ve left more than a few bucks sitting in one or more of those rooms. And I don’t mean the happy ending rooms.” She only considered that part.
“Well, a girl can have her happy ending too,” she said gathering up her gear. She gave me a look that made me want to go to confession and pray I was included in that happy ending. To say she was sexy, missed the point.
“O.K. I’ll go root for our boy.” I said trying to appear neutral in a court proceeding. She nodded and moved away like a schoolgirl lugging books in front of her forcing her hips to sway in response to no arm movement. I remembered why confession required an act of contrition. You could think a sin. I decided to interrogate the snack bar guy. He was holding an empty soda cup and a straw and was staring at me. I smiled.
740. NuPlanetOne - 1/19/2007 4:46:49 AM The snack bar was deliberately stuck in the fifties. For newcomers to the game and alley allure it was retro. And retro was back at the forefront of in. To the hip and almost cool it was like that plastic pink flamingo on their Grandma’s lawn. Extinct, but wicked cool. To the old-timers it was an oasis in the middle of a techno-modern world that they tried to master reluctantly, especially since bowling alleys went from the fifties to the eighties in one jump, if they jumped at all. There were two long sky blue plastic benches that formed an open right angle completing a box finished by the snack bar counter and long window overlooking the parking lot. The open section at the corner of the benches that didn’t meet provided a doorway area. It was like a kitchenette in a studio apartment, all part of a big room, but sealed off by the idea. Everything from the long menu board with hand positioned letters to the lemonade percolating in the bubbler near the snow cone machine reeked of ’56 and had that Technicolor purity that precluded pastels. Only the cash register looked out of place. But there was nothing retro about money.
“You gonna fill that cup, or just hoping for a sale?” I asked the snack bar guy as I slid back onto my stool next to the register. He put the cup down.
“No. The cup. No. You want a soda?” He tipped the cup at me then toward the soda machine.
“Naw. Just hangin out. Talking to pretty girls.” He threw the cup and straw into the trash at his left. I guess it was tainted now.
“Isn’t that Tony’s girl?” He asked as his eyes slid over toward the path the blonde had taken to the door. He straightened some straws near the register.
“That’s what they tell me,” I said gloomily. “Why, someone say she wasn’t?” I gave him a look with a slight befuddled air of being out of the loop, like I would need to know that.
“Oh. I don’t think so. She just hasn’t been around lately.” He pushed the tip of a cap up a bit. It said Freddie’s on it. He looked across the way toward the main office. I ignored that. He straightened the cups up and reached under the counter and brought up some lids and stacked them next to the cups. Two swinging doors pushed open in a hole in the wall behind him next to a long flat top grille and a slender, squinting female came out wiping her hands in a wad of paper towels. She was dressed like the snack bar guy except for a black apron covering her front. Her cap had a pony tail sticking out the back with the name of the snack bar, ‘The Alley Grille,’ emblazoned across the front. She ignored us and got busy stocking things around the grille. The snack bar guy asked her if the burgers had thawed. They had.
“I guess you would have to notice when she is around, ha?” I colored the innuendo to invite a mutual mental ogling. His eye brows rose a bit and he made a face like a kid thinking things up for Santa. He checked it twice by letting his eyes again wander after the path the blond had marched to the door.
“Not hard on the eyes,” he said revealing toy number one.
“You think?” I said. “Hard? The hard part is easy for you, you’re standing behind a counter.” He relaxed and laughed shaking his head slowly up and down. The grille girl smirked over her left shoulder and showed two green eyes mildly amused. Maybe she thought we meant her. Though I suspected she was on his wish list.
741. NuPlanetOne - 1/19/2007 4:48:00 AM “Ya, Tony can pick’em,” he nodded. “And choose!”
“Who you talking about, anyway?” The grille girl demanded.
“Tony. And Tony’s girl,” he shot off to his right.
“Oh. Tony,” she pursed her lips and I could see an impish grin on the side of her face as it turned our way. “What about Tony’s girl?” The face was hopeful. “They finally split yet. ‘Bout time. Hey! Could be your big chance Ollie. I know she likes you.” She made sure she had his eyes and flashed an o.k. I’ll stop look and whooshed some water onto the grille. The hiss of the steam bellowed up into the fan hood and she scraped at the surface with a grille brush. Ollie watched that then looked at me and rolled his eyes.
“Couldn’t blame a guy for at least thinking it over,” I leaned in to say with my eyes suggesting the possibility.
“Ya, well,” he nodded his head toward the grille behind him. “Nothing to say on that, actually.” He grimaced like a donkey clenching its asshole. I expected a bray if I dug any deeper.
“Oh. Ya. Sure,” I said like he actually had something to report on his chances with the blond. It seemed doubtful he even had a chance with the grille girl. She was looking at me like she had a secret. She pulled her cap off and fussed with her hair. She looked different. It was worth watching.
“So, you want a sandwich,” Ollie asked signaling defeat on his chances with the blond. He snuck a look at the grille girl and saw her facing the grille readjusting her cap.
“Na, not right now. Gonna head back down to the pool room in a bit. Probably eat later on.” I decided I couldn’t work him over with an audience. Instead, I’d make a move on the main desk.
“ Oh, sure. O.K.,” he said as he slid a pace to his right and scooped up some crumbs that had been aggravating his peripheral vision. He scanned the length of the counter to make sure he had them all, slid back, and leaned comfortably on the register like a spider that had just run down the web on a false alarm.
“Who run the desk over there?” I jerked my head over my right shoulder.
“Vinnie Rocco,” He said. “He’s probably in the office right now” He stopped leaning after saying the name as if he just remembered he was really standing out in the middle of a treeless desert with nowhere to hide.
“Vinnie Rocco,” I repeated. I locked eyes with the grille girl and the area around her eyes tightened into severe curiosity. Then she turned away. I spun off the stool and headed over to the main desk.
742. NuPlanetOne - 1/19/2007 4:52:35 AM ....just adding on to chap 3, sorry for the replay. just a few minor changes. 743. alistairconnor - 1/19/2007 12:21:51 PM It was worth reading again. The ambience is really palpable.
Do you know where the story's going, or are you winging it? It seems to be heading for a climax with the game itself, but now we've got Tony's girl who surely has to make another appearance... Intriguing.
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