by JJ Partridge
I flubbed the shot but cleared out the cue ball, allowing me to make the five ball, then make a decent shot at the six. I chalked the cue, surveyed the table, and proceeded to clear seven through nine. Satisfied, I put away my stick and grabbed a Poland Spring bottle from the refrigerator behind the long mahogany bring-your-own bar near the outside entrance for my walk back to the office. All under control? And it came to me, that misbegotten weekend I became Young Jimmy’s sweater.
A month before the end of my first semester in my third year at Harvard Law, I was running low on the cash I earned as a summer bartender at the Black Dog Tavern on Martha’s Vineyard.
Being stubbornly independent even then, I was intent on paying my own way through my third year. First semester tuition had been paid and I had banked the necessary for living expenses but was way short on both for second semester, in part because I shared an apartment in Cambridge with Tony Tramonti, whose family owned a growing construction firm, who wasn’t on much of a budget.
I saw myself weekend bartending all second semester until one night, as I watched a visiting Young Jimmy on a hustle in a dingy Cambridge pool hall near Porter Square, I got an idea. By then, Young Jimmy was known in Rhode Island and parts of Connecticut, but not so much in Massachusetts. His play that night was not at all flashy, making easy shots and winning most—but not all short money matches—which he claimed was luck, hoping to attract a bigger fish. In the haze of too many beers, I calculated that in a weekend being his sweater, and some decent action, I could double or triple the twenty-five hundred I had left, more than enough for second semester tuition and expenses without all that bartending. Young Jimmy enthusiastically agreed, we would split winnings fifty-fifty, and he said he had a place in mind.
The play was in Everett, a blue-collar town north of Boston, and the venue was Falvey’s Billiard Parlor, a strip-center pool hall with decent tables that attracted upper tier players on weekends. On a Friday night, we checked into a Holiday Inn off Route 28, and reconnoitered after eight. My cash and another five hundred from Young Jimmy gave us three thousand to stake against players who occasionally frequented Falvey’s, the likes of ‘Boston Shortie,’ Jimmy ‘Varnish’ Vacca, Roland ‘One Eye’ Miller, Leo ‘the Saint’ Cardillo, ‘Slim’ Atkins, ‘Big Bob’ Halsey, and Freddie ‘Dinner Pail’ Moscato. Pool guys love nicknames.
That first night, Young Jimmy lined up ten-dollar, twenty-dollar matches, flashing cash, haggling about points, playing one-pocket and nine-ball, and not very well. I also played and lost a few bucks to give the impression that my pal was as amateurish as me. The hustle was on. Young Jimmy sipped orange juice—the rail birds probably thought he was downing screwdrivers—and he got louder as the night progressed, saying he was looking for action.
The next day, we arrived at Falvey’s in the early afternoon, Young Jimmy again sipping orange juice, chatting up players who drifted in, from whom he determined to concentrate on local attorney Harry Blatt, an okay player who liked and could afford action. Word was he would be in that evening. We left, spent the rest of the afternoon watching a Paul Newman movie on a crappy TV in the motel and returned to Falvey’s about six. More shooters showed up and Young Jimmy played a few twenty dollar nine-ball games, winning some and losing some, showing no spark of brilliance, but flashing his roll, saying he needed a real game. It was, of course, more hustle.
We went out for dinner and came back around ten thirty. By then, players would be talking about this braggart, long on talk and short on ability, and it wasn’t long before he had a match set up with Harry Blatt.
Harry Blatt looked like his name sounded. Almost bald, sallow skinned, black goatee, wide shoulders, a gut, a greenish dress shirt that tailed out of his trousers, and a hip swivel in his gait. He had an exotic shot that somehow seemed to work for him but would never work for anyone else, like a Jack Furyk golf swing. The bet was two hundred dollars, the game was nine-ball, our cash matched his on top of the table’s lamp shade, and Harry got spotted the eight ball, which meant that if Harry made the eight ball, he didn’t have to pocket the nine to win. They played to seven games and it was close, but Young Jimmy lost. More hustle. They played again, same bet, and this time Young Jimmy won by one game. The attorney swallowed the con and raised the third match to five hundred dollars. He started off great, winning three games but soon faded and Young Jimmy began his move. Nothing he did was brilliant, playing not for show but for game, and won seven-five. The crowd of rail birds grew and whatever else was going on at Falvey’s paled.
We were up five hundred and I was getting excited, thinking how much we would win. Harry, clearly a sore loser, called for another match at five hundred. He won two games, then began to lose it. After every shot, he started talking trash, muttered or screamed, as the case may be, “fuckin’ this,” “fuckin’ that,” “motherfuckin’ balls,” “the lights in here are terrible…” Young Jimmy didn’t say much, just sipped orange juice. After Young Jimmy coaxed Harry along so as to beat him only by a game, Harry gave it another try for five hundred, got the break and the eight ball and won four straight games. It didn’t look good for Young Jimmy and then the roof fell in on Harry. Once again Young Jimmy managed to keep Harry in the game, but the result was certain. So, by one in the morning, we were up fifteen hundred—for me that was seven-fifty—and more to come.
After Harry quit, Big Bob Halsey, who had come in during the last match, approached Young Jimmy at the bar. In a size fifty sport coat over a gray tee and baggy trousers that fell from his gut, he was as advertised. His round head reminded me of a pumpkin because of a cowlick of thick brown hair that sprouted out of his head like a stem. He said simply, “Thousand a game. Even.” Young Jimmy told the whole bar, including Big Bob, that he was tired but maybe he would play on Sunday night. That wasn’t part of our game plan, but I figured Young Jimmy was ahead of me. We left but not before agreeing to a match at nine o’clock on Sunday.
Later, Young Jimmy talked about playing Big Bob. The pool wisdom of the time was that heavyset players, on their feet for hours, tired early, their feet would hurt, and they would lose concentration. I liked the thought, easily putting out of mind that there was a world class player known as Minnesota Fats. Young Jimmy said Big Bob, by reputation, was good, but not a top ranker. Since we were up by fifteen hundred plus our stake of three thousand, he figured this was an opportunity to score big, especially if he could finagle the eight spot in the wager. We were charged up and forgot a rule: never play someone for high stakes you haven’t seen play. Especially on tables in a venue you don’t know well.
On Sunday evening, we arrived at eight. Big Bob was at a snooker table shooting balls, wearing the same jacket and pants. As a crowd of rail birds gathered, Young Jimmy ordered an orange juice and practiced at an adjoining table, occasionally taking a break to watch Big Bob’s shots.
After give and take, they ended up playing even; the bet was a thousand which went into escrow on the lampshade. News of a money match quickly spread and the sports crowded the table, their antics nothing short of commodity traders in their pits as they laid down bets. After two matches, the same cash remained on the light fixture, each player having won a match. The rail birds were still expectant; as for me, I watched the play, waiting for that Fox Point Kid flash of brilliance that hadn’t yet come. Still in a hustle? I knew Young Jimmy had the uncanny ability to ignore distractions, that he poured on his game when he had to, so I remained confident.
The next match was raised by Big Bob to fifteen hundred and Young Jimmy lost seven to five and paid the bet. Dance over? We were still five hundred up. Young Jimmy assured me, “I can beat him. Got to catch a roll.” He went for another match at fifteen hundred and lost again and suddenly we were into our stake by a thousand. I took Young Jimmy aside. He looked pale and uncomfortable. “What’s happening?”
“I don’t know. It isn’t like I’m just not playing well, I’m just not playing great and he’s a steady Eddie if there ever was one.”
>
“What do you think we should do?” My stomach was churning.
“I think we should go for two big ones.” That was all we had left. “I can take him.”
“You don’t look good. Maybe we should quit. Tell ’em you’re not feeling well.”
“No, it’s all under control.” He wanted to play so badly, I didn’t insist.
Throughout the match, Young Jimmy remained a consistent game behind, missing shots by an extra spin or a spot more English. I was beginning to wonder about the orange juice; was a drop or two of something added at the bar? Young Jimmy lost seven-five after a flourish of great shots by Big Bob. He collected his winnings, offered to buy us drinks, which we declined. One loud mouth rail bird who won his bet muttered “sucker.” I felt my fists harden, thinking Young Jimmy had been somehow hustled. When a couple of sore losers glowered menacingly, I got Young Jimmy out of there, into the parking lot behind the pool hall where we had parked my car, where Young Jimmy heaved. Heaved!
As we drove back to Cambridge, I insisted that the orange juice was spiked. He said, “No.”
“So what went wrong?”
“Nothing went wrong. It’s just the way it goes. Some days you have it, some weeks you have it. You win when you’re not supposed to, so you lose when you’re not supposed to. You can have months when you have it, and then it’s gone.” He shrugged. “I just hit a gone.”
So ended my career as a sweater; ahead of me were months of second-semester bartending for tuition and expenses. A hard and good lesson for me; never bet on pool. A walk in the park for Young Jimmy.
As I recover from the sucker punch, my breath returning, my heartbeat pounding less in my head, I concentrate on nose breathing—never had to think about that before. Except during that long day in Beirut. Then, a siren blares. A police siren. Coming closer. We slow, and for a moment, hope is alive. Benno! And the siren shuts off abruptly somewhere behind us.
Another bad jolt and oh, my knees! My knees? I remember being grabbed from behind, my arms in a body lock. Marine training had locked in with a head-butt that missed, but getting my thigh into a crotch and an elbow into a gut loosened the hold. “Fuck,” he groaned, and that’s when a fist pushed my stomach into my backbone. I went to my knees, breaking my fall, sliding forward to be face down in the greasy smell of wet asphalt.
With effort, I flatten my back on the floor to brace my shoes against a side of the trunk. Then I sense the car gain speed without jolts, has to be on a highway ramp on to either I-95 or the I-295 ring road around Providence. In the minutes of relative smoothness, I discover that the hastily wound tape around my wrists also covers the cuffs of my slicker, giving a little wiggle room underneath. I work my wrists, I yank, I twist, feel some give, but not enough. Anyway, just what the hell am I going to do if somehow I got loose? Use my cell phone? It’s in the pocket of my jacket on the rear goddamn seat!
8
THE CONSENSUS OF THE Champlin & Burrill lawyers, most of them in the New York office, was that Ravensford Capital wouldn’t survive the weekend. For what it might be worth, I authorized drafting a court complaint seeking a restraining order against any disbursements by the investment firm until things were sorted out. We also agreed to meet in their Midtown office in the late morning for a strategy session. The timing worked for me because I could look forward to Nadie’s company on Amtrak; she didn’t have classes on Tuesdays and planned to be in the City tomorrow for a final gown fitting at Vera Wang and a last visit with her widowed mother in Brooklyn before the wedding. Mrs. Zelda Winokur was a nervous Nellie about our wedding, even at this late date, with frequent cautions and suggestions and dependence on her daughter, even for simple matters like transportation to Providence and appropriate mother-of-the-bride clothes.
After the conference call, Marcie informed me that Eustace Pine, a senior partner at Champlin & Burrill and Italo Palagi’s estate lawyer, had telephoned. “Wanted you to call back as soon as you can. Sounded anxious.”
I was aware that Pine, a crusty practitioner of the arcane art of probate law, was frustrated. He had to wait weeks for an autopsy report before filing a petition to probate Palagi’s will. The unexpected challenge from the putative son was another cross to bear. Had something else triggered his chronic irritability when carefully laid plans for a smooth estate administration went awry? He was still sputtering when he said, “After all this time, Palagi’s secretary, Claudia Cioffi, his nominated executor, just refused to sign the probate petition! Or serve as the executor!” An executor is the individual that the deceased nominates in a will to administer the provisions of an estate plan under court supervision and sees to the payment of taxes and bequests. Not a difficult task, especially when counseled by an experienced attorney such as Pine.
“Why?” I asked.
“Wouldn’t give a reason. Hung up on me,” Pine said, dismay in his Yankee twang. “His bequest to her is two hundred thousand and she won’t serve? Can you imagine? As a precaution, I called the nominated alternate, Father Pi-e-tro Sac-chi”—the syllables in each name were elongated—“a professor at Providence College. He’s the beneficiary of a fifty thousand dollar bequest. And, he turned me down! Can’t believe it! There’s even another complication. He said Palagi gave him an envelope to be opened in my presence, and yours, Algy, thirty days after Palagi’s death. That’s today. Wants to meet immediately. What’s this all about?”
“Damned if I know.”
Pine continued, sotto voce, as though unfriendly ears might overhear. “I fear some sort of will amendment. These Italians are so damn murky.” He pronounced it eye-talians as East Siders of a certain pedigree and age tended to do.
I interrupted his take on eye-talians to inform him of the probable loss of Palagi’s trust assets in the Sugarman debacle—he was aghast—and that Lucca & Lucca had surfaced. “Contingency lawyers,” he grumbled, “just like the lawyers the son retained in New York … ah…” he was likely searching a file strewn desk for the lawyers’ names, “…Guc-ci, Mon-te-cal-vo and Ot-ta-vani. All they do is hold up an estate administration to force a settlement. And their Roman counterpart is likely much the same.”
“You’ve had time to check out the claim. What’s their legal theory?” I asked.
“They argue that Palagi died an Italian citizen so the estate laws of Italy apply, which would favor a son. Completely specious, of course,” he said firmly. “Under Italian law, if Palagi had domicile in Rhode Island—which he did—only Rhode Island law applies to his estate and any inheritance in the United States. In any event, Palagi had ample time since the date of his alleged acknowledgement of his son in April to change his will in favor of the son, which he didn’t. In addition, two clauses in Palagi’s will negate their position.”
A rustle of papers preceded his reading, “My failure to make any provision herein for any heir at law, known or unknown, whether living or hereafter born, is intentional and not occasioned by accident or mistake.”
“And here is the other, an in terrorem clause: It is my intent, to the fullest extent permitted by law, that any person who commences or joins in any litigation opposing the probate of my will or any of its provisions shall be totally disinherited by me and shall take no share in my estate.”
“Sounds like out on both counts,” I said.
“Of course,” Pine continued, perhaps smugly, “those paragraphs apply only to his estate assets. We don’t know what his estate consists until we can gain access to his records. As to trust assets … as to whatever is left in the trust … the son, assuming he is a son, has no right whatsoever under Rhode Island law to assets long ago placed in trust.”
“Doesn’t sound quite fair, somehow,” I rejoined. “If he didn’t know he had a son, planned his estate accordingly, and…”
My hesitation appalled Pine. “Algy, the law encompasses important principles and assumes rationality and presumes he knew of the provisions of his will and trust and failed to change his estate plan to favor his son. He had
time but didn’t. The burden is on the plaintiff to produce uncontradicted, clear, and convincing evidence that the will should be put aside. Can’t make things up after the fact.”
Despite Pine’s certainty, years as a litigator at his firm before I became University Counsel taught me that in a court battle, the literal reading of the documents and applicable law, fairness, right and wrong, fell away to skill, gamesmanship, and craftiness. Intention, virtue, truth, or good guys did not always prevail.
He continued, “There is urgency to our meeting with the padre. He is leaving for Italy on Sunday. For a year!”
“See what you can arrange, Eustace. I’m in New York tomorrow, so try Wednesday.”
“Algy, he’s very insistent it must be today.”
“Today?”
“Very insistent. And I want to convince him to act as executor. It’s more than a little out of the ordinary to have both the nominated executor and the alternate refuse to serve. Gives the probate judge, Judge Cremasoli, the right to appoint a crony as administrator. And you know how expensive and time-consuming that could be.”
And might well favor the politically entrenched Luccas. I checked my watch. It was three-ten. “Can’t do it until after four … try for four thirty.”
“He said he would be free all afternoon.” What followed was a series of throat-clearing gasps ending in a chortle. “Wait until the Luccas find out that the trust may be practically worthless.” He barely repressed another chortle when he likely remembered that, the University was the real loser.