by JJ Partridge
“I’m wearing my asbestos suit.”
“Yeah,” he smiled back and moved with me toward the door. “You would have loved Fausto’s replacements. Forget his good government bullshit. First and foremost had to be an Italo from the right ward.” His chuckle was halfhearted. In the foyer, he added, “Fausto will ease off. He always does. And I need you there.” And I considered we had an unspoken understanding as to Fausto. “As to the tax treaty negotiations, it will be a longer haul. Maybe the ante will have to be raised to get any deal done. Get prepared.”
26
BACK AT COLLEGE HALL, I took a call from Eustace Pine. Within fifteen minutes of filing Palagi’s probate petition this morning, Judge Cremasoli ordered a chamber’s conference next Tuesday. Pine, who was, after all, the attorney for Palagi’s estate, asked me if I was going to be there to represent the University.
Now, that was a damn good question. I had assumed I would be, but with my knowledge of Palagi’s recording, and with Columbus Day now in the mix, I would be tripping all over myself before Judge Cremasoli. I was out. Who should I retain? Pine would do a competent job on all legal issues, but what we needed was a tough lawyer who matched the contacts and political stature of our opponents. Fausto Tramonti? Not after this morning. Who better than Joe Laretta? In the murky intersection of law and Providence politics, I knew I could trust Joe. Once he was locked in, there was no better or more loyal advocate.
I told Pine I would soon have an answer for him and ended the call. I punched in Laretta’s cell phone number and he answered from his car on Route 95. I outlined the situation, and as importantly, the players.
“Algy,” he replied less than enthused, “I’ve been in the probate court twice. For relatives. I don’t know a damn thing about probate law and never want to.”
“Look, Joe, I’m too much of a Tramonti guy and with this Columbus Day …”
“I know.”
“… I need someone to watch our back. I can’t think of anyone better than you.”
“Thanks. I guess.” He touched his car horn. “Listen, I got a huge caseload at the moment, a trial starting Wednesday in federal court. I’m not sure I can give you the time and effort that you need on this.”
“Pine will take the lead on the probate procedures and the like. You advise us on a practical level. Besides, you’ll want to be there on Tuesday just to see Puppy Dog’s face.” I emphasized Puppy Dog Goldbloom because Laretta absolutely despised him; if there was an inducement to get Laretta into the case, it was the prospect of whipping Puppy Dog.
“If I do this, it’s at a premium. You guys are so cheap up there, that ought to make you gag.”
My office is known to keep outside counsel on a tight billing rate leash, but I needed him. “You got it.”
He laughed at my quick acceptance. “Okay, e-mail everything you have, a copy of the will, trust, any information on the son, in fact, anything I can read over the weekend. The rest of it I can pick up as I go along. I know Cremasoli. He’s a past president of the Italo-American Brotherhood, grew up on the Hill on Spruce Street …”
“Can we get a fair shake?”
“He prefers to keep everybody happy, if he can. By that I mean, he’s in every corner when he needs to be. He’s also an inquisitive bastard. Laps up gossip like a cat at the milk dish. You should hear him at the Aurora.” The Aurora Club was an Italo-American dining club housed in a Queen Anne style mansion on Broadway. Best veal and calamari in Providence, fabulous antipasto. “Member of my table.”
I smiled with satisfaction. My team was in place.
The Provost informed senior staff at our weekly Thursday meeting that despite messages left at the Institute’s campus in Rome and on his cell phone, Cosimo Brunotti, knowingly or not, had crossed the Rubicon with interviews with Italian newspapers, il Foglio on the political right, Il Sole 24 Oro in the center, and La Repubblica on the left, and on camera on RAI television where he was quoted as decrying the faculty senate vote as “an affront to the illustrious character and history of the Italian people.” The very angry Provost described Brunotti as a preening, traitorous jerk.
Who knew?
Carter University was not standing on pride when two hundred years ago it assigned its President a modest first floor office in College Hall, presently consisting of a secretarial desk at the end of the hall, a modest conference room, and a slightly larger office. When Charles Danby saw me leaving the staff meeting, he asked me to join him. The College Hill Independent, likely full of pissy rants and rancor on the Columbus Day name change, was on his desk.
“Some difficult discussions coming up at the Trustees’ meetings. Columbus Day and the tax treaty will loom over the meetings like a shroud.”
I sat across his desk as his eyes searched a cluttered desktop and found stationery with the seal of the City of Providence. “From the Mayor. Not too bad. In fact, one of the few rational ones.”
It was formal, addressed to President Danby, and began: I find it difficult to accept that Carter University, an outstanding educational institution, has erased from its calendar the celebration of a significant moment in history and Italo-American culture for the sake of political correctness. And so on.
I related the Mayor’s comments on the tax treaty negotiations. “About what I expected,” Danby responded. “And I don’t see this damping down soon. Look at these.”
He slid a manila file across the desk that contained printouts from national media, conservative screeds, blogs on Italo-American affairs, e-mails and letters from alumni and politicians, and translations from angry Italian newspapers.
“And these,” he said handing me another file of printouts, from Huffington Post, liberal blogs, a ‘get a life’ Keith Olbermann blast at Italo-Americans and right-wing critics, and letters and e-mails from faculty and students coming down hard on the Provost who was seen as carrying the Administration’s water on the issue. I returned the files to his desk and he handed me this morning’s Crier which had the largest print headline I had ever seen in the student newspaper: PRESIDENT PUNTS ON NATIVE AMERICAN DAY. No need to read the rest. “Got it wrong even though I spent a half hour on the phone with the reporter last night.”
Changing topics, he said, “Brunotti has had press interviews.”
“His ego is as impervious as Carrara marble.”
Danby referred to a desk book and punched in numbers into his cell phone and touched the speaker button. Brunotti’s secretary answered and informed him that Signor Brunotti’s calendar indicated he would be in Milan today, meeting with donors. It was now after five o’clock in Milan. Brusquely, Danby said, “I want you to get him my message immediately,” he looked at me, “to call the Provost or Mr. Temple. As soon as possible.”
How was it I managed to be included?
27
AFTER A LATE LUNCH that consisted of take-out chili from Costa’s, I navigated the Shoot-Out’s website for details of tonight’s events and matches, thinking I would attend Young Jimmy’s first exhibition. I also checked the referee schedule page and found that Commissioner Alby Temple was scheduled to super-ref tonight at En Core Sports Bar on South Water Street.
Got to be kidding! Because of the number of players, the first round of amateur play would be at pool halls and sports bars scattered within a thirty mile radius. But I didn’t figure on an assignment at En Core, a sports bar adjoining Hard Core, also owned by Scuiglie. Likely, a rub-your-face-in-it challenge that I could not ignore from Hap Sanders or Puppy Dog.
I texted Nadie that I had drawn ref duty and would be home around ten. Later, she texted back that she would be packing for her bachelorette weekend in New York and to “watch out.”
Dressed in casual clothes I kept in the office, I parked in the lot at the rear of Jimmy’s next to a dish-festooned satellite transmission truck from Channel 8 at the canopied staircase to the Billiard Club. Chef Jao sat on a back stair smoking a cigarette. His thumb went up. “The Fox Point Kid is being interviewed,” and
shook his head ruefully.
Beyond the elegant mahogany bar, on the seating platform that overlooked the tables, Young Jimmy, bathed in camera lights, in an open collar, light blue dress shirt, his hair neatly combed, faced the sports reporter for the station. Both were being fitted for lapel mikes. A crowd of pool players, beers in hand, while interested, were audibly cranky about the interruption in their games and had to be quieted by Young Jimmy. I found a spot directly behind the cameraman, so close I saw Young Jimmy’s ear-to-ear grin in the camera’s view finder. The reporter, adjusting the hardware around his neck, said, “And when we finish, we go down to that table, and you break, and that’s it.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Young Jimmy replied and glanced over to a nearby table illuminated by a bank of lights where a cue lay next to a nine-ball rack.
“Okay,” the reporter replied loudly to a question from the cameraman, “sixty seconds.” After another voice check, a red light blinked over the view finder, and the reporter broke into a toothy smile.
“You have probably noticed from the billboards and hoopla that Providence is thronged with thousands of pool players and pool fans for the Shoot-Out Tournament. Pool doesn’t get a lot of media coverage. It’s a game played in sports bars and clubs and rec rooms, not at McCoy Stadium. I’m here in the Billiard Club on Wickenden Street in Providence, owned and operated by Jimmy Hannigan, the best pool player to ever come out of New England, remembered as The Fox Point Kid and who was honored last night by the Shoot-Out Tournament. Thanks for having us, Jimmy.”
Young Jimmy smiled broadly. “My pleasure.”
“Jimmy, you’re involved in the tournament. Tell us a little about your role.”
“Well, I’m honored to be part of it. I’ve been teaching today, giving some pointers, welcoming players and fans to our city. Through Saturday, I also play some exhibition matches.”
“How long has it been since you’ve played professionally?”
“Over twenty years. Now, I’ve gotta tell you that pool was a lot different in those days. I’ve played in tournaments for pots that were miniscule compared to what they have now at Mohegan Sun or at Foxwoods or Las Vegas, and nothing like what will be won at the Shoot-Out!”
“Jimmy, this is good for Providence?”
Young Jimmy replied earnestly, “Best thing that could happen to Providence and to pool. All these folks coming into town are going to have a great time, to spend a lot of money enjoying themselves, and play some great matches. I hope everyone comes down to the Convention Center and the Dunk to watch.”
“What do you think about the gaming aspects?”
Young Jimmy answered as though he had been scripted. “I know that’s a little controversial but it’s all legit, being run by the Lotto Commission. And I don’t see any reason if there’s going to be some gaming, why the state and city can’t get a benefit out of it. It’s not going to affect the amateur players at all and the pros are here for the prize money.”
“So, you’re pretty excited about it.”
“Very excited. I’m going to enjoy the tournament.”
“Suppose you show us some of those legendary skills.”
They stepped down from the platform to the table; the video camera followed. Young Jimmy picked up the cue, flexed his fingers, bent low, lined up his shot, drew back, and sent the cue ball zipping across the table to strike between the yellow one ball at the apex of the triangle and the next ball. Three balls disappeared into pockets.
“Whoa! Not bad, Jimmy. A few shots like that and you’ll be on the tournament tour!”
Young Jimmy’s face broke into a broad smile.
As the television crew packed up and play resumed at a half dozen tables, Young Jimmy spotted me and came over, still grinning. “You see how this is going? ” He mentioned a player’s name I did not recognize. “Playin’ him tonight in my first exhibition at nine. C’mon down. I’ll be shaking hands and slapping backs and giving advice from six-thirty.”
I told him I planned to be there after being a super ref at En Core.
“En Core? That dump? Why there?”
I raised my eyebrows in answer to his question, then asked, “Tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow, I teach at the Dunk in the morning, and be Mr. Hospitality, like I told you, in the afternoon. I could play any number of people Friday night. I’m booked for around eight.” He pulled a folded paper from his back pocket and scanned it. “If everything works right, on Saturday I check in, smile and walk around, then play a late afternoon exhibition. I might get an interview on ESPN before the finals that night. Wouldn’t that be something!” His face was full of enthusiasm and confidence as he leaned in closer to whisper. “I’m tellin’ ya, Algy, the restaurant is full, the Club’s already jumping, better every night this week. We’ve got some great action here!”
Time to be lawyer, friend, and killjoy. “Bill Tuttle was at the referees’ meeting this morning, made it clear he could be in your face!”
“Nah,” he said dismissively, “Tuttle’s a good guy. We don’t cause any ruckus here and it’s just two weekends. It reminds me of …”
He stopped and inspected his shoes. What tournament was he going to mention, Derby City, Big John’s in New Orleans, Vegas Nine Ball? The action away from brackets was where shooters like him played serious pool for serious money. He ran fingers through his oily hair and I saw pride and confidence burnished by last night’s recognition at the Gala, the respect and acknowledgement of the pool crowd already in town, the media attention.
His demeanor invited my question, “You’re not in the action, right?” He didn’t reply so I repeated, “You’re not in the action?” Maria Catarina’s rule had been honored since their marriage: he didn’t play for money anywhere and particularly not at the Club.
“Got Ginger Reilly to run the show because I’ll get here late.” Ginger Reilly, owner of a pool pit in Woonsocket, a mean-faced guy with an uncertain relationship to the law, who knew every player and angle in the local pool scene. “And whether I play somebody tomorrow night depends on who shows up. Who might back me. What the deal might be.” The deal was usually fifty-fifty; the player got fifty percent of what was won, the sweater put up the bet and got the other fifty. The player had no cash risk, but any split was subject to negotiation. “Not sure. Nothing definite.”
“Don’t do it,” I urged. “Maria Catarina will …”
“Like I don’t have bills to pay …”
“Not worth it.”
“Easy to say in your situation.”
Young Jimmy never before referred to my family’s wealth. Never. I opened my mouth to reply when a couple of sporting members made a beeline for Young Jimmy, accompanied by a recognizable pool guy, overweight, punky complexion, bad shave, red-eyed, wrinkled tan sports jacket, open neck shirt, the flash of gold at his neck. All that was missing was a straw fedora with a black band, and a cigar clenched in his teeth. The pool guy slapped a hand on Young Jimmy’s shoulder, loudly congratulating him on his award, shifting his weight like a boxer, his head bobbing from side to side.
Young Jimmy smiled and winked at me. I was not to worry. Like it had been years ago in Everett, at Falvey’s playing Big Bob Halsey. All under control.
28
AFTER DOWNING A BOWL of kale and linguiça soup laced with red wine, I walked the two blocks to En Core, all the way thinking about Young Jimmy.
What do you do if you were once really good, even great, at one thing, your time of greatness had passed, and then suddenly, an opportunity came along to once again kick ass, create a buzz, no longer be a fading memory? The Shoot-Out Tournament was Young Jimmy’s chance, probably a last chance for recognition in the pool world, for that moment of respect, and he was willing to risk a successful life, professional and personal.
As I approached the vinyl-sided, three story En Core, Richie Stubbins, the house pro at Classic Billiards in Randall Square, emerged from the alley between my destination and Hard Core. He greeted me with, “Hi ya
, Commish!”
Always a flamboyant dresser, Richie wore leather pants and a white tee with a Shoot-Out logo on the left pocket. Years ago, Richie and I played a lot of pool together, before money and talent made him a pro; unlike Young Jimmy, he stayed close to home base, becoming a successful fixture in the Providence pool scene. “Need a butt,” he said, flipped open an ancient Zippo lighter and fired up a cigarette. “Been here since eleven.”
Richie’s assessment of the quality of play was “good,” although the players were mostly “hicks” and the refs “good guys.” When Richie said he was the senior referee in charge of En Core’s eight tables, I told him that the Shoot-Out website said that was my job. “Some screw up,” he shrugged. “You know, it’s pretty loose here. Take my two tables. It would give me a break and I got paperwork. Matches resume at seven.”
“Why not?” I said, thinking that was about an hour of refereeing, I would be finished by eight-thirty latest, and be downtown fifteen minutes later for Young Jimmy’s exhibition.
He took a deep last drag and crushed his cigarette with his heel. “Ready for a look?” and I followed him into the alley and through an emergency exit door held open by a cinder block. We took the stairs two at a time in a dimly lit passage toward the excited, raucous noise of a crowded sports bar: loud voices, bursts of laughter, country and western music, and pool balls clacking. Inside, it was obvious no one paid attention to the fire marshal’s posted notice of maximum permitted occupancy. Every square inch of wall space was covered by beer and whiskey ads, cue racks, television screens, and movie posters from The Color of Money and The Hustler. “It gets calmer when the matches begin,” Richie said reading my mind. “Remember, some of these folks have been here since eleven and a couple of beers have disappeared since then.”