Straight Pool

by JJ Partridge

  I couldn’t let that go by. She is, after all, a reporter with the newspaper of record in Rhode Island. If Sonny’s canards and aspersions had burrowed into her craw, then we were in trouble. So, I responded with a defense of the University’s property tax exemption, how the University supports the community in a hundred ways, and that the University has never discounted the idea of good faith negotiations to deal with payment for civic services, but was not going to negotiate under Sonny’s blustering threats. As I went on, a professional hardness developed in her eyes and I realized I had taken the bait.

  “Hey, what I’m saying is off the record, right?”

  “Not to worry.”

  “When is the Faculty Club story likely to be published?”

  “Never know….” She looked up as someone approached from behind me.

  “Hey, this is a surprise,” Tony Tramonti said too heartedly. “Mary and I are having dinner in the other room. How ya doin’, Bethany.”

  She smiled and I saw familiarity. She said to him, “You’ve been friends for a long time.”

  Tramonti’s face radiated a politician’s goodwill. He put his hand on my shoulder. “From what, eighth grade ….?”

  I nodded agreement, feeling a little put upon as he added more flesh to my story of Young Jimmy’s father’s pool room, how we learned to play the local variations of pool games with Young Jimmy, when allowed to by the off-duty cops, the politicians, and the lunchbucket guys who barely tolerated our presence in their smoke saturated sanctuary.

  She said to me, “And now you’re supporting your friend’s bid for mayor?”

  “Hey,” Tramonti smiled with a knowing, insider wink in his voice, “that’s premature.”

  “C’mon, everybody knows you’re going to run against Sonny.”

  “Right now, I have a full-time job with the Department and …”

  “But that’s a prelude. You’re gonna run against Sonny ….”

  “Well, some might say,” he said, his smile fixed, making me further unsettled. “Good to see you, Bethany. Algy, we’ll talk. Gotta get back to Mary.”

  Ms. Reins didn’t let go. I half expected a tape recorder to pop out of her handbag. “… with Alger Temple one of your biggest financial supporters?” That sally must have come from Sonny Russo and betrayed her story angle. “You know how things are in Providence,” she continued, “everybody knows everybody or is related to somebody. Here’s Alger Temple, University Counsel at Carter University. The University has a Faculty Club. It’s nominally independent of the University but gets subsidized one way or the other. Any mayor of the city is a member because it’s in the by-laws of the Club. When this mayor doesn’t pay his bills, who composes the dunning letters? Alger Temple, who happens to be best friends with the Mayor’s political rival, the Police Commissioner. We get an anonymous tip from someone at the Club for a story that could put Sonny in a bad light because he doesn’t pay his bills on time. Or maybe at all. Could that have been a set up? Come on, guys, don’t you owe me something more than ‘it’s been nice talking to you, Ms. Reins.’ ”

  A ‘set up?’ Hey, we are talking about my integrity! “It’s been nice to talking to you, Ms. Reins,” I managed to mutter as the pizzas arrived. Tramonti laughed, slapped my shoulder, shook his head in innocent wonderment at the two degrees of separation that is Providence, and walked away.

  We ate in silence. I finished most of the wine and I didn’t say another word until I was on my last slice. “You know, that was kinda crappy.”

  She said, “I realize that. Just happened. Nothing personal.”

  “No, but is my involvement with Tony part of your story?”

  “Sure. Of course. You did write the dunning letters, didn’t you.”

  “I edited a couple so that they were appropriate in addressing the mayor of our city.”

  “But you did do it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sonny especially didn’t like that.”

  “Can’t help that. Part of my job.” I signaled for the check. “Well, it’s been … interesting” and asked the waitress to split the bill which seemed appropriate. After we paid, I said goodbye, offered my hand which she shook weakly, and I left her at the table. I went upstairs and had my best practice in a month!

  * * *

  I left the Club shortly after nine. The night was warm and in the distance, music from WaterFire wafted toward me. I put the top down on the Mini Cooper and drove down Benefit Street to avoid the crowd thronging the streets along the river. I crossed Angell Street, took a left at the Old State Capitol to the bridge over the canal to the Capitol Center side—the asphalt challenged side—of the Amtrak station. Nadie was waiting outside the spare domed building. She waved and smiled when she saw me and I felt better.

  We went back to Congdon Street and it didn’t take long for us to share a shower and head for bed. There wasn’t a lot of conversation before or during. It was happy, pleasurable lovemaking, intense and then quiet. We shared a large pillow as her girlish body coiled into me, with a hand on my stomach and her right leg barely on mine. Her eyes closed and her breathing became almost inaudible wisps of air. Then, something outside made a thump, maybe a car door slamming, and she murmured, “What was that?”

  “Nothing,” I said. “A car.”

  She uncurled and left the bed for the bathroom and came back, turning off the reading light and scooting up next to me. I stroked her hair and saw skin that was unlined.

  “What’s happening in South County?”

  “Nothing happens in South County. It’s all farms and beaches and land trusts and ...”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Go to sleep. You don’t care and there’s not much anyway. Seems like the Tramontis are going to stay embarrassed.” I pressed closer to her warm body and inhaled the perfume she wore.

  “How about your truce?” She had become chatty.

  “Held,” and she took my nuzzling face in her hands.

  I moved up her body and kissed inside her ear but she shook me off. She wanted to talk, and she did, a lot, about sexist colleagues and departmental policies. Realizing this was the end of snugginess, I moved to turn on my reading light, half listening to her defense of positive psychology in case there was a test. To tell the truth, I’m not much into any kind of psychology, a thought I had never expressed to her. I did however once say something of the kind to a friend, an Italian Dominican friar on the faculty at Providence College. He responded that philosophy, not psychology, was the key to the human condition if you believe that striving for ‘good’—whatever that is—was man’s ultimate desire. Psychology was a tool to that end but could become a dead end, not an avenue, toward ‘good.’ Was Nadie’s positive psychology any different?

  Sensing my distraction, she elbowed me. “Are you listening?”

  “Is that all that’s been bothering you?”

  She sat up with an expression more quizzical than miffed. “I guess it shows,” she sighed. “Damn!” I thought she might continue, putting my mind to rest, but all she said was, “We have Italy in one more week. It will be wonderful to get away.”

  * * *

  Later that night, I awoke and found her facing me, her pale face placid in sleep, all animation calmed, her breaths soft. We had been content for too long, foolishly postponing a needed discussion as to our future. Now, while she experienced a serious professional issue at her department, something unspoken and almost invisible, was forming like a fog. Would it harden into something impenetrable? Did I have a choice but to press for an outcome? Would Italy be another postponement of the inevitable discussion?

  I need more. I could gladly accept a rollercoaster of a life with Nadie; it would be better than the mannered ambiguity I saw in some couples, or reverting to the category of ‘single man usually available,’ and casual relationships. Once having tasted the real thing, anything else would be insipid.

  At the right moment that Italy must provide, I would press for an answer
.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Despite Ms. Reins’ prediction, I was up early to retrieve the Sunday Journal, expecting a headline like ‘Russo Stiffs University’ or ‘Carter Gives Russo Special Deal,’ with a side bar ‘University Counsel Is Tramonti Supporter.’ But, it wasn’t there. Instead, a banner headline shouted ‘Verona, Our Sister City Comes for Festa,’ the first of a four part series on Verona’s history, culture, architectural heritage, food, and wine, replete with color photographs of its Roman amphitheater, the Castelvecchio, and Piazzo Erbe.

  Sonny must be in hog heaven! The Journal, usually his nemesis, was supporting his Festa Verona!

  In anticipation of the attire of the male members of Haversham Golf Club, I was dressed in a white open collar shirt with and tan slacks. I put a light green blazer over the back of a counter stool, made a breakfast of diet-busting eggs benedict and espresso, and kept my interview with Ms. Reins to myself. Why ask for trouble? Nadie, with a bowl of yogurt mixed with granola, announced a day of computer research and dinner with some sympathetic female colleagues, and a return to her apartment. Her prickliness had returned and when I said I was waiting for the Faculty Club story, she said in a voice that combined amusement, irony, and derision, “So am I. Can’t wait to see how College Hall’s high and mighty handle this one.”

  I kept my nose in the newspaper as a ‘high and mighty’ should when faced with a wellspring of informed opinion.

  * * *

  It was ironic, Charlie said when I picked him up at his home in my Range Rover, that the membership meeting would take place at the Wynomet Golf Club, a venerable nine hole golf course which for years served the summer colony’s golfing needs but was now outshown by the grander, eighteen hole Haversham Golf Club. Charlie was pale but firm jawed, bright-eyed, and loquacious and I wondered if he had prepared himself with a couple of well-disguised drinks.

  Within a few minutes, we were in a parking lot full of luxury sedans and SUV’s. We entered a low slung clubhouse clad with weathered brown shingles and a lounge area that led to a larger room where rows of metal chairs faced a cloth-draped table topped by a small podium, a pitcher of ice water, and glasses. Charlie, dapper in a light cream linen jacket, pink knit shirt, brown slacks, and penny loafers, walked briskly through the lounge, getting a noticeably tepid response to his greetings, and I realized that his clothes didn’t reflect the somber subject of the meeting nor the sobriety of a man responsible for other people’s money. Ugh! Flanaghan and I blew that.

  I lingered in the lounge where coffee and tea urns were doing a brisk business beneath prints of Scottish golfing scenes and mounted antique golf clubs. I tried to capture the mood of the members and wasn’t surprised that those few whom I recognized and gave my story about being Nick’s proxy were not belligerent, despite being frustrated by their Club’s predicament. It was also evident that those members present would not be mistaken as diverse. The younger men were dressed in Brooks Brothers Country Club, with ‘moss’ or ‘taupe’ or ‘heather’ knit shirts, and chinos tied by colorful striped belts; the older gents wore blue or green blazers, light colored slacks, with open collared, button down, white or light blue shirts. The women—blond or streaked blond through age fifty, short clipped, gray hair thereafter—appeared to have shopped en masse at a Lily Pulitzer trunk show for their pastel clothes and accessories like canvas tote bags.

  Near to eleven, I went into the meeting area to sit in the empty second row, ready to lob my softballs if necessary; the members filled in toward the rear as if in church. Charlie had removed clipped sets of documents from his briefcase, with the cheat sheets we had prepared on each topic on top, and placed them neatly in front of him. He had that too eager salesman grin as he found a spot on the ceiling that caught his attention. How would he do? Would he remember or read our scripted responses like ‘… still working diligently on the insurance issues,’ ‘… confident as to results despite adversity,’ ‘… dedicated to opening the course for play,’ ‘… enough money for operations,’ ‘… the bank seems to be cooperating,’ etc., etc., etc.

  At eleven on the dot, five middle-aged men, obviously the Board of Governors, attired in blue blazers with a pocket crest that was likely Haversham Golf Club’s logo, entered from an adjoining room, followed by Gordon Ackley, their lawyer, the only one with a briefcase. The group arrival signaled a pre-meeting without Charlie, which was not a good sign. They took their seats at the table with cursory acknowledgements of Charlie’s presence.

  The microphone at the podium squealed a few times as a spare, balding man with wispy eyebrows, narrow but prominent chin, unsmiling lips, and a ruddy complexion called the meeting to order with the demeanor of someone used to handling a gavel. Taking half lens glasses from his blazer pocket, he placed them at the crown of his broad forehead while the others at the table turned over cardboard name plates bearing their last names—Soames, Spencer, Giles, Shattuck, and Towner. Neither Charlie nor Ackley apparently rated name plates. The speaker introduced himself portentously as ‘your chairman, Archie Soames,’ named the others at the table who waved or nodded perfunctorily, and made the point that this was an ‘informational’ meeting with no business to be decided.

  What followed was a brief, matter-of-fact update. With his glasses now placed in position, he read from notes. Since most everyone in the room had been at the site, he said, there really wasn’t much to say about the calamity. The fire had probably been set by a former employee lately identified as the fire’s victim. The negligence of the newly hired club manager in permitting temporary storage of paper goods under the porch and fireworks to be stored overnight in the maintenance building was inexcusable and had caused the Board to terminate him, for cause. “I’m advised by counsel not to get into these issues today, for obvious reasons.”

  Someone behind me said in a stage whisper, “What ‘obvious reasons?’ ” but that didn’t intimidate the chairman. With spirit in his voice, he reported that the course equipment had not been damaged, the golf course was in great shape, and, “Within two weeks, we’ll be open for play!”

  His announcement engendered a smattering of applause that broke the tension that had fixated the room. For their hundred and fifty grand initiation fees and fifteen thousand in dues, at least they could play!

  “Importantly, as I’m sure you’ll remember, in addition to the opportunity to play a golf course which is one the finest in New England, we will be protecting your investments in the Club and our lease of the adjacent lands when we commence golf play before the fourth anniversary of our closing on the purchase of the land. Otherwise, the Club would have to decide whether to buy the leased land or pay a substantial increase in rent for not doing so, or relinquish it to the owner. Your Board believes none of these alternatives are desirable and by opening the course before July third, none, I repeat none, are required.”

  That Hobson’s choice evoked a few ‘I didn’t hear that befores’ which Soames ignored. I wondered how many members had any clue about ‘Charlie’s deal’ when they filled in their applications. “Your Board,” Soames continued, “has put in countless hours since the day of the fire to ascertain both our financial position and our ability to realize on your investment this summer.” The other Board members nodded in agreement. “And I’m pleased to announce that our hosts here at Wynomet will again lend their clubhouse to us for some social events.”

  Half-hearted applause followed.

  “Lastly, we will collect our insurance and rebuild our clubhouse! And,” he paused dramatically to build expectation, “we will do it without an assessment!”

  “Now, we’re talking,” someone said loudly and at that, the room erupted with acclaim. Members stood, clapping, slapping each other on the shoulders, and generally expressing relief. Waspy bonhomie had replaced the dour atmosphere.

  “We’ll be having our annual meeting in our new clubhouse next summer!” More applause. Archie Soames was on a roll. He smacked his palms together loudly, then dramatic
ally ripped off his glasses and raised them above his head. “It’s going to be the best golf club in New England!” The applause was deafening.

  As enthusiasm died down, Soames collected his notes, cleared his throat, and said too evenly for my comfort, “Now, we’ll hear from our Club Secretary, Charlie Fessenden, followed by our Treasurer, Clyde Tower.”

  Soames took the microphone from its stand and it was passed on by two Board members to Charlie on the far right of the table. From where I sat, Charlie’s forehead looked damp and his face was slightly flushed but he started off fairly well. “I have been working on this project for over four years,” he said in a tight, controlled voice, “waiting for our plans for the club to be realized. I walked the land many times when it was still a designer’s dream, suffered through the delays caused by the regulators, seen our clubhouse take shape, and was filled with expectation for our opening. Like you, I feel the pride of our accomplishments and the deep distress caused by the fire.”

  So far, so good.

  “Despite all of our financial records and computers destroyed in the fire, I’m pleased to report to you today that our backup documentation and the hard work of all concerned will let us reconstruct our financial status as of the night of the fire. It has been a Herculean task involving the Board, myself, accountants, Mr. Ackley, … but we are almost there.”

  Murmurs of approval.

  “The Club took over the insurance responsibility for the clubhouse from the building contractor just days before the fire. We obtained an insurance binder on the clubhouse and maintenance building from our broker. For purposes of the limits on the casualty, … er … fire insurance, the Building Committee used its best estimate of final construction costs as well as its estimate with respect to the cost of all purchased items of furniture, fixtures, and equipment, what they call ‘f f & e’ in the insurance business. All of that information was being inputted into our computer system when the fire—.”