Straight Pool

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by JJ Partridge


  “You mean, you’re not sure of what we bought? What’s goin’ on?” The stage whisper had become a resonant voice several rows behind me. I turned around and identified the speaker two rows back, sitting by himself. He was about forty, balding, swarthy, with a long narrow nose in a face that was squeezed together like a prune; his leather jacket over a striped shirt with an open collar was strikingly out of place.

  “No, I …, I …, didn’t say that,” Charlie stuttered and I heard the first crack in his resolve. “We will soon have final numbers. Of course, as soon as you buy something, it depreciates ….”

  The voice rang out again. “You mean you can’t tell us if we have enough insurance to pay off the bank and rebuild the clubhouse with all of the ‘f f & e?’ Is that what you’re saying? Are you goin’ to build it and furnish it out of insurance proceeds, or not?”

  C’mon, Charlie, time to turn it over to the lawyer! His mouth opened, but he didn’t utter a sound. Finally, he coughed out, “We know, for sure, that the insurance covers our debt to the bank and what we spent for improvements and furniture and equipment. The questions that remain open relate to ….”

  Gordon Ackley relieved the floundering Charlie. “Let me take the question. It’s mostly legal.” Charlie gladly passed the microphone down to Ackley. “There are always several issues in collecting insurance,” Ackley said with the assurance of an accomplished lawyer. “Because the fire was arson and there’s an ongoing investigation, there’ll be a delay in settlement, no matter what. Then, as in the case of any casualty policy, we have to identify what is to be replaced with respect to the building and its contents, and we have to show what we paid for things ….”

  The loud mouth behind me interrupted. “In other words, we don’t know, right now, as we sit here, how much we’re gonna get and if there’s enough….”

  Before Ackley began his answer, Charlie shrilly addressed his heckler. “I didn’t say that! Nobody said that! You heard the Chairman! We have sufficient insurance to protect the Club’s interests! We have bound coverage for every cent of our losses!” If only he had stopped then. “We also have business interruption protection. We may have an issue on what that might include since the binder ….”

  Hands went up all over the place. Soames stood up and took over. “Let’s take these one at a time,” he said, and he and Ackley did, and fortunately, the questions were obliquely asked and in some instances idiosyncratic like ‘will we still have mahogany in the Grille Room?’ diffusing the effect of those of real concern which were deftly handled. I got to ask Charlie two softballs which were answered as though he had forgotten all our careful preparation but for the most part, Soames controlled the microphone, occasionally handing it off to the lawyer, and they ignored Charlie’s attempts to interrupt. The members, except the persistent loud mouth, seemed reluctant to take them on directly, and there was not a single reference to ‘Charlie’s deal’ or the alleged kickback.

  Just before noon, after assurances from the Club treasurer that the Club had liquidity and that a lower dues schedule, reflecting the loss of the use of a clubhouse, was under consideration by the Board, Soames finished up with an upbeat prediction that the course was in ‘great shape’ for play, an announcement that the bar was open, and a motion to adjourn. As the Board members stepped forward, each seemed to pick up three or four questioners as they moved slowly toward the lounge. Charlie remained at the head table sorting out his papers, trying to appear busy. Nobody approached him.

  Feeling empathy toward him, I went up to Charlie. “Who’s the guy who interrupted?” I asked.

  Charlie didn’t answer my question. His face had lost the darkness of anger and now reflected dejection. “It’s all of these rumors, that’s what’s doing it. They don’t trust me, don’t want to hear from me. Some think I’m dishonest and others think I’m somehow responsible for the fire.” His eyes pleaded for understanding. “Algy, what the hell am I going to do?”

  I couldn’t answer and repeated my question as to the identity of the loudmouth sitting behind me. “That,” he said with disgust, “is Lawrence Silverman. Calibrese’s front man. The guy who got the option from me. He uses the membership that Calibrese got as part of the closing on the land.”

  Charlie filled his valise and we went into the crowded lounge where voices were demanding Bloody Marys and Chardonnay from beleaguered bartenders. Archie Soames, his face in a glower, beckoned to Charlie who deflected the chairman’s evident ire with my introduction. Instantly, Soames turned on an appreciative smile as he recalled working with my brother when he—Soames—was in investment banking at ‘Chase.’ Then, he asked if he could speak to Charlie alone and feeling the need, I headed for the men’s room.

  The conversation at the urinals and sinks was more pointed than at the meeting. ‘Sounds like we got screwed on this lease deal, if you ask me,’ ‘I’m gonna talk to my own lawyer,’ ‘I heard the lease was Fessenden’s idea so the deal would close and he’d get his land sold,’ and ‘What the hell were they thinking?’ and so on and so forth. As I rinsed my hands, Gordon Ackley approached me. “Didn’t expect you to be here,” he said almost in a whisper. In the mirror above the sink, superiority was playing on his lips. He began to slick back his longish gray hair as I explained my role as proxy.

  “Oh,” he said suspiciously.

  I asked him if the clubhouse fire affected the deadline of July third.

  “The trigger in the lease has nothing to do with the clubhouse. Just the course being constructed, all the DEM permits in place, playable, and they actually play by July third. It’s not quite that simple but ….”

  I pushed the button of the hand drier and wrung my fingers in its hot air. “If the leased land isn’t of much use, why do they care.”

  Ackley’s brow wrinkled as though my questions indicated more than a casual interest. “Truth is, back then, it wasn’t, although some on the Board wanted enough land to put in another nine holes someday. That was one of the arguments that Charlie used to persuade the Board to go forward. Later, during the permitting process, out of left field, and you have to wonder about that, DEM required the Club to control all of the leased land or no permits because they are in a single aquifer, with the water running north up to the Indian Swamp in Greenwick. In essence, DEM said, if you fool with one, you damage the other and if the Club didn’t control that leased land, no permits. So ‘Charlie’s deal’ actually made the Club possible because it meant the Club had control of the land through the lease and didn’t have to got back to renegotiate with Calibrese. Just unbelievable luck if you ask me.”

  I hadn’t.

  “July third? Getting a little close, isn’t it?”

  He seemed to take my comment as an accusation. “We’re on it. Despite DEM, I might add. Sent down its people the day after the fire. That pond over by the first tee? DEM said it caught debris and ash from the explosions and fire. Suspended the permits until they tested. They didn’t find anything, of course. And it seems that someone—no names necessary—dropped the proverbial dime.”

  He didn’t have to say who. This is Rhode Island!

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Tom Flanaghan was waiting for me in his parking lot. He wore an open collar white shirt so I felt appropriately dressed for our interview with the mysterious Mr. Calibrese.

  After a recap of Charlie’s disappointing performance at the membership meeting, I followed Flanaghan’s black Cadillac past the Three Fish Fountain, and then along the Pawcatuck River to Beach Street and winding Watch Hill Road. The traffic was light, and the sun sent heat waves off the exteriors of vehicles heading toward the shoreline. The river, sparkling and wind-rippled, widened as we drove south; swans dotted the water beyond young marsh grasses, stands of cat o’nine tails, and clumps of beach roses along the road. At Westerly Yacht Club in Avondale, power boats on trailers were poised at ramps on what was likely a perfect launch day. The drive was so scenic that I lost my concentration until a rusted out Jeep Cherokee w
ith a cluster of saltwater rods on its roof barely missed my right fender as it roared out of a public boat landing. My annoyed horn blast immediately engendered a middle fingered salute, a greeting I almost returned; what could I expect from someone whose bumper stickers proclaimed ‘I’m a local, don’t hassle me!’ and ‘The new white meat-Piping Plover.’

  Watch Hill needs no municipal signage at its entrance; suddenly, protective hedges are thicker and tightly clipped, flag poles stretch taller, and elegant cottages sit on knolls behind stone walls and elaborate Architectural Digest landscape designs. The village reeks of laid-back ambience, privacy, tradition, and class, and is your mind’s eye version of the generational homes of the discretely rich. So unlike Gilded Age Newport, according to friends and relatives who summer in the village: Newport is all about what you own and how big it is; Watch Hill is about how long you own it.

  A sweeping, descending curve led to Bay Street, the village’s commercial center at the water’s edge, where restaurants, cafes, and boutiquey stores still draped with bunting from Memorial Day weekend were doing a brisk pre-season business. Day-tripping families, handling ice cream cones, shopping bags, and toddlers, crowded the narrow sidewalks and promenade facing Watch Hill Cove. A sharp left took us by the Flying Horses Carousel, past the granite lighthouse facing Fisher’s Island Sound and Napatree Point, to the crest that gave the village its name. Two driveways later, almost across from the Watch Hill Chapel, Flanaghan’s Cadillac entered a break in tall hedges on to the gravel driveway of a brown shingled house with a white trimmed porch and cedar roof that sharply slanted down, a building conspicuously missing the dormers, balconies, cupolas, and towers that denotes Watch Hill ‘style.’ A green Jaguar Vanden Plasse sedan with Rhode Island license plate ‘UG-1’ and a Hummer 3 were in the driveway. We left our cars and approached the house, with Flanaghan remarking, “The views of the Sound and Block Island from up here on the bluff are spectacular!”

  The front door was opened by a middle-aged Latino woman and Flanaghan identified us. She barely nodded as she ushered us into a central hall. Coming out of sunlight, it took a few seconds to become aware of its lack of furnishings or decorative touches, its gleaming parquet floor, and a staircase that must have been fifteen feet wide. Two narrow, wall length windows without curtains at either side of the staircase gave minimal light. The maid asked us to wait and padded away in her white shoes; I used the moment to check out the ‘spectacular’ view, which Flanaghan, if anything, had understated. Below a patch of grass and a low brick wall that gave a modicum of protection from a cliff of rugged ledge, a strand of golden beach was speckled with colorful blankets and beach umbrellas. Offshore, protected by the headland from a northwesterly breeze, a score of white hulled boats, many with blue canopies, rolled in waves as they hunted for whatever seasonal fish was running; further out, a three masted schooner was under full sail toward the hazy, green, pork chop shape that is Block Island. Flanaghan came behind me and used both arms to express the breadth of the panorama. “What did I tell you!”

  The maid returned and led us briskly through an overfurnished formal room, the kind with two ormolu clocks not keeping time and large gilded mirrors and smelling of polish and wax, and had the feel of being unlived in or a project taken on but long ago abandoned. Our steps made no noise on its thick brownish carpet as we followed her to a sliding glass door and outside into dazzling sunshine.

  What I saw, I didn’t expect in Watch Hill, a terrazza from Southern Italy. An aquamarine swimming pool was at our left, the breeze breaking its surface. The paving stones surrounding it were pink and blue, inset with tiles of red sea horses and green fish; its pool house was a pale yellow and roofed in orange tiles. Above us, over the house’s windows, were pinkish awnings with green stripes. To our right, a fountain splashed with water from spouting dolphins next to a faded green umbrella advertising ‘Martini e Rossi’ shading a chaise and side table. A gruff, unwelcoming voice called from its shadows, “Gentlemen, join me.”

  Our host did not rise to greet his guests. “Please, sit,” he said and Flanaghan and I took seats in cushioned wicker chairs with the sun in our faces. We refused an offer of cold drinks and the maid picked up a plastic cup from the table that may have held yogurt and left. As a Wall Street Journal weekend edition slid to the tiles, Ugo Calibrese pushed himself straight against the back of the chaise. While his facial features remained indistinct, I made out a large, oval head topped by a prominent pompadour, a loose floral shirt that didn’t disguise layers of belly fat, faded green shorts above legs that were thin, pale, and hairy, and white feet stuffed into black loafers. As Flanaghan introduced me and engaged in pleasantries, I put on my RayBans. With my eyes adjusted, I discerned pockmarked cheeks that appeared sunken below the egg shaped lenses of his sunglasses, and a nose—a guess said it was once fleshy—that was snubby. A ruined face. Cancer surgery, leaving him a frog …, no, a toad …, dressed for vacation?

  “Tom, we’ve had no business for years.” Ugo Calibrese’s voice was even and his lips barely moved. “Now your making inquiries about me. And you, Mista Temple. I’m surprised that your involved in Westerly stuff.” His nasal accent was too determined, of a variety only a Rhode Island talk radio host would appreciate, with an ‘in your face’ tone dismissive of status.

  My response was that I knew Charlie, and my brother was a Club member. There followed a grunt as a hand blotched with liver spots reached for a glass of water garnished with a lemon slice. Like Puppy Dog’s, I thought.

  “How long have you been in Watch Hill, Ugo?” asked Flanaghan, ever the ice breaker, maybe knowing the answer would flatter.

  Calibrese finished a long drink and held the glass in his lap. “Eighty-two. So what’s that, … goin’ on twenty-five years? Nobody wanted these barns then, with the village fallin’ to pieces, but for a guy from the North End, havin’ it was sayin’ somethin’, ya know what I mean, Tom? My wife, may she rest in peace, wanted the place, so I fixed it up for her, made it a real show place, put in the pool …. I knew we didn’t fit in with the summa people. We were just ‘locals,’ Tom, right?” Then, a flash of remembrance trembled his voice. “After she died in ninety-two, I only kept it because of her.” He took another sip and put the glass on the table. Recovering, he said, “Hey, did you tell him about that Windmere Country Club….?”

  “I did,” he said.

  “Third time a charm, right?” he responded with a laugh that turned into a hacking cough that brought him forward in the chaise. He used a handkerchief and removed his sunglasses; I saw toughness etched in the lines that sagged from his eyes before he put them back on. “Whadyaknow about Westerly, Mista Temple?” His voice was an accusation. “Not just Watch Hill. The town! What it was like growin’ up here? Tell’em, Tom, how the ownas of the mills, the quarries, treated the dagoes they imported to slave in the quarries while they made millions. How the Irish didn’t let their daughters date any ‘eye-talians.’ And the swamp yankees? How they hated all of us?”

  How to answer? And Flanaghan didn’t.

  “So, anyway, let’s get to the point,” Calibrese said, suddenly business like. “You know I gotta lotta property in Providence. But nothing in my home town. My business associate, Larry Silverman, had an idea. He’s upstairs in the office but he’ll be down in a few minutes. A lotta money was beginnin’ to move in from New York, …, here, Weekapaug, Shelter Harbor. He figured on some upscale subdivisions if we could get access to a pond and beach. Took years of lookin’ around but we finally got Admiral Duffie’s property. Larry kept me out of it ‘cause some people in Westerly can’t get over anybody from here leavin’ and makin’ a few bucks!” There spoke a man with a grievance. “Then we got some other small parcels, but nothin’ that got us on a pond until old man Randall died. Larry had tried to buy his land for years but the old bastard was havin’ none. His two daughters were his co-executors and they sold the land, provided their brother could stay in that crappy house and trailer until the land
was developed. All told, I bought almost six hundred acres,” he said proudly, and then his voice lowered, “but I needed a piece of Fessenden’s land to make it easier to link up the two largest properties.” His voice lowered another notch and he directed it to me. “Didya know the Fessendens usta run this town? Owned a piece of everything, a couple mills, the bank and the largest quarry….”

  He coughed again. For a moment, I thought he might spit into his glass, either from phlegm in his throat or spite, but he recovered and said, “Tom, I know you. If bullshit was money, you’d be a millionaire. You think that I’m behind these … rumors … about Fessenden making a few extra bucks when I closed the deal. C’mon, why would I do that?” he asked with a falsetto of innocence. “Pay him more…? I already agreed to pay the pompous prick …,” he put up a hand toward me, “… oh, excuse me, he’s your friend …, more than the land was worth, and that was before my ‘neighbors’ decided that they wanted a golf course. So I says to myself, I gotta talk to Tom and get him off my ass?”

  Flanaghan asked, “You took the option on Charlie’s land despite the Quonnies claim….”

  “Listen, I’ve been dealin’ with Quonnies for years. Even since I took over the track. I got a lot workin’ for me. When they got the idea to have the feds recognize them as a tribe, they needed cash to hire consultants, lawyers, and lobbyists. I thought about it. Foxwoods started with a single family; the Mohegans had only a coupla people, so why not the Quonnies? A long shot, a bet. But …” and now there was a trace of a grin in his tone, “that’s what I do.” Another sip of water. “Jeez, why am I tellin’ you this? Who cares, right? Anyhow, Oaky Gardiner says if I backed ‘em and if they’re successful, the tribal council would do a deal for a casino at my track ‘cause Quonnie land is shit, all swamp, bugs, deer ticks, and not much else. Then, when they file their application, they included Fessenden’s land! Didn’t tell me! And I needed that property.” His eyes strayed impatiently toward the house. “Where the hell is Larry?” he said loud enough to carry to any open windows. “It all kinda came together. Hadda stop the nonsense, especially when my ‘neighbors’ decided they needed a golf course. So, I got the tribe to drop the claim, I sold some land to the Club, and I leased some more. That’s it.”

 

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