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Straight Pool

Page 18

by JJ Partridge


  Flanaghan, clearly sensing an opportunity to further flatter Calibrese’s deal making, asked, “Why the lease?”

  Calibrese hunched forward, and for the first time, his face was completely out of the shade. It had the pallor of someone ill. “Yeah,” he said, clearly recollecting a triumph. “So why did I make that deal? ‘Cause I had to make sure they were goin’ to finish the golf course, giving the rest of my land better value and I didn’t have to sit on it, costing me more money. I give ‘em four years from the date of the agreement. Four fuckin’ years! Tell me that’s not fair! July third. I always remember the date ‘cause it’s my weddin’ anniversary. My wife and I use to come here for the day. Their lawyers in New York had to send down all the papers here for me to sign, which seemed to drive’em nuts.” His face screwed up into a smile. “So, this summer, they either get the place up and runnin’ or they pay me a lotta money or I get it back. Or, maybe we negotiate somethin’.” He shrugged. “Who knows?”

  That last comment left a sense of a good deal made and his relishing of another deal that might cost his ‘neighbors’ something more valuable than a few bucks. Since he would have neither their friendship or respect, he would have their acknowledgement of his power over their Club’s future.

  The glass door slid open. “Here’s Larry. You ask him.”

  The loudmouth from the membership meeting came outside, taller than I would have thought, thick through the middle where khaki trousers were held up by brown suspenders. His sharp edged face showed no emotion; his dark eyes were razor slits in the sunlight. As though to protect his employer, he stood silently facing us as he was introduced affecting a look of distance and disinterest. “Larry,” Calibrese said in a question that sounded rehearsed, “what did you give Charlie Fessenden extra when we closed on the option?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Did you pay Fessenden a penny more than what he was supposed to get under the option deal?”

  “No.”

  Flanaghan said, “Seems like a lot of money for only six acres….”

  “You know, ‘location, location.’ It helped pull all of Ugo’s land together. We could have built without it but….”

  I said, “No promises, nothing…?”

  Calibrese’s sunglasses came off quickly and I saw black eyes that glistened with intelligence and purpose as Silverman became swarmy. “Ugo’s got land adjoining the golf course and some across Route 1, and the rest of the Randall property. Very developable. Water views from some, views of the golf course from others, some with access to Wynomet Pond and the barrier beach. He’s got plans for upscale subdivisions in there. Nothin’ like it in Westerly. Gotta figure we’ll need a lot of help to get a subdivision through the town because there’s always opposition to anything near the water. Charlie wanted an exclusive brokerage to help us out. If Charlie can be helpful, why not?”

  “So why start rumors that…?”

  Calibrese interrupted loudly. “Hey, I didn’t say I did. I can’t help it if Fessenden’s got a perception problem ‘cause he had a piece of the deal when it all closed. Look at me! The town’s got a perception problem with me ‘cause I am one of their own and I got out of here and made a few bucks. Freakin’ jealous!”

  Silverman started to say something but Calibrese waved his hand and shuffled his legs off the chaise. “Too bad, it’s all perception, ain’t it,” he said cuttingly and I didn’t need anything else to convince me he was behind the rumors. Charlie, the ass, had given Calibrese the opportunity to set him up, and he used it. What was his motive? That was for us to figure out.

  The interview appeared to be over as Silverman excused himself and went back inside. Calibrese said, “Tom, you’re a Westerly guy. You’re not satisfied, right? You wanna know how it all came together, right? Why the Quonnies gave in? See, I got nothin’ to hide. Oaky Gardiner’s expectin’ you, right after here. Ask him about how it happened. In fact,” he said and turned elaborately to me, “he wants to meet you, too. Somebody from the University said you’re interested in the Quonnies.”

  My mouth opened more than the second needed to give Calibrese the lift he sought from my reaction.

  We stood to leave. Calibrese didn’t give up the chaise. To me, he said, “I know Young Jimmy Hannigan. From before. When he was a player. Probably no pool hall north of Philly didn’t know him.”

  One up again. “Great player,” I replied. “We’ve been friends for over thirty years.” Was I one-upping him?

  “Ya know, we have pool tournaments up at my track. ESPN shows ‘em on cable. I sponsor young players on tour too. Ever hear of Emilio Salazar?”

  “Yeah,” I acknowledged. Word gets around fast in Rhode Island. Ugo Calibrese liked having information, to gaff someone, or rub salt in a wound.

  “Hey, he’s a pro. He’s supposed to win, right?” he said with false humor.

  * * *

  We found our way through the house to the front door and outside. Flanaghan got in his car, turned on the engine, and his window slid down quietly. “Ugo’s positively shrunken. Must be he’s got something wrong.”

  I was upset enough to hope he was right. I wondered if his house had a name, like most Watch Hill cottages. For ‘Mista’ Calibrese, maybe it should be ‘Watch Out.’

  “Do you want to tackle Oaky?” Flanaghan asked, in a tone that suggested it would be a waste of time. “It’s a little after one-thirty. Take us thirty minutes to get to his place. Don’t know what it gets us. Ugo’s clearly behind the rumors. You heard him. He denies it to tell us that he is but we can’t prove it. Oaky’s been set up to tell us Ugo backed the Quonnies and got them to release their claim for the clubhouse land. All up and up.”

  Not going was not an option to me, not after Derek Kirk had whetted my interest in the Quonnies and my latent suspicion about Ollie Randall’s motives in setting the fire. And what had Kirk told Oaky Gardiner about me? “Maybe we’ll get a history lesson,” I responded. “Or something about Ollie Randall that might help Charlie?”

  “No way. Quonnies stand together. Never snitch on another.”

  One thing I learned as a trial attorney was that you never know unless you ask.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Flanaghan asked me if I was hungry, and I was, and suggested we stop at The Cooked Goose, a deli he enjoyed in Avondale. We were shown to a patio table and put our jackets over the backs of the ice cream parlor chairs. We ordered herb infused chicken salads and iced teas and Flanaghan, ever the storyteller, said, “Ugo’s got a ‘chip.’ ”

  “ ‘Chip?’ ”

  “On his shoulder. Both shoulders! Guys like Ugo grew up during the Depression and the war in one of the mill or quarry villages. Westerly had a few back then. Those places were self-sufficient, insular, whole families, aunts, uncles, grandparents from the old country, all living within a block or two. You played, went to school and church with cousins you saw everyday, your mother shopped in the village store that carried about everything, you were expected to work in whatever mills or quarries supported the village, marry someone from there.” He stopped for a moment when the iced tea arrived and he doused his with three packets of Equal. “Grow up that way, poor, ill-educated, and you live suspicious, ready for any snub or remark. It’s like an acid that eats at you. Families like Calibrese’s never forgot a hurt; animosities and dark memories never get erased, could go on for generations.” He took a long drink. “You can hear it in his voice. Forget what he said about his wife; he bought into Watch Hill as a sharp stick in somebody’s eye!”

  * * *

  Once again, I followed Flanaghan through the center of Westerly, then on Route 3 in Hopkinton to Route 95, and north to the first exit on to a hill and gulley country road marked Route 33. Modest houses set back from the road were widely spaced among rock strewn pastures and fields; fieldstone boundary walls blotched with lichens, stretches of pines, and ponds with stumps rudely protruding from their waters, made the occasional subdivision raw in contrast. At a fork in th
e road, the highway continued to the left past a sign pointing to ‘Greenwick Village-Settled in 1648’ below a flashing video billboard touting slots, bingo and dog racing at Greenwick Downs and golf at Greenwick Greens; to the right, a road narrowed to a single lane past a rusted metal signs for Indian Swamp Road and Low Town. We took the right and immediately the land sloped off and after a half mile of potholes and frost heaves, we crossed back under Route 95. Abruptly, at the bottom of a hill, Flanaghan slowed and turned on to a dirt trail where, hammered to a tree, a roughly lettered sign, with crossed arrows and a deer in silhouette, demanded: “Stop. You are entering the lands of the Quonochontaug Tribe. Admittance past this point is governed by the regulations of the Quonochontaug Tribe. For information, Quonochontaug Tribal Headquarters, 500 feet.”

  The trail wound around moss covered boulders, stands of saplings competing for growing space, patches of briars and vines, and over culverts between swamps. A line of utility poles with sagging wires accompanied the trail. The Cadillac’s taillights brightened every few seconds as Flanaghan slowed at every puddle and mucky rut; the Range Rover automatically shifted to four-wheel drive and maneuvered as though born to the terrain. After a minute or two, the trail ended at a gravel parking area in front of two ramshackle buildings. Flanaghan drove toward a shabby South County farm house with a pitched metal roof, paint curled clapboards, and a porch three stairs off the ground. Above the front door, a slice of log with block letters read: ‘Quonochontaug Tribal Headquarters.’

  Flanaghan parked and I pulled in next to him in the space between the house and a one-story building clad with dingy, gray aluminum siding, with a Budweiser sign over its stoop proclaiming ‘Oaky’s Tavern.’ A half dozen neon beer logos glowed in blackened windows; on its roof, a row of satellite dishes were grouped like toadstools. Six or seven non-descript cars and pickups, alike in their muddy fenders and grimy windshields, were nosed in at its front, along with two shiny motorcycles that must have been wiped down since arrival. A spotless black Chevrolet Avalanche was parked conspicuously by itself opposite the tavern; its sparkling chrome wheels, sun roof, and running boards meant it was ‘loaded’ as a car salesman might say, ‘pimped up’ as our kids would say.

  A lanky man, maybe sixty, with a long face, sloped forehead, and leathery skin, his steel gray hair tied into a ponytail, opened a screen door in the house, watched us approach, and sat in an overstuffed, badly stained parlor chair on the porch. He wore a white short sleeve shirt and non-descript baggy trousers; a bandana at his scrawny neck was held by a turquoise, silver, and bone choker. Flanaghan addressed him from in front of the steps. “It’s been a while, Oaky.”

  “Yes, my friend. How ya’ been?” His voice was not unfriendly but reserved. Intelligent, dark eyes nestled under thick white eyebrows.

  “This is Algy Temple. Algy, Oaky Gardiner.”

  “Sit down, if you will,” he responded, motioning to a rocking chair and a canvas camp chair. We climbed the pine board steps to the porch; I shook his outstretched hand and sat in the camp chair as Flanaghan lowered his bulk into the rocker. “Something cold?”

  We declined.

  There was a moment of silence while he sized me up. This was a man whose face gave away nothing. “You want to know about Mouwneit? Means ‘assembly place.’”

  “That’s it,” I replied, realizing I wouldn’t dare mispronounce the word.

  Oaky’s eyes swept to a muffler deficient Dodge Ram 1500 ‘4x4’ sitting high off the ground on the raised axles and oversized tires of an off-road vehicle, fog lights on a bar over the cab, pulling to a stop in front of the tavern. It was only a year or two old but had already collected a fair number of scrapes and dents. A mud-caked dirt bike was chained to a frame attached to a roll bar. Oaky’s hand went to a cell phone at his belt; he punched in a number, checked the screen, and replaced it in its holster as the driver swung out of the cab and struck a cowboy pose, his thumbs hooking into pockets of washed out jeans. He was short, stocky, and broad chested, his tobacco brown round face shadowed by a black Western style hat with a white tipped feather in its band. Two dark braids fell over the shoulders of a denim shirt and leather vest; the sunlight caught something that flashed in his ear lobes. I waited for him to call to Oaky; instead, he turned and entered the tavern.

  Oaky ignored what had to be an insult. “Our people always claimed Mouwneit as Quonnie land. A long time ago, we had a camp there, a smoke lodge, and every year, corn and hunt ceremonies. The old ones told us they went in wagons with their families. Every year June and October.” He leaned forward, smacking one hand in his other, for emphasis. “Let me repeat. Every year! The one thing that all real Quonnies have in common. Except for poverty. Ask your professor friend.”

  I ignored the reference to Derek Kirk and said that the tribe’s withdrawal of its claim made Haversham Golf Club a practical possibility.

  “It’s no secret why we released the claim. Had to.” Pause. “Sure you don’t want somethin’?”

  We declined again and he stretched his arms out toward clumps of scrub oak and cat o’nine tails visible across the parking lot. “All of this land out here, a couple thousand acres, was our ancestors, people forced into the swamp by the whites, before anybody cared about ‘record’ title. Nobody wanted it and we took it. Three hundred years of scratching out a livin’. Even today, most of our people are poor, under-educated, victimized because of color and racism.” He put one lanky leg over the knee of the other and his voice smoothed. “Ugo’s our biggest employer, our biggest backer too. I hated to give up Mouwneit but Ugo said all it did was to stir up another town with some powerful political support and money to fight us. Ugo convinced the council. Didn’t know then that Ugo was buying land around there.” His face gave up a grimace. “Shoulda guessed.”

  Flanaghan interjected, “Ugo told us he gave the tribe financial backing in return for a deal for a casino at his track.”

  “Shi-i-t-t!” He wiped a thin hand across his face and addressed Flanaghan directly. “Ugo said that? Gave…! He lent us the money! Every penny is a loan! Ugo gave us nothin’! He said we had to give up Mouwneit or he’d back out, so we did. I figured there was a few jobs on the line, too. A lot of our people didn’t like it.” His gaze shifted to the tavern. “That one that just went in? Freddie Jones. Calls himself ‘Magua’ Jones. He and his family led the opposition when we gave up the claim….”

  “Was Ollie Randall against giving up the claim?”

  Oaky jerked his head around to look at me, his stare betraying a half second of surprise. Oaky’s eyes were black—and maybe it was reflected sun—with sparks. “Ollie Randall was with Jones ‘cause Mouwneit was Randall land until they lost it in a foreclosure to the Fessendens. Ollie was the last with the Randall name but he and his father, Darius, were always fightin’ and when the old man died, his sisters inherited the land and sold it to Ugo. Ollie got a few bucks which he blew in no time, bought that Dodge swamp buggy Jones is driving, and got the right to live on the family property, in that beat up trailer….”

  “That’s Ollie’s pick up?” Flanaghan asked.

  Oaky’s face squinted back at him, maybe hesitant to answer a question about a Quonnie. “Yeah,” he said slowly, “Freddie must think it’s his now ‘cause he always drove it after Ollie lost his license sometime back. With those tires, and that frame, could go most anywhere out in the swamp. I guess it must be part of Ollie’s estate, … might be all of Ollie’s estate.” He leaned forward toward me and I couldn’t help but return this serious man’s stare. “The Jones’s are among the last Quonnies living close by here. A few in Low Town, a couple further out. But his parents live close to town, a mile up on 33, good people, but couldn’t handle Freddie. Nobody could. He left home at fifteen and lived down by the Wood River in a shack when he dropped outta school. I think that’s when he got crazy, living out there, all alone, with the wallahs. But nobody, I mean nobody, knows the swamp better than Freddie, every creek, marsh, back trail, ….” />
  Flanaghan had reacted to ‘wallahs’ and now asked, “Wallahs?”

  “Spirits of those who died out there.…”

  Oaky’s cell phone buzzed. He picked it out of the holster, listened, and stood up with an agility of a man half his age. “You wanna see what I’m up against? Why we don’t have respect?”

  We followed Oaky’s long, purposeful strides the length of the porch, down some stairs, across a few feet of gravel to the side door of the tavern, and into an airless, dark room filled with cardboard cartons, beer signs, boxes, and folding chairs. A metal beer keg with an open top held three or four baseball bats on end; Oaky grabbed one and opened the door to the tavern.

  It was smoky, dank, and ill lit, had walls of pine board, a floor of cracked linoleum, and the acrid odors of sweat and joints smoked not long ago. Country and western music competed loudly with the blare of a television over the bar but the noise didn’t muffle the curses and angry shouts coming from a pool table close to the front door. Freddie Jones had both hands on a cue stick across his chest; five or six unshaven look-a-likes in boots, jeans, fake combat fatigues, leather vests, black tees, earrings and bandanas, were mouthing off across adjoining tables. Between them, a huge, maybe six-two and pushing two-fifty, male, with muscled shoulders and arms, a black tee shirt emblazoned ‘Quonnie Security,’ and a Red Sox cap on sideways on his shaved head, was smacking a blackjack into his left palm. Each repetition was a soft explosion and I remembered a cop once telling me, where there’s a sap, there’s brass knuckles too. I guessed this walking refrigerator was Peter Gardiner, Oaky’s son, and I could see that you do not fool with Peter!

 

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