Straight Pool

by JJ Partridge

  Marcie said the Provost’s reaction was that it wasn’t ‘too bad,’ which I took means no heads were rolling at the Faculty Club and my association with Tramonti, well-known in College Hall, wasn’t deemed poisonous. But what was troubling was a press release from the Mayor’s office in the middle of the flap that the University would be donating the use of the three riverfront buildings for the ‘Sister City Festival’ as Verona’s visit was now billed. Since nothing had been signed with Sonny, the press release ‘one-upped’ the University: if we denied the press release, it would look petty; if we accepted it, we were giving into Sonny’s pressure. The Provost decided the University would put out a statement of support for the event, including the use of the buildings, without mentioning the Mayor.

  Nobody asked me but I knew we had lost leverage. My Protocol revision was history. Carter University would supply the buildings, was publicly supporting the Mayor’s project, and gotten little in return.

  Puppy Dog’s grin must be from ear to ear!

  * * *

  Days went by as it only can when every day is exhilarating. The weather remained superb, Nadie was relaxed and loving. The ambiance of Bellagio was followed by a long, snaky, drive through Lecco and Bergamo to our next hotel, the Locanda San Vigilio on the beach at Lake Garda. For the next few days, we took day trips, the first being across four miles of water by hydro boat to the walled town of Asolo for lunch at the sixteenth century Villa Cipriani, followed by an afternoon piano concert on the lawn of the historic Villa Barbero designed by Palladio. The following days, the Maserati smoothly got us to the increasingly dramatic north where rocky cliffs and pine-filled slopes hugged the shoreline. We enjoyed wine lubricated lunches in Bardolino, explored castles, took the cable car to the summit of Monte Baldo for its views of the Austrian Alps at sunset. Then, after a day of spa treatments and a late dinner prepared over an open fire at the rustic Antica Locanda Mincio, we left in a morning mist and drove through ghostly shrouds into the Veneto plain, to Verona.

  Providence’s sister city!

  Our hotel, the imposing Baglione, was on a quiet street behind the fourth century Arena. We registered and went out to the Piazza Erbe where stalls, shaded by colorful umbrellas and canvas awnings, sold everything from suckling pig in bread rolls to fresh picked fruit. We took our luncheon purchases to a wine shop, bought a bottle of chilled prosecco, and picnicked near a charming fountain in the middle of the Piazza as Nadie outlined our walking tour. With a breeze shaking the dust of the old city, we braved the heat through colonnaded streets to the Adige River by the Porte Scaligero, the gardens of the Castelvecchio, then to the Piazza Brà and its enormous Arena where banners for a performance of Aida flapped in the wind. After a stop for gelato, I stood beneath the balcony of the Casa di Giulietta, where Nadie waved from the simple, marble fronted balcony and like thousands of swains, I heard ‘Romeo, Romeo. Where for art thou?’

  Nadie had one more stop, the immense, thousand year old Romanesque church of San Zeno Maggiore. I remained in a rear pew as she joined a tour of the church. I was perplexed. How was Providence going to compare with this sophisticated city of classical images and architectural splendor, where culture exudes from every arcade and square, where there are surprises around every corner like a box of chocolates. I love my hometown and there is plenty to see and appreciate but it would take more than a few cleaned up buildings, a WaterFire, and our wonderful restaurants to compete. Verona is a city of evident pride.

  And that’s when I got the idea!

  For our second day, we had planned a side trip to Padua. I claimed fatigue over breakfast in our room and even a raspy throat, and encouraged Nadie not to miss Padua’s many attractions. After some complaining, she changed to button cuff gray capris and a white shell shirt, borrowed a couple of hundred euros for treats and the lunch and rendezvous she planned with her Italian lover, and caught a tour bus from the hotel, leaving me while I attended to business. She was back at five, enraptured by the stunning cathedral, Giotto’s frescoes, and the pleasures of the Antico Brolo where she lunched on its signature ravioli stuffed with zucchini flowers. I disclosed my digestion was fully repaired and we dined at the justly famed Il Desco, a sixteenth century palazzo, where the menu varies from smoked oysters and game to its wonderfully flavored Amarone wine risotto.

  The next morning we took the A-4 autostrata from Verona around Vincenza, Padua, and Venice, experiencing the pastel colors of the flat Veneto plain against the dramatic, distinctive limestone peaks of the Dolomites. With my RayBans on, wearing Nadie’s present of a cashmere sweater, and sitting beside a beautiful woman in one of the world’s most handsome cars, I felt like Marcello Mastroianni in La Dolce Vita. More than once, as we drove north on secondary roads, Nadie expressed frustration with Italian road maps whenever I asked for directions or a location, and then complained of my macho tendencies when I pulled over to read it myself. Immediately, we were joined by uniformed and very formal carabinieri in a black Lancia who seemed more interested in the car, and then the bella senora, than in any infraction of Italy’s traffic laws. Eventually, we were waved away with a warning for something, and after more miles of hardwood trees and two lanes barely wide enough for truck traffic, we reached Udine, all pink limestone, fountains, and dramatic wooded hills.

  We spent a pleasantly cool evening there and traveled on to the hill town of Cividale del Friuli where our hotel looked down into a dramatic ravine crossed by the Ponte del Diablo, the Devil’s Bridge. There, after a dinner of capron soup, local turkey stuffed with chestnuts and carrots for me, and a fresh lake fish for Nadie, the following morning, we met our guide, arranged for by Nadie, who led us on a day long walking trip toward Gorizia through foothills, vineyards, and limestone plateaus to a grove of pines where his beautiful associate had laid out a picnic lunch of prosecco di valdobbraciene, cold pasta, and luscious peaches. We ate and napped and I expected to be driven back to Cividale del Friuli by our guide, only to be delighted by Nadie’s surprise of a night at a country inn!

  She said she knew she would be surfeited by hotel and restaurant food by then and had been tipped off by a colleague as to La Casa Pescheria. At a bench table in the atmosphere of a workingman’s tavina, our meal consisted of small sardines with glistening oil and vinegar, hard crusted bread with a white local wine, spaghetti alli vongole with a mound of tiny clams, oil and garlic, and then a coda di rispo, baked in white wine, zucchini and rosemary. It was memorable; any Italian cook would bless such food by the knuckle of the first finger of the right hand pressed into a cheek, a quick turn of the hand, and a smacking of lips.

  Trieste was our last stop, with a suite at a five-star hotel, a former Jesuit retreat house, with splendid rooms and sweeping views of the Bay of Trieste. We tramped around the city and the Venetian castles that dotted hillsides and villages nestled into the coastline as far as the Croatian border. We read, we slept, we were tourists, we enjoyed each other’s company, we loved. Nadie was relaxed, with the renewed spontaneity of someone ready to move on.

  It was time for my question.

  One night after dinner on a terrace at the hotel, high above the moon-drenched sea, as romantic a scene as I could conjure, we shared Negronis, the perfect drink for a star kissed night, then dined by candlelight. La luna, mi amore. Her eyes were wide and moist, and seemingly, only for me. We were in a lover’s harmony. I ran my fingers lightly over hers and she said ‘I love you’ with her eyes. “Carissimo. I love you madly,” I said softly. “Let’s just do it.”

  Nadie laughed that I hadn’t formally proposed in over a year, which was formalistically true. Still, her voice was breathy; I thought her breasts rose under her blouse …, my imagination? She repeated that she loved me, but wondered … again … if marriage was a practical necessity anymore for people like us. Why can’t we just go on as we have, enjoying one another when together, missing one another when apart?

  My response was that you either want to marry, to pledge lifelong love, affecti
on, care and support, or you don’t. This isn’t about logic, it’s about commitment. And, I knew we had to commit or terrible as it might be, one day we would move on.

  She leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. I made up my mind that was not enough.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  After the glories of sun-drenched Italy, a drizzly midnight arrival in Providence caused by a three hour delay at the Venice airport wasn’t particularly welcoming. While Nadie dumped laundry into the up and down washer-dryer next to the bathroom on the second floor, I deleted a cascade of e-mails and mowed through telephone messages for mortgage refinancing, telephone services, cable offerings, and a myriad of charitable opportunities, down to a call from Tom Flanaghan from only two days before. Then, I logged on to Projo.com and found Ms. Reins’ articles, including two columns of Sonny Russo’s expenditures at various restaurants for his ‘political’ meetings. While the Faculty Club made the list, he obviously favored the Hill, including familiar names like Napolitano’s, Aromas, Fiori’s, Mezza Luna, Frankie’s, and Nana’s. Asked why he went to the Faculty Club, Sonny said he liked the ‘atmosphere’ and while the food was ‘okay,’ he wanted the University to know he was ‘watching.’ Incredible!

  Nadie wasn’t much interested in the stories and we went to bed by one-thirty. She was grumpy and not looking forward to a long promised Fourth of July family weekend on Fisher’s Island. In the morning, I got in some pool drills while Nadie went off to the gym and then to her apartment to check mail and messages and restock clothes. At two forty-five, I picked her up for the drive to the ferry in New London. As the Sound Queen’s horn blasted the harbor and the squat vessel left the dock with a shudder, Nadie stood at the ferry’s prow, determined to enjoy fifteen minutes of sparkling, green-blue water, her sleep-reddened eyes protected by large, dark glasses purchased at the Armani shop in Bellagio. I left topside for the coffee bar below deck, and privacy. Flanaghan was at his home when I called.

  “Been a lot of interest in the Quonnies and Jones since you left. A reporter from the Star had a feature story in the can on their ‘signal hill’ and federal recognition and that ran the Sunday after the Gardiner murder. Got picked up on the wire services which led to a story in USA Today, and we got a history of the Quonnies including an ambush led by a Magua in the Journal, and the division in the tribe between the swamp Quonnies as the ‘true’ Quonnies and Gardiners’ group in for the casino money. Haversham Golf Club took some hits for when it built the clubhouse but no mention of Charlie as yet.” He took a breath and exhaled slowly. “But get this, Jones wants to talk to you.”

  I was incredulous.

  “He specifically asked to talk to you.” Flanaghan’s voice crackled with suspicion. “Had the public defender call me.”

  “Why me?”

  “Haven’t a clue. Besides the murder charges, Jones also has the assaults on Charlie and me from the night of the storm. Multiples on that. I kept you out of it as best I could. All told, including the assaults, gun charges, resisting arrest, my car, … did you know he managed to club a cop in the station, too …, he’s got …,” he apparently looked at something, “… sixteen charges, fourteen of which are felonies. By the way, the autopsy shows Gardiner wasn’t killed by the gun shot, just wounded, not even life-threatening, and he had lacerations and bruises, an eye swollen shut, but cause of death is smoke asphyxiation. Oh, and get this, the bullet which went through his thigh was found in the trailer. From Gardiner’s own gun. The one Jones used at the boathouse.”

  “Where is Jones?”

  “ACI. And get this! Calibrese hasn’t gone away. He’s filed a declaratory judgment suit yesterday in Washington County Superior Court against the Club for possession of the leased land. Says the Club is in default under the lease because it only got ‘temporary’ permits, not ‘permanent’ permits, by July third. They pay him increased rent or he throws them off. Gordon Ackley must be pissing down his leg because he assured the Board that the threat was over when they started playing golf in June.”

  “Has Calibrese got a case?”

  “Don’t know. Nobody’s saying much. I read the complaint which contains the wording in the lease. After mandating actual ‘golf play,’ it says ‘available for golf play on a permanent basis ….’ If the permits are temporary, is it ‘available’ on a permanent basis? Anyway, the suit will jerk them around for awhile. Wouldn’t be surprised if that’s why Ugo’s doing it. Then, look for an arrangement. Press hasn’t got it yet but the Star will sooner or later. When the Club members hear about it, Katie bar the door!”

  * * *

  At ten on the following Tuesday, after a three day weekend of bike rides, board games with my brother’s children on the floor of the billiard room, family meals and cookouts, and the Fisher’s Island Golf Club’s annual ‘Begin The Summer’ fireworks display over Long Island Sound, I drove into the parking lot of the Adult Correctional Institution, the ACI, located off Pontiac Avenue in Cranston. The seven acre compound contains four penal facilities reflecting varying levels of supervision and crime, ringed by a sixteen foot fence topped with coiled razor wire. Those awaiting trial, if not charged with a major felony, would be housed in the unadorned, dormitory-like, Intake Center and, if they didn’t make bail, in Minimum Security, an antiquated building of brick and barred windows, with its own fencing. Jones, charged with murder, didn’t get bail and was held in Maximum Security—‘Super Max’—a granite faced fortress in the center of the complex, looking like a bad dream out of The Shawshank Redemption, reeking of meanness, violence, and cupidity.

  As a court-appointed defense lawyer during my early years of practice, the ACI was, and is, a doleful place, populated by psychotics, druggies, and chronic offenders, maybe half of whom—those with some mental capacity—claimed innocence, or that they had been pushed into pleading to lesser charges by incompetent counsel, or were victims of one sort or the other. My clients liked having a former Manhattan D.A. as their defense attorney and I did what I could for them, even as I grew to hate the assignments. Were any innocent? Probably none that I represented, and if there were one or two, they were likely guilty of something equally as heinous.

  Visitors to the ACI enter the Intake Center where they are identified, searched for contraband, and their names are run through the Bureau of Criminal Investigation. After that, they are funneled into a waiting area reminding me of a shabby bus station in its rows of stained wooden benches, grimy walls, and meager lighting. Some artsy soul long ago hung now faded inspirational posters shouting ‘Courage,’ ‘Duty,’ ‘Pride,’ ‘Love,’ below idyllic photographs of beach and mountain scenes. This morning, probably on most mornings, poorly dressed, gloomy looking women of various ages crowded the benches while toddlers clung to them or played on the scuffed tile floor with toys and dolls. I stood out like a sore thumb in my suit and tie and should have known that I would.

  I used the time to call Derek Kirk. “Aye, yew’ve been away, laddie. As have I. The internet is crackling about Freddie Jones, a/k/a Magua. Peter Gardiner has become a renegade deserving of elimination, complicent in schemes of his father with the white man, while Jones has morphed into a revolutionary.”

  “A what?”

  “I’m an anthropologist, n’er a shrink. I study man in varied situations. But I could study the swamp Quonnies forever and might not understand them. For hundreds of years, the whites, when not trying to kill ‘em or take their land, have been trying to get them to look and talk and act and think and pray like whites. For the swamp Quonnies, the Jones family in particular, it ne’er took. Here’s a chance to tell their story and there’s a resonance among some radical eastern Indians, especially the young who feel the power to say ‘no,’ to take back what was taken. And with the internet and blogs …, yew should read the ‘Magua’ blog…!”

  “But he’s a criminal….”

  “Yew haven’t been listenin’, Sonny Jim. Jones may be an accused murderer and arsonist but some see him as a warrior! Over the
top, maybe, but a victim of white man’s avarice. Yew know about victim identity, do yew not?”

  Ugh. How could I not! In all of its many colors, it is part of campus life, the privilege of dressing down a former oppressor.

  “They say Jones struck back at his tribe’s enemies with fire, their tribal weapon against oppressors, and that includes the golf club that built a clubhouse on sacred ground. On a level for some with their heroes taking over Alcatraz Island or the riders of the Sioux in the Dakotas. A war that is ne’er over.”

  He told me more about the internet chatter and then we ended the conversation. Derek’s seeming acceptance of Magua’s emergence as a hero irked me; I was suspicious there was a scholarly piece of research being formulated.

  Another fifteen minutes passed, with a failed attempt to read a month old Time with its cover missing, and the attention of a gap-toothed, pretty Latino girl about four who decided I needed company. When ‘Olga Temple’ was announced over the staticy public address system, I approached a glass window in the far wall of the waiting area. A disinterested, uniformed female guard cheerlessly checked my driver’s license and directed me to a metal door which opened electronically and admitted me into another waiting area where I was frisked by a jelly-belly guard sporting a Fu Manchu mustache. There were two exit doors, one marked ‘Maximum-Medium’ the other ‘Minimum-Intake.’ The guard finished with me and grunted through clogged nasal passages, “You’s not an attorney?”