“I’m sorry,” I said to her now, “did you ask me something?”
She pointed to a magazine sticking out of the seat pocket in front of me. “I was wondering if I could have a look at that. If you’re not reading it right now.”
That was a silly thing for her to say, wasn’t it? I mean, how could I have been reading it if it was in the seat pocket? I pulled out the magazine and handed it to her. “I’m too busy doing nothing to read.”
She thanked me as she took the magazine.
“You come here often?” I asked.
She looked around her, then back at me, cold comment on an old line. “You mean this airplane or Las Vegas?”
“I meant Las Vegas.”
“I work here.” She opened the magazine and sat back.
“Ah,” I said.
A few moments later, she said, “I’m sorry, did you lose a lot of money in the casinos or something?”
“Why do you ask?”
“You seem a little, uh, distracted.”
“Oh. No, I really wasn’t thinking about the casinos at all. I was only in town for one day.”
“You came to Las Vegas for one day?”
“Business,” I said, making that sound as important as I could.
“Was it a successful trip?”
I shook my head. “I guess that’s what I’m trying to figure out.”
She didn’t seem in a big hurry to resume looking through the magazine, so I asked what sort of work she did in Nevada.
“Hotel management,” she told me.
“Oh,” I said again, falling back upon some of my cleverest repartee. I often rely on “Oh” or “Ah,” or my favorite, “Huh?” to keep a conversation going.
She asked if I lived in New York.
“I do. Born and bred. What brings you east?”
“Other than this airplane?” She smiled, which was the first time she tried it on me. It was quite a smile.
I said, “Yes, other than this airplane.”
“I grew up in Queens,” she told me. “Visiting, then going on from there.”
I nodded. “You want a drink?” I asked.
“Why not,” she agreed, closing the magazine on her lap. She told me her name was Donna, so I introduced myself.
The stewardess came over and I suggested a Bloody Mary. “It’s a morning kind of cocktail. Chock full of Vitamin C.”
Donna ordered a screwdriver instead, just to stay with the citrus thing I guess, and I asked for another Bloody Mary.
She told me she had a graduate degree from the hotel and management school at Cornell, spent a few years in New York, then a couple of years ago landed a job in the front office of one of the big complexes on the Strip. She was learning the casino trade from top to bottom.
“You visiting family back home?” I asked.
“No, just friends. My family moved to Florida a few years ago.”
“Ah. Florida.”
“I’m looking forward to just walking around the city for a couple of days. I miss it. Las Vegas is awfully provincial, for all its glitz. When you work in the industry, which almost everyone does, it becomes a very small town.”
“Never thought of it, behind all that glitz.”
She showed me her smile again. “What do you do?”
“I write.”
“Newspaper? Magazine?”
“Advertising.”
She nodded.
“You said you were going on from New York. To see your family in Florida?”
“No. Taking some vacation time in Europe.”
“Ah.”
“What sort of business brought you to the land of Sodom and Gomorrah? Your agency doing work for one of the hotels?”
“No, it was personal.”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”
I told her it was fine, since I’d been prying into her life for the last several minutes. “I needed to look up an old family friend.”
“Things work out?”
“I’m not sure,” I admitted. “But it was good to see him.”
She studied me for what seemed a long time. “Well that’s something, right?”
“Yes,” I said, “I suppose it is.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
As Donna and I continued our transcontinental chat, I found myself thinking about a place where my father spent a lot of time, back in the day. A place that might help me make sense of his letter.
Arthur Avenue is a street in the Bronx, but the name is used to describe the surrounding area, a neighborhood in the truest, old-fashioned, New York sense of the word. The apartment buildings are tenements, three and four stories high, no doormen or any of that swanky Manhattan stuff. At ground level you’ll find some of the best Italian restaurants in the city, which means they’re among the best anywhere in the world, except Italy.
Arthur Avenue was my father’s main stomping ground, where he hung out, where many of his friends worked and where several of them met for their Saturday lunches, which they called the Club.
I had a feeling I might find some answers there, in his old neighborhood, among that old crowd. Just before our plane set down in New York, I invited Donna to dinner.
“Look,” I said, “I’ve got my car at the airport, you need a ride into town and I can promise you a great Italian dinner. Not a bad deal, right?”
“You sure you’re not a lawyer?”
“Huh?”
“You sound like you’re pleading a case.”
“Really?”
“You make a dinner invitation sound like an argument to a jury.” She gave me a flash of her killer smile.
“All right, what’s the verdict?”
“Well, the jury is still out on you,” she said, “but I’ll be happy to go to dinner.”
Getting off the plane I had nothing but a carry-on, so I waited with Donna at the claims area for her suitcase.
“This is it?” I asked as I lifted her bag off the luggage carousel.
“That’s the only one.”
“You travel light,” I said.
“You mean, for a woman?”
“Ouch.”
“Carry my bag and you’re forgiven.”
We headed to the long-term parking lot, climbed into my eight-year-old Karmann Ghia convertible and headed up the Van Wyck Expressway toward the Whitestone Bridge.
The Roosevelt was opened in the early fifties by Antoinette and Anthony, a couple who emigrated to the States from Sicily, opened their trattoria and named it in honor of the late, revered President of their adopted country. Anthony presided over the bar and dining room while his wife, Antoinette, ran the kitchen like a small fiefdom. As far as my father was concerned, she was the best cook in the city.
Blackie became a regular during his days as a liquor salesman, after which he would stop by almost every Saturday afternoon to have lunch with other guys from the Avenue. That was how the Club got started.
The Club was not any sort of formal organization. There certainly was no golf course or clubhouse because, as you figured out already, Blackie and his cronies were not country club material. Serious Guys never are, and never want to join any organization—with one notable exception I need not name. Those lunches at the Roosevelt became a ritual, a collection of men who had known each other for years, who gathered on Saturday afternoons with only a few rules, all of which were strictly enforced.
No women. No discussion of your own business. And every member would have to contribute money every week to the Fund.
The Fund was based on the charity-begins-at-home concept, available if one of the members was in financial straits. Or one of the good kids in the neighborhood needed a few bucks for college. Or a friendly politician in the area needed help. Basically, the Fund was a way of giving the group a reas
on for being, other than the chance to share stories and the enjoyment of Antoinette’s cooking.
At times, when I accompanied my father on his Saturday morning rounds, he would take me to those lunches at the Roosevelt. Most of the men at the table liked to say they knew me since before I was born, and they never seemed to mind my being there, even though I was the only kid that ever sat at their table.
I knew how to act with respect and to keep my mouth shut, which was pretty much all they wanted from me.
There was a lot of talk at those lunches about big real estate deals and other investment opportunities where they would all have a chance to make a fortune. Those discussions weren’t considered a violation of their rule against promoting your own business, because they were outside their normal occupations and presented a chance for the others to participate in something really huge.
As far as I knew, very few of those longshots ever came through, but during the flight from Las Vegas, I found myself trying to recall my father mentioning anything of a plan that involved the south of France, or whatever the hell he was talking about in the letter.
I was also wondering if there might be someone around Arthur Avenue who remembered.
***
DURING THE RIDE I TOLD DONNA about the Roosevelt and the Club and how going back to Arthur Avenue was like a trip down Memory Lane for me. She seemed interested, or was too polite to say she wasn’t.
“When was the last time you were there?”
“I go to Arthur Avenue for dinner every now and then, but not to the Roosevelt. Too many ghosts, I think. I haven’t been there in years.”
“The way you talk about it, I thought you were there last week.”
“I guess seeing my father’s old friend in Vegas made me feel a little nostalgic.”
“Nostalgia is good,” she said. “It’s honoring your own history.”
“I like that,” I told her.
“I mean it. People who think it’s corny must be ashamed of something, don’t you think?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I’d have to think about that.”
Donna laughed. “Don’t jump to any dangerous conclusions.”
When we walked into the Roosevelt I could see the place hadn’t changed much. Except for the people. I’m not sure what I expected, but I felt disappointed not to recognize any of the men at the bar. It was an early Sunday evening, so there were a few guys staring up at the television as the late afternoon football game wound down, but not a familiar face among them. I stood with Donna beside me, just inside the door, thinking maybe this wasn’t such a great idea after all.
Then I spotted Ralph.
Ralph was Anthony and Antoinette’s oldest son. He must have been about fifty years old by then, a huge man who stood well over six feet tall, with broad shoulders, a thick neck and a head that made him look like he wouldn’t need a helmet to play on the offensive line for the Packers. His hair was wiry and cut very short, just like his father had worn his. He was talking to the bartender at the far end of the room, and they were having a laugh about something. I remembered him years ago, when he was trim and muscular, running errands for his parents, working in the kitchen, lifting boxes filled with vegetables and mopping the floors. Now he was dressed in a dark suit, white shirt and dark tie, and it was obvious he was in charge. When he spotted us he grabbed two menus and made his way to the front. His legs were so long he seemed to take the entire length of the room in about three easy strides.
“An early dinner, folks?”
I smiled at him. “Hi Ralph,” I said. “Long time no see.”
It took a few seconds, but when he recognized me he took my outstretched hand and started pumping it hard enough jack up a Peterbilt.
“Blackie’s kid,” he said. “Blackie’s kid. Jeez. How the hell long has it been?”
“Before my father died. Six, seven years, at least.”
“Jeez. I remember you as a skinny little geek, always talkin’ books and stuff. You become a professor or what?”
“Not exactly. Advertising,” I told him.
Ralph nodded slowly. “Almost the same thing in a way, right? Words. You were always good with words.”
“I’m not so sure anymore,” I told him. “Say hello to my friend Donna.”
“Hi Donna, good to meet ya.” He shook her hand, somewhat more gently than he had mine, then turned back to me. “What happened to you all these years? You been in jail, you been outta the country, what? You don’t come by to say hello?”
“I don’t know, Ralph. Too many memories, maybe.”
He gave me a gentle slap on the shoulder. “I know what you mean. It’s not the same without the old crowd. And I’m here every day.”
“It’s your place now, huh?”
“Hey, if not me, then who?”
I told Donna that Ralph’s father, Anthony, was probably the sweetest guy who ever lived.
“Too sweet maybe,” Ralph told her, but he seemed genuinely pleased to hear me say it. “Not nearly as tough as my mother, right?”
“Who ever was? And who ever made a rigatoni Bolognese that good?”
“I come pretty close.”
“You cook here too?”
“Nah, I’m what you call the supervising chef. Fancy, eh? I got all the recipes up here,” he told us proudly, pointing to his sizable head. “Come, sit down.”
He led us past the strangers at the bar to a table toward the rear of the dining room, not far from where they used to set up the large, round table for the Club. It was late for Sunday lunch and early for dinner, so the room was fairly empty. In the quiet, I imagined hearing the murmur of familiar voices.
“What happened to the table for the Club?”
“Still got the big round top stored in the back. We pull it out once in a while for parties, groups, you know. But it’s not the same. This place used to be filled with nothing but neighborhood people. You remember.”
“Sure.”
“Now the Avenue’s a big deal. Actors and actresses show up. Politicians from downtown. Suits from Wall Street and Madison Avenue.” He thought about how that sounded and added, “Hey, no offense. You’re family.”
“No offense taken.”
“How about a nice Chianti Classico?”
“Great.”
“I’ll get you a good bottle.” Turning to Donna, he said, “Jeez, last time I saw him I think he was drinking soda.”
“Beer,” I told him.
He laughed. “I’ll be right back.”
“What a nice man,” Donna said as we watched Ralph head off.
“He’s like his father,” I said. “Just taller.”
When Ralph returned with the wine, I asked him to join us for a glass.
“This is your idea of a romantic dinner with your lady friend, having me at the table?” He slapped me on the shoulder again. “What happened? I always thought you was a smart kid.”
“Come on, Ralph, it’s early, you’re not busy yet.”
He dropped his large frame into a chair, opened the bottle and poured us each a full glass, with none of that sniffing the cork or any phony tasting ceremony. We all toasted and drank.
“This is great wine,” I told him.
He smiled. “Of course,” he said.
Then I asked him about the guys from the Club.
I knew that both of Ralph’s parents had died years back, but was saddened to learn how many of the other men from the Club had died. When I first sat at that table I was so young that most of them seemed old to me, even then. Yet somehow, when you’re growing up, you never expect old people to get any older.
“We still buy our pastries from Gerry, though,” Ralph told me.
“Gerry Egidio? No kidding.”
“The one and only. Sonuvagun has more money than Midas, but he shows up
for work every day. Must be eighty now.”
“God bless him,” I said, although I don’t know why. As I may have already mentioned, I’m not the least bit religious. Must have been the setting.
“Yeah, Gerry takes good care of himself. Not the like the rest of us.” He spread his hands across his generous gut. “Gerry’s smart enough not to eat his own cannolis.”
I laughed.
“I know he’d love to see you. You should stop by and say hello.”
I knew I would do just that.
Gerry Egidio was the most articulate member of the group. Like most of the others in the Club, he was raised by immigrant parents and had limited schooling, but he educated himself while working hard, and became the premier baker in the area. He had a brood of children, I don’t remember how many, and since he was older than my father, all of his sons and daughters were adults by the time I was allowed to attend those lunches. Gerry was always glad to see me, curious to discuss what I was studying in school and the books I was reading.
He had wavy, silver hair, an olive complexion and dark intelligent eyes that were framed by steel rimmed glasses. He wasn’t a man who smiled a lot, not like a some of the other guys at the table who were quick to show how sociable they were, but his eyes would light up when we started discussing something that interested him, like whether the nineteenth century novelists had it all over contemporary writers. Contemporary to him meant Fitzgerald, Faulkner, Joyce and, of course, Hemingway. He argued for the older classics and was a big fan of the Russians, particularly Dostoevsky. In those days I leaned more to Salinger, Golding and Knowles, which he said was appropriate to my age, assuring me that taste in all things eventually changes.
He turned out to be right, except when it comes to Salinger.
Gerry liked my father, but was one of those people in my life who were adamant about my pursuing college and beyond. And not having anything to do with the life.
“You know,” I said to Ralph, “I was actually hoping to talk with some of the old crowd.”
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