by Joyce, Eddie
Michael smiles at Franky’s logic. This is what he wanted. This is what he remembers: the boys treating the pool like it was a sacred thing, an institution. Franky looks up at the television. The game is tied, looks like it’s gonna go down to the wire.
“I’ll tell you what, Daddy-o. These two teams are really, really good. Whoever wins this game could give Pitt a real fight and then, who knows? Give me Butler. If Old Dominion wins, we can change when we’re in line.”
“You want Butler?”
“Good young coach. Scrappy team.”
“Butler it is.”
Michael looks down at his completed entry: Kentucky, UConn, VCU, and Butler. A snowball’s chance in hell. But, hey, they call it gambling for a reason. He feels good. With a little luck, they won’t be out of it by the time Sunday rolls around; if any of these teams are playing during little Bobby’s party, they can root for them together.
Franky sits on the couch, organizing his entries, counting money. Michael should tell him now about Tina and her new friend. He won’t get a better chance. They’re alone and Franky’s more or less sober. But he can’t bring himself to do it. He doesn’t want to ruin the good mood.
“I’m gonna go wait in the car with Tiny. Hustle, Franky.”
“Two minutes, Pop.”
Tiny is dozing lightly when Michael gets back to the car. Michael smacks the driver side window, startling his friend.
“You prick,” he says when Michael gets into the car. He looks around for Franky. “Everything all right?”
“Fine. He’ll be right down.”
Michael’s cell starts ringing. He looks at the caller ID—the Leaf—and answers.
“Hello?”
“Hey, it’s Tommy.”
“What’s up?”
“Listen, did you guys put the entries in yet?”
“No, we’re five minutes away. We stopped to pick up Franky.”
“Because a couple of guys just came in and said that Cody’s was closed, that the pool got shut down.”
“What?”
“That’s what they said.”
“That’s bullshit. It has to be.”
“I don’t know, Mikey. They sound pretty sure.”
Michael sees Franky emerge from the back of the house, a panicked look on his face.
“I’ll call you back, Tommy.”
Tiny rolls down the window. Franky leans in, his breathing is ragged.
“Yo, Tony Brennan just called me. He says the pool is fucking done. Ovah.”
* * *
The far end of Forest Avenue is pandemonium. Traffic is backed up for six blocks before Cody’s and the sidewalks are filled with men holding sheets of paper and screaming into cell phones. Michael watches as one guy tosses a handful of sheets into the air in exasperation. A few other guys do the same and then a few more follow suit. Soon, every guy on the street is tossing sheets into the air. The sheets start blowing all over the street, getting caught in bushes, obscuring windshields, collecting in the gutters. Some of the cars in front of them start making U-turns despite the cramped conditions.
“Jesus Christ, this is fucking mayhem.”
An entry sheet flies onto the front windshield and sticks there. Michael inspects it.
“Shit, Tiny, this guy had Bucknell in the Final Four.”
They laugh. Franky runs down the sidewalk toward them, returning from his recon. He opens the rear door, slides into the backseat.
“So?”
“Sign on the window says ‘Closed. No Pool This Year.’”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“What about the Laundromat next door, where they used to take the entries?”
“That’s open, but the Chinese lady in there is as confused as everyone else. She’s screaming at people to get out. I think someone’s gonna throw a garbage can through the front window of Cody’s.”
“What about all the entries they already collected?” asks Tiny.
Franky shrugs his shoulders.
“Don’t know.”
A guy gets out of the car in front of them and starts yelling at someone on the other side of the street. A fight, or possibly several, seems imminent.
“What are you gonna do, Franky?” Michael asks.
“Tony told me that a bar up on Victory may run a replacement pool. They’re accepting sheets. You want me to take yours up there?”
“No, not sure what the other guys from the Leaf want to do.”
“Okay, I’ll call you later. Later, Tiny. See you Sunday, Dad.”
Franky closes the car door, walks back up toward the crowd. Michael never got a chance to tell him about Tina.
“What should we do, Mikey?” asks Tiny.
Another set of sheets gets tossed into the air and the wind catches them, sending them flying past the car.
“Not sure, Tiny, but I think better on a bar stool.”
* * *
If Michael hears “A Holly, Jolly Christmas” one more time, he’s gonna put a fist through the jukebox. Old man Dunn, the drunk at the end of the bar—his only customer for the past forty-five minutes—has played it at least six times. He has half a mind to declare last call, kick Dunn out, and close up shop, even though it’s only midnight. It’s a Tuesday night, a week before Christmas; a late crowd is unlikely.
Then again, what’s waiting for him at home? A pissed-off wife and a cold bed. He and Gail haven’t spoken in months, haven’t slept together in who knows how long. He pours himself another draft, refills Dunn’s rocks glass. He takes a dollar from his tip cup, slides out from behind the bar, walks over to the jukebox. He’ll play his own goddamn songs.
The front door opens. Michael looks over, sees his father enter the bar. A light dusting of snow lies on the shoulders of Enzo’s coat. He takes his hat off, shakes it free of snow. He walks down to Michael, hugs him hello, kisses his cheek. Michael’s in shock; he’s never seen his father in a bar before. Enzo takes a stool at the far end of the room, away from the door. Michael retreats behind the bar, money still in his hand, confused and a little nervous. Eight months ago, he retired from the FDNY. Seven months ago, Enzo offered to sell him the shop at a very discounted price. They haven’t spoken since.
“Do you have any wine?” Enzo asks. His English has improved over the years, since Maria died.
“None that you’d like.”
Enzo looks at the shelves behind Michael, searching for something he might enjoy.
“Zambuca. Just a small glass.”
Michael pours him a drink, slides it across the bar. Enzo reaches for his wallet.
“On the house, Dad.”
Enzo raises his glass. Michael retrieves his mug, does the same.
“Alla salute.”
They drink. Enzo rubs his hands together, bites his lip. He takes another sip of his drink. He’s nervous as well, searching for the right words.
“It took a long time, but I understood the other thing. Fighting the fires. Good thing. Noble. But this”—he points down the bar at Dunn, who is slumped over, sleeping on crossed elbows—“this. I do not understand this.”
He reaches for his drink, downs the remainder. He looks at Michael, beseechingly, hoping for some explanation. When it’s clear that Michael isn’t going to say anything, Enzo continues.
“Tomorrow, I go to Italy. For a month. When I come back, I need an answer.”
He stands, picks his hat off the bar. He looks at Michael, holds his gaze.
“Whatever you chose, Michael, I love you. Your family, your wife, your boys. La mia famiglia. La mia vita.”
He reaches over, pats Michael’s hand. He walks out into the night, doesn’t look back. The sound of the front door closing momentarily wakes Dunn. Michael refills his mug, goes back around to the jukebox. He surv
eys his choices as an adolescent anger builds within him. He’s a grown man, being given a curfew like a teenager.
When I’m good and ready, he thinks. Not a moment before.
* * *
Tiny and Michael retreat back across the Island to the Leaf. The bar is packed, but Michael secures a table in the back for the two of them. The word has spread. The whole bar is buzzing with the news. Tommy Flanagan, just off his shift, comes over with a round of beers and the latest gossip.
“So what’s the word, Tommy?” Tiny asks.
“Heard the Feds shut it down. The guy who won last year was some Serbian lawyer. But he was in the middle of a divorce. So his wife told her lawyer that Devin Cody brought eight hundred thousand dollars to their house one night last year and the Serb lawyer hasn’t listed it anywhere in his assets. So her lawyer called the Feds. One thing leads to another.”
A guy from a neighboring table, wearing a blue hoodie, interjects. “The lawyer wasn’t Serbian. He was a Croat.”
“A Croat?” asks Tiny.
“You mean Croatian?” asks Michael.
“No, not Croatian. Fuck, Vinny, what was the lawyer again?” he asks the guy sitting across from him.
“Albanian,” says Vinny, before returning to his own conversation.
“That’s it, lawyer was Albanian, not Serbian.”
The guy turns back to his table.
“That’s bullshit,” whispers Tommy. “How the fuck would an Albanian even know about college basketball?”
“But what, a Serbian would?” asks Tiny.
“Yeah, sure, Wagner had those four Serbian guys a few years back. The big kid, what was his name?”
“They weren’t Serbs, Tommy. They were Croats,” Michael says. They all laugh.
* * *
The afternoon limps into the evening. The Leaf takes on the contradictory character of an Irish wake: somber but festive. A stream of refugees from Cody’s trickles in, mixing with some Paddy’s Day revelers. The place fills up with a menagerie of blue collar guys: firefighters, cops, construction workers, Local One electricians. After a while, the whole bar is glowing with the camaraderie of half-soused strangers killing time together. The tourney is in full swing, but most of the crowd isn’t even watching the games. Fresh rumors about the pool arrive with every soul who walks in the door.
A couple of mob guys tried to shake Devin down. Four ex-cops threatened to start a war with the mob guys. Someone called him in the middle of the night and threatened to kidnap his daughter. Some asshole actually reported the winnings on his tax return. Devin’s wife ran off with a nineteen-year-old and he’s heartbroken. Devin ran off with a nineteen-year-old and the early entry money. He left some of the money with a nun and she gambled it away.
Tiny and Michael order burgers. They eat them in silence, unwilling to yell to be heard over the dull roar of the bar. They watch the games, have another round of beers. At eight thirty, Tiny asks for the check.
“That’s it for me, Mikey,” Tiny announces. “Want a ride?”
He should go home. But it’s been a long day, a sad day, and he wants to put a shine on it. He’s never known when to call it a night, has always chased a good time, a few more laughs with the fellas.
“I’m gonna stay for a little bit.”
He walks Tiny out the back door to his car. They embrace.
“Florida, huh?”
“Someone told me Laura Gentile moved down there after her second husband died.”
“Never gonna happen.”
Tiny winks at him.
“Ye of little faith.”
When Tiny drives away, Michael walks around to the front of the bar. A crew of guys stands outside smoking. He bums a cigarette from a regular he knows. He hasn’t had a smoke in years, but the day is calling for it. He stands off a little to the side. A few entry sheets drift past; some guys must have brought their sheets back here before abandoning them.
The pool is done. Another thing that made the Island cozy is no more. Michael’s been putting in entries since the mid-eighties, back when the pool was a couple thousand if you won. The boys grew up with the pool. They all loved it, especially Bobby. All over the tristate area, the news will spread: on Wall Street, out to Jersey and Long Island, up to Connecticut. No more pool. It got too big, drew too much attention.
And now it’s gone.
He takes a few drags on the cigarette, drops it on the sidewalk, and steps on it. His head swims from the smoke.
It starts to drizzle, driving the smokers inside. Michael walks back into the bar. The crowd has thinned a bit and separated into pockets: the still raucous, the silently stewed, and the unsteady in between. Michael finds an open spot at the bar, next to Tommy Flanagan and a few other guys he knows. He puts a twenty on the bar and heads for the bathroom.
The bathroom is empty. Michael relieves himself of a day’s worth of beer. He goes to the sink, washes his hands. When he looks up, he sees his father staring back at him from behind the smudged mirror.
If you’d taken the shop, maybe Bobby would still be alive.
Not his father’s voice. His own.
His chest tightens. It feels as though his ribs are closing to protect his insides. His eyes water. He goes to one knee, a half kneel, his hands holding opposite ends of the sink. He’s having trouble breathing. Little whirling dots blur his vision. He feels faint.
The door to the bathroom opens. Michael scurries to his feet. The tap is still running. He leans down, spoons cold water onto his face, the back of his neck and his arms.
“You okay, pal?” the guy asks.
“I’m fine,” he answers. “Dropped a quarter.”
He usually wakes with the thought. Most days, it’s there, on the back of his eyelids, waiting for him somewhere between asleep and awake. It’s better to wake with it, to have the sadness already there, the thought already accepted and just go about his day. But today, the slippery bastard hid all day, attacked when he least expected it.
He washes his hands, walks back out to the bar. He takes a long pull on his beer, waves the bartender over.
“Jameson,” he says. “A double.”
* * *
Enzo pours out two glasses of wine, slides one over to Michael. Gray hair sneaks up out of his shirt and down out of his nose and ears. He smiles.
“Alla salute.”
Michael takes a sip.
“Listen, Dad. Tomorrow night is Bobby’s last high school basketball game. It would mean a lot to him if you came. Would mean a lot to me.”
“Of course. I’ll be there.”
They sit in silence for a bit.
“Something else, Michael?”
Three months have passed since Enzo walked into the Leaf, gave him a deadline. He has not been a good man these past months. Not a good husband, not a good father, not a good son. He has been living in a fugue, angry for reasons he still doesn’t understand. But he is a humbled soul now. His hands start shaking. The words pour out.
“I was wrong, Dad. I was wrong, I was a jerk and I’m sorry. I had some kinda stupid midlife crisis, but I’m ready now. I have the money. I’m not a firefighter anymore, I have to accept that. I want something to pass along to my boys. I want the shop.”
Enzo rubs a finger over a drop of spilled wine. He considers his son.
“It’s okay, Michael. Is better this way. I sell the shop and then, when I go, you use the money, use it how you want it.”
“No, Pop,” he says, an unexpected urgency taking hold of him. “You don’t understand. I want the shop. I really do. I’ll buy it. We can talk price. I know I made you wait, so I can pay whatever you want, well, maybe not whatever you want, but we can make it work. I’m sure—”
Enzo raises a hand. Michael stops talking. He feels panicky, an only child’s overdue realization of his own selfishness.
Enzo gulps down his wine, puts the empty glass on the table. His eyes are sinking moons.
“Is too late, Michael. Too late. Enzo Annunziata bought the shop. We closed last week.”
* * *
It is late when Michael leaves the Leaf. He is drunker than he’s been in a good long while. The rain has given the street a sheen. Wads of wet paper—more entry sheets—line the gutter. He starts to walk home. The streets are empty, most of the houses are dark. The only sound is rain hitting pavement. By the time he gets home, he’s soaked.
Gail is in a deep sleep on the couch. A library book is draped open across her chest. He lifts the book from her chest and saves the page with a mass card, the way she does. He kisses her forehead gently, trying not to wake her. He’s too unsteady to risk guiding her up the stairs.
He walks upstairs, stands outside Bobby’s room. He closes his eyes, listens at the door, hears nothing.
He walks into the bathroom, takes off his wet clothes. He tosses them over the shower rod, spreads them so they’ll dry. He walks to the sink. He runs the tap, splashes some cold water onto his face. He looks at his reflection.
He sees an old man who’s had too much to drink. An old man who didn’t follow his father. An old man whose sons followed him: one into a different life, one into the bars, one into the flames. He exhales, wipes his face with a towel, takes a last look in the mirror.
He sees an old man, cold and tired and ready for his bed.
Chapter 7
ALL WOULD BE FORGIVEN
Friday is clear, blustery. Gail spends the morning cleaning the house in advance of Sunday’s party and the early afternoon halfheartedly watching the second day of games of the NCAA tournament. The news has spread like wildfire, putting the whole Island in a funereal state. Gail has gotten four calls herself, Michael another half dozen. No more pool. At noon, Michael says he’s feeling squirrelly, gonna go for a walk, which means the Leaf. She wants to ask about Franky, how he behaved yesterday, but she doesn’t. There’s enough bad news for one morning.
No more pool. Bobby would have been devastated. He would have been sitting here miserable, probably commiserating with Franky. Still watching the games of course, but miserable. She gets an idea: she’ll call Franky, invite him over. They can commiserate. And she can tell him about Tina in person. Easier to pass along news like that with a firm hand on the shoulder, a steely gaze in the eyes. Easier to say what needs to be said. To tell him that he can be angry about this, upset about this, but that he can’t be either of those things on Sunday. He has to behave, and if he can’t, he shouldn’t bother coming at all, which, God help her, is what she’s hoping happens.