Authors: Eddie Joyce
* * *
The car slows in a thicket of traffic after they merge onto the Staten Island Expressway.
“You okay, Mikey?” Tiny asks.
“Yeah, fine. I’m a little distracted. Tina met someone.”
“Nice guy?”
“Don’t know. Haven’t met him yet.”
“Oh.”
“His name is Wade. He’s coming to the house on Sunday.”
“Wade?”
“Wade.”
Tiny’s face furrows in uncertainty, like he can’t figure what that means, but he’s pretty sure it’s not good.
“I saw her a few weeks ago. She came over to try to get Maria out of the house. She looked great,” he says, a hint of salaciousness creeping into his voice.
“You’re a dirty old man.”
“I can’t notice? I can’t look?”
“That’s my daughter in-law, you sick son of a bitch.”
Tiny laughs.
“She’s not my daughter in-law. Hey, Mikey, you stop noticing, you die. Nothing wrong with looking.”
Only Tiny does more than look, or, at least, he used to. Michael saw him with another woman once, years ago, back when he and Tiny were both young men. He was in the city, at some retirement booze-up, bouncing around from place to place. He and a few FDNY guys were walking along Second Avenue, between places, and Michael spotted Tiny inside a restaurant, sitting and smiling. By himself, Michael thought. He was wearing a jacket and tie, looked like hot shit. He told the other guys he’d catch up. He never saw Tiny in the city; it gave him a little thrill to see his friend in a different element. Michael walked into the restaurant with vague ideas about playing a joke or making a scene, but the hushed closeness of the place made him realize he was halfway drunk. He mumbled something to the maître d’ and took a few steps toward Tiny’s table.
Then he saw her: young, pretty, definitely not Peggy. It could have been a business meeting, but Michael knew it wasn’t. Tiny was pouring wine with his left hand and his right hand was on the woman’s bare back. His face was flush and he was in full Casanova mode. Michael stopped and turned around. He walked out of the restaurant and hustled after the other guys. He thought that maybe Tiny had spotted him but wasn’t sure. Tiny never brought it up, in any event, and Michael never told anyone, not even Gail. Thinking about it later, Michael concluded that this was not an isolated event; Tiny looked too comfortable, the whole scene almost seemed rehearsed.
Michael looks over at Tiny as he guides the car onto the ramp for Clove Road. He’s never felt envy toward Tiny, never begrudged him his successes. They’ve known each other for more than fifty years. With a few exceptions—Michael in the army, Tiny away at school—they’ve probably seen each other almost every week during that time. He’s as close to a brother as Michael has ever had.
And there was only one person whose judgment Michael trusted more.
* * *
He finds Gus on the back porch, smoking a cigar he isn’t supposed to be smoking. Gus is staring across the bay at the base of Manhattan, where the tips of the Twin Towers are shrouded in fog. A few weeks ago, some Arabs detonated a bomb in the North Tower, killing six people. But it could have been a lot worse.
“I guess they thought they were gonna bring them down.”
Gus jumps, startled by Michael’s voice.
“You scared me. Thought you were Nancy.”
He looks back across at the towers.
“Guess so. I don’t know, Mikey, this world, I don’t understand it anymore.”
“That why you’re so intent on leaving it?”
Michael points to the cigar. Gus is much thinner than he used to be, thinner even than the last time Michael saw him.
“I’m eighty years old, you dumb ginny bastard. Let me enjoy myself. Make yourself useful, anyway, and fetch me a blanket.”
Michael goes inside, grabs an afghan, lays it on his mentor’s lap. He sits down next to him, takes in the view, always breathtaking. Two ferries pass in the harbor.
“I was on my way to drop off some entries at Cody’s, figured I’d drop by and see if you croaked yet.”
Gus laughs. After a few seconds, his laughter stumbles into a coughing fit.
“Don’t make me laugh, you bastard.” He stubs the cigar out in an ashtray on the table between them. “How’s it looking?”
“They’re saying two hundred grand, maybe more.”
He reaches under his blanket, pulls out an envelope, hands it to Michael.
“Just one sheet. With my luck, I’ll finally win this year but be too dead to collect.”
Michael laughs. Gus reaches over and grabs his arm.
“Mikey, if anything ever happened and I did win, you’d make sure that Nancy, you know—”
“
Marone,
Gussy. Of course. You’re not gonna die,” he says, patting his mentor’s hand. “And you’re definitely not gonna win.”
“You little prick.”
“Learned from the best.”
Gus leans over.
“Listen, Mikey, there’s a bottle of scotch in the kitchen, in the pantry, behind the cereal boxes. Go get it, bring back two glasses. I hear we have something to celebrate.”
Michael retrieves the bottle, trying to ignore the decrepit state of the house. Dirty dishes are piled on the counters. Cabinet doors dangle off their hinges. There’s a hole near the sink and not a small one. The house was always a wreck, but now it’s dangerous. Feels like it might fall down at any moment. When he gets outside, he pours them each a finger of whiskey. Gus shakes his glass in irritation.
“Don’t be such a miser.”
Michael pours him another finger. They clink glasses.
“Congrats, Mikey.”
“Twenty-five years.”
“You did the most important thing, kid. Came home at the end of every shift. That’s the trick.”
“Went fast.”
“Tell me about it.”
They take sips, look out over the city. The whiskey tingles Michael’s tongue, sends warm emissaries to his extremities.
“City’s changed, mostly for the better,” Michael says. He looks over, sees Gus pulling the blanket up over his chest. He can still remember the night he met the legendary Gus Feeney. Now, the legend needs a blanket to stay warm, has to sneak cigars when his old lady is out.
“Everywhere but here. That goddamn bridge.”
The population on the Island has risen steadily since the bridge was finished. There’s construction everywhere; it’s like some of the builders have personal vendettas against trees. The Island is starting to lose its small-town feel.
“You were right, Gussy.”
Gus takes a long pull on his glass, closes his eyes.
“So, Mikey, what are you gonna do now?”
“Play some golf, relax, enjoy myself.”
“Seriously, what are you gonna do?”
“I am serious.”
“You’re a young man, Mikey. You need to find something else to do. Otherwise, this”— Gus raises his glass—“is what you’ll do.”
“I’ll figure it out.”
“You want me to make some calls, set you up someplace in the city, a cushy consulting gig, advising companies how to respond to fires, something like that?”
“I’m done commuting to the city.”
Gus takes a long pull, motions for Michael to refill his glass.
“Your father still have that shop?”
Michael can see his father holding an apron, triumphant at last. A quarter century, an entire career; these mean nothing. The shop is still waiting for him.
“I’m sure I could get a few shifts at the Leaf if I wanted.”
“You’re gonna bartend?”
“Maybe, I don’t know, Gus. I’ll figure it out.”
“The shop, would he give it to you? Or sell it on the cheap?”
“Of course. He’s been waiting thirty years to give me that fucking shop. I’m not gonna be a butcher, Gus. That ship has sailed.”
Gus reaches over and pokes him in the shoulder. Hard. Michael turns. There’s something close to anger in Gus’s eyes.
“Hey, jackass, don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”
* * *
Tiny waits in the car while Michael goes to fetch Franky. He lives on the second floor of an old Victorian in Westerleigh, above an elderly widower whose lack of hearing and genial nature are the only things that have prevented his eviction. Michael goes up the back staircase, knocks on the door. Franky answers, holding a beer in one hand and a few entry sheets in the other.
“Daddy-o,” he says, giving Michael a hug. He smells sour, overripe. Not from the beer this morning, but from too much generally. He’s half pickled; he doesn’t look well.
“A little early, no?” Michael asks.
“It’s almost three. And, what, you didn’t have a few pops at the Leaf already?”
“Fair enough. You ready?”
“Give me two minutes. C’mon in. The games are in full swing. You want one?”
“No, I’m all set.”
They walk into the living room, which is less of a wreck than the last time Michael was here, nine months ago, looking for drugs. Franky has his sheets lined up in rows on a coffee table; envelopes of money lay scattered about. The television is on, the volume is low. Butler, an 8 seed, is playing Old Dominion, a 9 seed. Ten minutes left in the second half. A nail-biter. Michael reaches into his jacket, pulls out his sheet.
“So, Franky, I’m only putting in one entry sheet this year.”
“Really?”
“I’m doing it the way we used to do it. I pick a team, Peter picks a team, you pick a team. I asked Tina to pick for Bobby. I’ll call your Mom later and ask her to pick the winner.”
“Nice. Old school.”
“So it’s down to you.”
“What region?”
“Southeast.”
“Okay, let’s see. Who did everyone else pick?”
“Not gonna tell you.”
“I like it. Nice.”
He picks up a sheet, starts perusing the teams, talking to himself out loud.
“You and Petey definitely went chalk. Always have. I have no clue what Tina did, but Maria Terrio went to Notre Dame, so she probably picked them, in which case we’re all screwed anyway. But you gotta have faith, right? Okay. Pitt? No. Florida? Maybe. BYU? No fucking chance. Wisco? Maybe.”
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.”