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  “He should be embarrassed.”

  “That’s not the point!” His steely eyes met mine, giving me the message, ‘Move on this. Two more days of Commencement Week.’

  “What can I do?”

  “The reporter wants a statement from us. I told the Media Office ‘no.’ I want this left at the Club level. The manager told the reporter that membership charges are private. The reporter responded ‘stonewall’ and ‘what’s the University got to hide?’ ‘Stonewall…!’ ”

  “It is.” My evident disagreement wasn’t appreciated by the Provost, even as he had to acknowledge and warmly smile at one of our guests. “Should we call Sonny?” I asked.

  “Yes.” There was a momentary silence.

  “Me?”

  “Yes.”

  “When?”

  “Now.”

  * * *

  I left Grafton Hall to make the call since I was not carrying my BlackBerry. I barely noticed the security people, the remaining media and hangers-on, and sign holders as I crossed The Green to College Hall. Maybe, I thought, if I can get through to Puppy Dog, explain the facts, make such amends as possible, I could make it back in time for dinner. If I had gotten a glass of vintage champagne before the Provost caught me, this would be going down easier.

  Puppy Dog answered on the third ring. The background was loud conversations and music, no surprise because Sonny and his cronies traveled in a pack. He recognized my voice, asked me to speak louder, and I practically shouted what I had to tell him.

  “What-t-t-t!” Then, a noisy exhalation. “Sonny’s here. I had better tell him now. Where are you?”

  “My office.”

  “I’ll call you right back.”

  Five minutes went by during which I managed to get hold of an apologetic Faculty Club manager, sure that the culprit was a female student graduating on Saturday who lived at the Arts Quad and helped with billing. He said the reporter had Sonny’s charges going back at least four years, and all the polite and then insistent letters to the Mayor for payment. Sonny had an ‘over-ninety’ balance of over six thousand and change as of the end of April, including a bill for a Christmas party for Russo loyalists and another for a sumptuous dinner for political intimates in March. Nobody else in the entire club membership came close.

  I finished my conversation with the manager as my office phone indicated an incoming call from Puppy Dog’s cell phone. Only it wasn’t him.

  “You know who this is?” The voice was barely under control.

  I knew.

  “What are ya trying to prove?”

  What kind of question is that? “Apparently, a student working at the Club printed out your file. Everything. Including the letters. The University had nothing to do with that….”

  “I’ll look like a cavone. Do you know what a cavone is?”

  I did.

  “You make me puke! You’re breakin’ my balls! I do something nice for you and gotta spit in my face.”

  It didn’t take much imagination to see his face twisted in anger, reddened by the brandy he favored, his rotund body shaking in anger.

  “I….”

  “Let me tell you somethin’. I’m not going to forgot this. Tell Danby that. I don’t care about your fuckin’ commencement. I don’t need your fuckin’ buildings….”

  “We told the Journal this was a private matter. We’re not putting out a statement.”

  “Oh-h, that fixes it right? The Mayor’s a fuckin’ jerk and you ought to be thanked for not puttin’ out a press release?”

  “What else can we do?”

  “Fuckin’ apologize!” he shouted. “Fuckin’ apologize would be a good start. After that, kiss my ass. Then, I’ll think about it.”

  This is what Providence has for a mayor.

  Puppy Dog’s shout pierced a burst of profanity, then the clatter of the phone hitting something hard. After a few seconds of raised voices, Puppy Dog got back on the line.

  “The Mayor is upset.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Napolitano’s.” Sonny’s hang out on Federal Hill.

  “Could you explain that we’re not ‘breakin’ his balls….’ ”

  “Lot of good that will do.”

  “The President’s upset about this, too.”

  “Let him show it.”

  I didn’t want to go there.

  “I’ll brief him. Whoever did this will be found out. I don’t know if any law has been broken….”

  “Great. What we need is to have the Journal think they have a whistle blower who gets fired because of the story. We want a one day story and that’s it. But believe me, you got trouble!”

  He hung up.

  “Shit!”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  It was now eight-thirty. The delicious soup and stylized salads would have been cleared and the main course was likely being served by white gloved staff. The glassware would have been filled and drained and refilled with superb American wines. Intelligent, lively conversation sparked by our guests of honor would brighten every table where all would be basking in enhanced self images. Over baked Alaska, coffee, ports, and dessert wines, a short welcome from President Danby would charm all, and everyone would be out by nine-thirty. A time-honored schedule. How rank would it be to interrupt my table with excuses, even if I managed a happy face.

  * * *

  I gave a security guard a handwritten note describing the blasts from Sonny for the Provost, left The Green for my Mini Cooper parked in the driveway of Temple House, and was soon in the traffic of Fox Point. The area’s rapid gentrification was on display during this hour after sunset as coffee shop and bar patrons spilled on to sidewalks, galleries and antique shops remained open for tonight’s Gallery Night trolley tour, and new restaurants, for some reason mostly Indian and Japanese, and pizzerias seemed busy. Jimmy’s, housed in a pre-nineteen hundred clapboard building, was virtually the last remnant of the Portuguese-Azorean neighborhood of my youth.

  I left my tuxedo jacket in the car and with my black tie loosened, I probably looked like an off-duty sideman as I entered the aroma infused restaurant and took a stool at the counter facing the open hearth kitchen. Young Jimmy’s wife, Maria Catarina, née Sousa, whose grandparents landed at the India Point docks—not two blocks away—on the sailing vessel Esmerelda before World War One, handed me a menu. She said, “Nadie give you the boot? You look terrible. Manuel says try the amejoes na cataplana.” I said, “Fine,” thinking if the forthright Maria Catarina said I looked terrible, I did. “I’ll get you a glass of Bucelas.”

  With my head braced by the palms of my hands, I played out possibilities of the Faculty Club debacle. Would Sonny’s minions make the next two days miserable? The Journal wouldn’t likely hit until Sunday because any story big and political would be saved until then. So, maybe Sonny would wait. But maybe not.

  “Something interesting upstairs,” Young Jimmy said as he slid on to the stool next to me. “A couple of pretty good players are in town. Emilio Salazar and Cong Choi. Know them?” I vaguely recalled the names but if Young Jimmy said they were ‘pretty good,’ they were. Young Jimmy had rising pool stars in for exhibition matches before they played at Foxwoods or Mohegan or the Greenwick Downs ESPN tournament show. They also got a dinner, and some ‘extras,’ along with the status that came from being good enough to be invited to play by Young Jimmy, a legendary player from the meager purse days before television decided pool had an audience and Las Vegas and Atlantic City held big money nine ball tournaments. Young Jimmy learned his craft, as he often said, from people who took your money, never smiled, and didn’t care if the door hit you in the butt on the way out.

  “Nine-thirty, they play,” he said and left me as Maria Catarina arrived with my wine.

  Across the counter, I watched Maria Catarina’s cousin Manuel brandish a cataplana for one. “For you,” he smiled, and I remembered that Maria Catarina once explained, that Sousa family chefs use measurements of ‘a little,’ ‘so
me,’ ‘enough,’ ‘plenty,’ and ‘a lot,’ in their zesty cooking. One of their implements is the cataplana, basically two skillets hinged together that when shut, fit together like clasped hands. In went chopped tomatoes, onions, sautéed linguica, green peppers, garlic, and ‘a lot’ of herbs and spices, heavy on the cumin, together with a heavy splash of white wine—all of this was for the sauce known locally as ‘gravy.’ Then, freshly opened littlenecks in their shells, a cup of what I guessed was fish broth, a few minutes of sizzle within the cataplana turned several times over the flames, and the dish arrives in a soup bowl, with the cooked littlenecks bubbling in ‘gravy.’ Wonderful!

  Manuel brought the steamy bowl to the counter in gnarled hands that ignored heat. I ate hungrily, with compliments to the chef, my napkin tucked in my open shirt collar. When I left the restaurant at nine, I felt more like myself. In fact, as I climbed the back stairs and entered numbers in the key pad by the door, I was looking forward to seeing these ‘pretty good players.’

  A good crowd, maybe forty members, were in attendance, some at the bar, some in upholstered observation chairs as tall as barstools with a crossbar to fit feet, others in deep conversation near the tables where the pros were warming up.

  I walked behind the bar and got a Bass Ale from the refrigerator, popped off its cap, and walked through the lounge toward the tables. The Club is distinguished from the local pool pits by what it is not: it is not public, the walls are unadorned by beer signs, there are no fake Tiffany lamps over tables, and none of the classic styled nine foot tables sported Red Sox or Patriots logos. Most Club members are forty to fifityish males, with employment ranging from university deanships to plumbing, with a sprinkling of young professionals. We pay our dues to play in pleasant surroundings on well-maintained tables, without interruption, with a minimum of small talk and noise from adjoining tables, or for the challenges of the house league and annual championships, or membership in a very good ‘travel’ team that plays in tournaments throughout New England and New York. Being Providence, there are also ‘sporting’ members who rarely are seen with cue sticks in hand and frequent the Club only if something interesting like tonight’s match was scheduled. These are, no surprise, gentlemen who wager.

  I watched them in discussions near the pros, wondering who they were favoring tonight. I would not inquire because I never bet on pool. Never. Not because of scruples but because betting on pool is a fool’s game unless the players are kept honest by the amount of prize money or a guaranteed stake. They tell me the matches sponsored by Young Jimmy are on the up and up, and Jimmy’s is not a smoke filled betting dive like those so vividly portrayed in The Hustler and The Color of Money. But who knows?

  Alec Ferguson was watching the diminutive Choi loosen up at a table, taking what appeared to be random shots concentrated on his form. Ferguson is my age, angular, taller than me at six-four or so with an odd face that reminded me of pitcher Randy Johnson’s, triangular with little chin. A heart specialist at City Hospital, he plugs in the stents and does the angioplasties and bypasses that make him the heart surgeon Rhode Islanders seek out, one of the few members allowed to take or make a call in the Billiard Club. I like him immensely, especially his analogy between pool and surgery: both, he says, give immediate satisfaction because you fix a problem and ‘win,’ both take practice and patience, and as he says, if you are good, it’s ‘cool.’ I didn’t think Alec knew I was standing beside him until his head moved a notch toward me. “Smooth delivery. Watch his elbow. Perfect arc.”

  I did. Choi was a lesson.

  “Want a game? Eight ball?” Why did I ask that? Was I still antsy?

  “Sure,” he replied.

  We chose a table away from the action. A touch of a wall switch adjusted the cone of lights over the table, we choose cue sticks from the visitor’s rack, and I asked Alec to break the rack which he did smoothly, sinking a solid ball, and then ran off three solid shots before a miss on a long carom shot. Remember that, I thought, long shots. I chalked up my cue stick tip, suddenly feeling too loose for someone who fancies himself a finesse player who feels the geometry of the table but struggles with the physical act of striking the cue ball exactly where planned. My first shot wasn’t crisp, even though the nine ball slid into a side pocket. Three more shots and we were even when I missed a cross table shot and left the cue ball in a spot for an easy shot for Alec to put away, which he did quickly. He missed another long table shot which gave me an opening, and with aplomb, I finished off the table. Alec acknowledged my win and began racking for another game when Young Jimmy approached us. He cautioned, “You don’t want to take away from our guests, do you?”

  Alec put his stick back in the visitors’ rack, as did I.

  “Before their match, they’ll play with members.” That was an invitation.

  Alec said, “Sure” and I said, “No.”

  “Come on,” Alec said. “If I can get creamed, so can you.”

  A bad idea but what the hell! Beating Alec was an ego charge. Alec took his own cue stick from the members rack, walked over to Choi, and was introduced to the pro. I took my tournament Viking from the same rack and followed Alec, wondering what had happened to Salazar. Choi and Alec agreed to a best of three games, nine ball followed by straight pool, ending with eight ball with house rules. A voice next to me grunted, “We do the same.” Its owner moved to a Brunswick table closer to the bar.

  Hello. Nice to meet you. Thanks a lot.

  Most of the onlookers retreated to the observation chairs near the Ferguson-Choi table; I noted that the sporting members didn’t seem much interested in my match, no whispered wagers were evident, which was fine by me. Young Jimmy followed us and racked the balls while I appraised my opponent. He was one of the new pros who mistook image for personality. His shaved head came with wrap-around shades that covered some of his indoor complexion and yesterday’s beard. He stripped off a black leather jacket to a high neck, black tee shirt exhibiting a body builder’s chest and arms; his black slacks were held by a black belt. His cue stick was a black Schoen with an ivory colored inlay. Seeing his costume, I remembered he had been written up in Billiards or maybe Inside Pool as a comer, but was not up there, yet, in rankings. From … New Haven? His nickname, a necessity in today’s world of professional pool, was ‘Zorro’.

  Salazar removed his sunglasses and let me break the nine ball set up, and I embarrassed myself by not getting a darn thing in. It took Salazar all of three minutes to finish the game. I never got another shot! One down!

  He broke for straight pool. Since it was to be a quick match, we played for twenty-one. He took eleven balls before my fingers rested on the cloth. The few members who had drifted over to watch us, probably to get a line on Salazar’s shooting, decided that Choi and Ferguson were more of a match. Young Jimmy observed the massacre and failed to offer me any sign of encouragement. When I missed pocketing the six ball on my third shot, Salazar took over, right through the next rack. A hosing! Young Jimmy scowled as though he should have asked someone else to engage the pro.

  Two down. We should have stopped but since Ferguson and Choi were in a real match in their second game and Salazar obviously enjoying whipping me, he racked for our third game. I was embarrassed but figured the slaughter would be over quickly.

  Eight ball isn’t popular with the pros; it’s too common, has too many house rules, and it is too easy to get beaten by a few lucky shots. The savvy tournament guys all want nine ball. But to show his confidence, Salazar let me break and I pocketed two solid balls, with a third ball gone moments later. A fourth shot was an easy pocket, followed by a decent carom shot for the fifth ball. I was playing rapidly and smoothly, barely taking time to chalk up between shots, into my finesse game; a glance showed an opponent who didn’t look very happy. A long table shot dispatched the sixth ball which happened to be the six, and the seventh shot was a given. All I had was to pocket the eight ball in a side pocket, a difficult but not impossible cross table shot, and
be redeemed by a shut out. As I draped over the table, I could see a striped ball was a bit of trouble in my line but I could still smack the eight ball home. That’s when Salazar walked past by me with a whispered sneer. “A hundred says you miss it.”

  Only Young Jimmy could have heard. I didn’t answer. Nor did I hesitate in setting up my shot. In pool halls, silence to a challenge, a bet, means assent. I aimed. I felt the shot, the precise angle of the cue ball and the eight ball. The side pocket looked as wide as the Grand Canyon. Only, I missed.

  Salazar finished off his balls in rapid succession, with nary a chalking between shots. He came to his eight ball shot. A double bank, difficult shot, but not impossible, to get the eight ball into his designated pocket. He passed by me to take up his position. I muttered, “Five hundred says you don’t drop it.”

  His head jerked back at me, his eyes narrowed, and a curl edged up his thin lips. He approached the shot, drew a bead on the cue ball, struck it forcefully, and I watched the eight ball crash into the far rail, rebound to hit the closer rail, and drop neatly in his pocket. The eight ball could have been on strings.

  I had been suckered. Oldest trick there was. Get the mark exercised, make the bet, execute the shot. But it was bad form for one of Jimmy’s guests to scam a ‘Friend of Young Jimmy.’

  Young Jimmy had caught the action and was dismayed at Salazar’s gambit as he mentally added the one hundred and the five hundred to Salazar’s exhibition money. That’s the way it’s done; Young Jimmy adds wagered money to the exhibition pot for his pros, you pay Young Jimmy later on. Young Jimmy whispered to me, “How could you be such a mark. You know this game…!” and left me at the table.

  Salazar stared at me from across the table, his face in an oily, stick-it-to-you, leer.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  A call from Fausto Tramonti early in the morning is rarely good news for the recipient.

  I was at my desk in College Hall at seven-thirty with the Journal, a cup of acidic coffee from the machine in the canteen, and a Seven Stars Bakery chocolate crueler brought from home, spread on my desk. Upon arrival, I had e-mailed the Provost a blow by blow description of my conversations with Puppy Dog and Sonny Russo and received his reply to ‘stay the course’ and let Sonny make the next move. No surprise there. Also, I had reached Tuttle to advise him that because of the Faculty Club imbroglio, Sonny had an excuse to change his mind about cooperating; Tuttle’s reaction, in contrast to the Provost, was sulphurous, but I urged him to follow our script of cooperation unless it failed. As I hung up with Tuttle, Fausto called me on my BlackBerry from his office. His voice bellowed over the speakerphone he always used.