Eddie Joyce - Small Mercies

“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 surveys 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.”