The Trouble with Being Born: A Novel

Father

75 I feel good tonight. Tommy’s joint’s hopping, look at all the cars. I can hear music from the edge of the parking lot. He must have a live band. Greeley’s from hunger, boring. I feel good in Pueblo, Pueblo’s my home. I got seven, maybe eight bucks, plenty for booze but not enough for a good time girl, unless I go to the colored girls at the Klamm Shell. I could use some strapping , but I ain’t never been with a mulignan. Eggplant parmesan. Maybe Donna D’Antonio and her two friends will be here, Leftie and Rightie. She couldn’t get enough of me at Central. We used to do it in the bushes near Lake Minnequa, she even wrote me a letter when I was back east. I hear she got married to Nickie DeJoy , who went to Centennial. And then to Korea. I never liked that Nickie, always a show-off son of a bitch. All the DeJoys are like that. Maybe Tommy’ll lend me one of his broads, just for an hour. He’s always got the dames, that Tommy, always got the dames. Single, divorced, married, tall, short, fat, skinny, blonde, brunette, mother, daughter, Mexican, white—it don’t matter to Tommy—they fly around him like millers around a streetlight. I got my nice suit on, my nice tie, my Florsheims all polished: I look sharp, like a million bucks. Fairy tales will come true. The place is packed. Tommy’s moved all the tables and chairs out from the right side of the lounge and the restaurant, Father 76 father so people can dance near the band. I like that Mexican music , but I hope they play some older songs, some Crosby or Hoagy Carmichael. Or some Sinatra. There’s Tommy, across the lounge, working the crowd. I try to catch his eye, but he’s talking to a couple of tall paisans I don’t recognize. I see Tracy Oreskovich and Nina Badovinic hovering around. I thought Nina was married to that switchman from Denver—Brunjak, I think his name is. I wouldn’t mind getting in her caboose, that’s for sure. Her brother was in the service, got killed in France. Babe knew him, played poker with him or something. What the fuck was his name? Danny? Benny? I’ll ask Tommy, he knows everybody. He’s busy with those paisans, so I’ll get a beer and see who else is here. The bar is packed but I squeeze in, order a Walter’s draft from Tony Passerelli, and take my cigarettes out of my jacket pocket. Lucky Strikes. Maybe I’ll get lucky tonight. I tap a cigarette on the bar, put it in my mouth and take out my Ronson lighter, real silver plate with my nickname, Booze, etched on it. I can feel this broad checking me out from five or six feet away. She’s sitting at the bar, wearing a pearl necklace, and her brown hair is curled tight, but long, a little like Anna Magnani. Classy. It’s too crowded to check out her frame, but her face is peaches and cream. I like the lipstick, not too bright. Maybe I should buy her a drink. It don’t look like she’s with anyone. I got the money. “Hey Tony. Tony. What’s that broad over there drinking? The one with the dark hair? And pearls? Crème de menthe, huh? On the rocks. Pour us both one.” I throw a couple of bucks on the bar, like a big shot, to pay for beer and two drinks. It’s almost a dollar tip. I should watch myself. She tips her glass to me and smiles. I tip my glass to her, take a sip, set my glass down and take a drag off my cigarette. 77 father Real cool, like Robert Mitchum. I’ll go over there in a couple of minutes. I don’t want to appear too eager, like some punk kid who don’t know nothing. I finish my beer, then take another sip of my highball. I look at the mirror above the bar and see the reflection of the crowd behind me. Men in ties and suits, women in dresses, this is like the Ritz or some place in New York. Is that my brother-in-law...