Rusty Nail

It’s never easy to admit wrong. I wonder how many voters are experiencing regret today. It appears the situations in Afghanistan and at the U.S. border could not have been handled worse. This morning, talk radio host Mark Simone said migrants had been flown into Westchester Airport in the middle of the night. I wonder if any were tested for Covid. It almost seems the country is experiencing the plot of an outlandish Cold War era novel wherein a commie bent on the destruction of America has secretly taken power.

That’s enough politics for the day. My thanks to Sam, who submitted a four-star review of Present and Past to Amazon. Here’s an excerpt of what may be my most entertaining novel. The main character, Freddie, a failed actor, tends bar in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn:
Commotion arose as a laughing, pale, dark-haired man entered. The pall immediately lifted from the place. Cries of “Tony!” spread. Smiles broke out on the faces of the patrons who greeted him. He shook hands with men and kissed the cheeks of women, and finally settled beside the brute, who’d glanced past his shoulder briefly and resumed facing the rear. Tony pretended to stumble, bumped into him, and excused himself. The brute turned, smirked and regained his pose without a word. Tony winked at Freddie, tossed his head in the direction of the hulk, and laughed.
“Here he is — the one and only. What’ll it be?”
“A rusty nail,” said Tony, dropping a twenty on the bar. “And gimme the good stuff, none of that crap from the speed rack. I know how you bartenders are.”
“Always hustling, like you. What’s your latest scam?”
Tony ignored the query and turned his attention to the hulk. He made faces at the broad back and pretended to slap the thick neck, desisting abruptly and striking a pose of innocence as his target turned.
“You know Louie Nails from Sixty-Fifth Street?” he said. “Louie Zanzelone, I mean.”
The brute stared at him with the imperiousness a nobleman might have shown a peasant who’d addressed him familiarly.
“No, it ain’t you,” said Tony. “I thought you were somebody else. Louie’s bigger than you. He works out.”
Freddie nearly choked suppressing laughter.
“Maybe I should get a hat like that. I’m goin’ bald too.” He tilted his head, showing its crown. “Give ‘im a drink, Fred. What’s that?” He picked up the glass and sniffed the contents. “Black? Give ‘im a double. I like a guy who knows his scotch.”
Freddie ground his teeth, looked away.
The brute, who apparently wasn’t sure if the man he dwarfed was a flake or so stupid as to dare make a fool of him, remained silent as Tony addressed him. Besides, at the rate at which the little man spoke it would have been impossible to get in a word edgewise. It soon became obvious that he craved escape, and somehow Tony kept him at bay. He rattled on, searching for a link between them, dropping the name of every wise guy he knew, some too ridiculous to be genuine, such as Frankie “Fool Around” and Joey “Jumper Cables.” His words were punctuated with energetic gesticulations of arms, eyes and torso, and the waving of an ever-present cigarette.
“You gotta go?” he asked, seizing the hulk’s bicep as the latter tried to step away. “Yeah, go ‘head.” And he went on a few minutes more. “What’s your name, by the way?”
“Joe.”
“Joe what?”
“Sparo.”
“Sparo? You mean like ‘shoot’ in Italian? You’re Joey ‘Shoot’?” He shook his hand vigorously in mid-air. “Minc, I heard a lot about you.”
Sparo lowered his head, as if modest about his notoriety. Tony offered a handshake.
“Anthony DiBenedetto, or Tony ‘Brajole.’”
He grabbed his crotch. Freddie stepped away, pretending to cough. Sparo shot him a hard look that indicated he’d caught on.
“I knew I seen you before. It’s good to be quiet about who you know.” He put a finger to his lips. “It keeps you atta trouble.”
Finally Sparo walked away.
“Nice talkin’ to you,” said Tony, then, quietly: “ya dirty…” He turned to Freddie. “How much he leave you? A buck? Figures, the cheap bastid.”
“Your performance was payment enough, Mister Trani,” said Freddie, depositing the bill into a mixing cup. “Or is it Mister DiBenedetto?”

Incoming outnumbered outgoing by about 50–2 today at the floating book shop. The only sales were a novel in Russian and Ridiculous Knock Knocks by Chris Tait and Mark Zahnd. My thanks to the ladies who bought them, and to the one who donated four paperback novels in Russian; and to local porter Rob, who donated five in hardcover; and to the young couple who pulled their SUV to the curb and unloaded about 50 titles in English, most of them best seller thrillers in hardcover. If business ever picks up, I’m ready. At least it didn’t rain.

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