arriving ten minutes earlier than usual on Thursday night. Tony welcomed Jimmy and Eric into his apartment, surprised to see not one but two other men with them: Danny Mouthwash and Bobby Six Months. After a panicked moment of wondering whether he had enough refreshments to go around, Tony relaxed when he remembered that Bobby barely ever ate or drank a thing.
“Hey, you guys,” Tony said cheerfully. “You’re a little early. My pop isn’t here yet.”
“Yeah, we know,” Jimmy said, surprising Tony again. He wondered how Jimmy would know that.
“It’s not a problem, Tony,” Jimmy said, sensing Tony’s uneasiness. “We’ll wait to start the game until Frankie B gets here. Oh, and I know I told you it would just be me and Danny, but at the last minute, Bobby here found out he could come.”
“That’s great, Bobby,” Tony said, turning to face his unexpected guest. “Glad to have you. I think we got enough beer and stuff, but if I need to, I’ll run out for more.”
“Don’t bother,” Bobby said, coughing and then clearing his throat with a sound like an airplane toilet flushing. “In my condition, I’ll be lucky if I make it through the first hand.”
Tony nodded respectfully. It was well known that Bobby Six Months was dying. His doctor had given him six months to live.
That was in 1967.
Bobby had gone out and done what any sensible middle-aged man who was dying would do: married a twenty-year-old stripper. But despite looking – as Jimmy had put it – “like he died and somebody forgot to tell him,” Bobby kept on living, his heart stubbornly refusing to stop beating. He had actually outlived the stripper, who drank herself to death fifteen years into the marriage, after realizing she’d probably never see any money from Bobby’s estate.
Tony got everybody set up at his kitchen table, distributing beer, snacks, and ashtrays. Then there was a knock on his door. Eric stooped to look through the peephole, then beckoned Tony over to the door.
“Is that him?” Eric asked.
Taking Eric’s place at the peephole, Tony saw his father standing outside the door. “Yeah, it’s him,” Tony said, reaching for the doorknob.
But Eric stopped him, placing a huge hand on the door. “I’ll get it,” he said. Taking his cue, Tony quickly stepped aside.
Eric opened the door, and quietly said, “Mr. Bartolicotti?”
“Yeah, that’s me,” Frankie said, automatically extending his hand. As his eyes took in one of the few men he had ever met who was actually bigger than him, Frankie quickly retracted his hand, trying to disguise the gesture by running his hand through his hair.
“Come in,” Eric said, stepping back far enough to allow Frankie into the apartment. Pointing at a spot on the floor, he said, “Stand there for a minute.” Frankie did as he was told.
Eric said, “Arms.” Frankie raised his arms up, forming a letter T with his body. Eric began patting him down.
“You carrying?” Eric asked.
“Nah,” said Frankie. Tony was shocked by this unexpected frisking – they had never done that to him. But Frankie didn’t seem surprised, and calmly allowed Eric to continue his search, which was very thorough. When Eric was done, he looked at Jimmy and nodded.
It was like flicking a switch.
“Frankie B!” Jimmy shouted, as if greeting a long-lost friend. Tony was not entirely sure the two men had ever even met. Jimmy shook Frankie’s hand – a two-handed politician’s handshake, which Frankie returned enthusiastically.
“Jimmy,” Frankie said, “it’s good to see you. I really appreciate the invite.”
“Glad to have you. Your boy’s a good kid – you raised him right.”
“Thanks, Jimmy – I appreciate that. I’ve tried to raise him good, you know?”
Tony had never seen his father – the legendary Frankie B – being so... so... nice to anybody. Frankie was usually a blustery take-no-prisoners guy, and suddenly he was all humility and manners. It was weird to
“Hey, you guys,” Tony said cheerfully. “You’re a little early. My pop isn’t here yet.”
“Yeah, we know,” Jimmy said, surprising Tony again. He wondered how Jimmy would know that.
“It’s not a problem, Tony,” Jimmy said, sensing Tony’s uneasiness. “We’ll wait to start the game until Frankie B gets here. Oh, and I know I told you it would just be me and Danny, but at the last minute, Bobby here found out he could come.”
“That’s great, Bobby,” Tony said, turning to face his unexpected guest. “Glad to have you. I think we got enough beer and stuff, but if I need to, I’ll run out for more.”
“Don’t bother,” Bobby said, coughing and then clearing his throat with a sound like an airplane toilet flushing. “In my condition, I’ll be lucky if I make it through the first hand.”
Tony nodded respectfully. It was well known that Bobby Six Months was dying. His doctor had given him six months to live.
That was in 1967.
Bobby had gone out and done what any sensible middle-aged man who was dying would do: married a twenty-year-old stripper. But despite looking – as Jimmy had put it – “like he died and somebody forgot to tell him,” Bobby kept on living, his heart stubbornly refusing to stop beating. He had actually outlived the stripper, who drank herself to death fifteen years into the marriage, after realizing she’d probably never see any money from Bobby’s estate.
Tony got everybody set up at his kitchen table, distributing beer, snacks, and ashtrays. Then there was a knock on his door. Eric stooped to look through the peephole, then beckoned Tony over to the door.
“Is that him?” Eric asked.
Taking Eric’s place at the peephole, Tony saw his father standing outside the door. “Yeah, it’s him,” Tony said, reaching for the doorknob.
But Eric stopped him, placing a huge hand on the door. “I’ll get it,” he said. Taking his cue, Tony quickly stepped aside.
Eric opened the door, and quietly said, “Mr. Bartolicotti?”
“Yeah, that’s me,” Frankie said, automatically extending his hand. As his eyes took in one of the few men he had ever met who was actually bigger than him, Frankie quickly retracted his hand, trying to disguise the gesture by running his hand through his hair.
“Come in,” Eric said, stepping back far enough to allow Frankie into the apartment. Pointing at a spot on the floor, he said, “Stand there for a minute.” Frankie did as he was told.
Eric said, “Arms.” Frankie raised his arms up, forming a letter T with his body. Eric began patting him down.
“You carrying?” Eric asked.
“Nah,” said Frankie. Tony was shocked by this unexpected frisking – they had never done that to him. But Frankie didn’t seem surprised, and calmly allowed Eric to continue his search, which was very thorough. When Eric was done, he looked at Jimmy and nodded.
It was like flicking a switch.
“Frankie B!” Jimmy shouted, as if greeting a long-lost friend. Tony was not entirely sure the two men had ever even met. Jimmy shook Frankie’s hand – a two-handed politician’s handshake, which Frankie returned enthusiastically.
“Jimmy,” Frankie said, “it’s good to see you. I really appreciate the invite.”
“Glad to have you. Your boy’s a good kid – you raised him right.”
“Thanks, Jimmy – I appreciate that. I’ve tried to raise him good, you know?”
Tony had never seen his father – the legendary Frankie B – being so... so... nice to anybody. Frankie was usually a blustery take-no-prisoners guy, and suddenly he was all humility and manners. It was weird to
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