—Twenty-eight flavors of ice cream, he quoted in some amazement.
So when it was growing late and we were tired and hungry and Woolly saw a bright blue steeple rising above the horizon, there was just no escaping it.
* * *
? ? ?
Woolly had spent plenty of nights in hotels, but never in one like a Howard Johnson’s. When we came into the room, he examined it like a private detective from another planet. He opened the closets, startled to find an ironing board and iron. He opened the bedside drawer, startled to find a Bible. And when he went into the bathroom, he came right back out holding up two little bars of soap.
—They’re individually wrapped!
Once we had settled in, Woolly turned on the television. When the signal came up, there was the Lone Ranger, wearing a hat even bigger and whiter than Chef Boy-Ar-Dee’s. He was talking to a young gunslinger, giving him a lecture on truth, justice, and the American way. You could tell the gunslinger was losing his patience, but just when he was about to reach for his six-shooter, Woolly turned the channel.
Now it was Sergeant Joe Friday in a suit and fedora giving the exact same speech to a delinquent working on his motorcycle. The delinquent was losing his patience too. But just when it looked like he was going to hurl his ratchet at Sergeant Friday’s head, Woolly turned the channel.
Here we go again, I thought.
Sure enough, Woolly kept switching the channel until he found a commercial. Then after lowering the volume all the way, he propped his pillows and made himself comfortable.
Wasn’t that classic Woolly? In the car he was mesmerized by the sound of advertisements without their pictures. Now he wanted to watch the pictures of advertisements without their sounds. When the commercial break was over, Woolly turned off his light and slid down so he could lie with his hands behind his head and stare at the ceiling.
Woolly had taken a few more drops of medicine after dinner and I figured they’d be working their magic right about now. So I was a little surprised when he addressed me.
—Hey, Duchess, he said, still looking at the ceiling.
—Yeah, Woolly?
—On the Saturday night at eight when you and me and Emmett and Billy are sitting at the table by the jukebox, who else will be there?
Lying back, I looked up at the ceiling too.
—At Leonello’s? Let’s see. On a Saturday night you’d have a few of the top dogs from city hall. A boxer and some mobsters. Maybe Joe DiMaggio and Marilyn Monroe, if they happen to be in town.
—They would all be at Leonello’s on the same night?
—That’s the way it goes, Woolly. You open a place that no one can get into, and everybody wants to be there.
Woolly thought about this for a minute.
—Where are they sitting?
I pointed to a spot on the ceiling.
—The gangsters are in the booth next to the mayor. The boxer is over by the bar eating oysters with some chantoosie. And the DiMaggios are at the table next to ours. But here’s the most important part, Woolly. Over there in the booth by the kitchen door is a small balding man in a pinstripe suit sitting all by himself.
—I see him, said Woolly. Who is he?
—Leonello Brandolini.
. . .
—You mean the owner?
—None other.
—And he sits by himself?
—Exactly. At least, in the early part of the evening. Usually, he settles in around six o’clock before anyone else is in the place. He’ll have a little something to eat and a glass of Chianti. He’ll go over the books and maybe take a call on one of those phones with the long cord that they can bring right to your table. But then around eight, when the place is starting to hum, he’ll polish off a double espresso and make his way from table to table. How is everybody tonight? he’ll say, while patting a customer’s shoulder. It’s good to see you again. You hungry? I hope so. ’Cause there’s gonna be plenty to eat. After giving the ladies a few compliments, he’ll signal the bartender. Hey, Rocko. Another round over here for my friends. Then he’ll move on to the next table, where there’ll be more shoulder patting, more compliments for the ladies, and another round of drinks. Or maybe this time, it’s a plate of calamari, or some tiramisu. Either way, it’s on the house. And when Leonello’s finished making his rounds, everybody in the place—and I mean everybody from the mayor to Marilyn Monroe—will feel like tonight is something special.
Woolly was silent, giving the moment its due. Then I told him something I had never told anyone before.
—That’s what I would do, Woolly. That’s what I would do, if I had fifty grand.