IT WAS DARK when I finished unloading the truck. A pumpkin moon slipped above the treetops, lighting up the site of the new smokehouse—a freshly poured concrete slab. My father was right. It was going to be a small uncomplicated job and we would be out of there in about ten days.
A NO VACANCY sign blazed above the porch as I brought the truck back to the motel office and parked. I went inside, past the desk and into the kitchen, where a poker game was in progress, the four paisani seated around a table covered with a white oilcloth. Mrs. Ramponi, a brittle, diminutive woman, was serving wine from an Angelo Musso jug. She was quite frail, clasping the jug to her bosom with both arms as she poured, her skin the color of wax beans, her scalp beneath thinning white hair shining under the overhead drop light.
The way Sam Ramponi treated his wife, Gloria Steinem would have gunned him down on the spot. He did not trouble to introduce me, and when she nodded, smiling with broken teeth, I said hello.
“Give him a drink,” Sam said.
Mrs. Ramponi placed the jug on the sideboard in order to free her hands and offer me a glass. I thanked her as she poured.
“You’re welcome,” she said.
“Out,” Sam ordered.
At once she crossed the kitchen to an open bedroom and sat in the semidarkness near the door, arms folded, awaiting further orders. She reminded me of the old women attendants in the men’s washrooms of Rome nightclubs. I thought of joining the card game for a while, but obviously I was an outsider, not of their generation, and nobody invited me to sit down. But I moved closer to the table and watched the play. Ramponi put a fresh cigar into his mouth and searched for a match. She was there at his side immediately, holding a match under his stiffened jaw.
“Cabin seven,” he said. “Turn mattress. Change sheets for Nick and son.”
She left at once.
Sam Ramponi dealt the cards. It was draw poker, open on anything, two-bit limit. The chips were for nickels, dimes and quarters. So far it was an even game, everyone with about the same number of chips.
When Zarlingo picked up his cards I saw that he held a pair of queens and an ace, not bad for openers in a small, sociable game. But he said, “Pass.”
The others passed too. The pot was sweetened with another dime from each player, Ramponi dealing. Again I looked down at Zarlingo’s hand. This time he held a pair of kings and an ace.
“Pass,” he said.
They all passed and four more dimes were added to the pot. It was that kind of a game, tight-assed, cutthroat poker, building up the stakes, waiting for the nuts. Fortunately for my old man, the stakes were small and limited. He was too volatile for poker, too impatient, a born loser playing in the wrong game. And yet, alas, it was his favorite game. He liked to charge in there boldly. The patience of his opponents, their stoicism, steamed him into rash decisions. A bad hand, and he sagged in despair. Three aces and he was grinning from ear to ear. Trapped and beaten, he was too proud to drop out and tried to bluff. And then they shafted him. I had witnessed it so many times I marveled they could take his money.
Tonight it did not seem that kind of a game, nor would it last long. He, Zarlingo and Cavallaro were haggard from exhaustion, bodies crumpled from dissipation. They had drunk wine the night before and most of that day, and now they were juiced again on Angelo’s grapes.
Mrs. Ramponi returned and handed me the key to Cabin 7. “I hope you’ll be comfortable,” she said, standing there a moment, pretending to watch the game. Ramponi frowned at her.
“Food,” he said.
Immediately Mrs. Ramponi produced a loaf of bread and a jar of mayonnaise. That Ramponi! Eyes in the back of his head, for she was behind him as she began to spread mayonnaise for sandwiches.
“Butter,” he said.
She brought out the butter. I gave Zarlingo the keys to his truck and backed toward the door. The poker hand was a showdown between my father and Ramponi. My father spread out kings and queens: two pair. Ramponi spread three deuces and swept up the pot.
I said good night to everyone, but the gamblers ignored me as I started for the door. Without enthusiasm, without sincerity, Ramponi called, “Hey, Tony. Sure you won’t play a hand or two?”
“Let him go to bed,” my father said. “He’s got a big day tomorrow.”