his shoulder.
“Real estate.”
“Man, that’s original.”
“Pays the bills. Pretty cool store you have here, Nat. Curry tells me you’re doing well.”
“I’m just trying to breathe some culture into this desert. Paul loaned me thirty thousand bucks to get started, can you believe that? I had nothing but an idea, and eight hundred bucks, and, of course, my mother was willing to sign the note.”
“How’s she doing?”
“Great, thanks. She refuses to age. Still teaching the third grade.”
When the coffee was brewing properly, Nat leaned next to the small sink and stroked his bushy mustache. “Rake’s gonna die, Neely, can you believe that? Messina without Eddie Rake.He started coaching here forty-four years ago. Half the people in this county weren’t born then.”
“Have you seen him?”
“He was in here a lot, but when he got sick he went home to die. Nobody’s seen Rake in six months.”
Neely glanced around. “Rake was here?”
“Rake was my first customer. He encouraged me to open this place, gave me the standard pep talk—have no fear, work harder than the other guy, never say die—the usual halftime rah-rah. When I opened, he liked to sneak down here in the mornings for coffee. Guess he figured he was safe because there wasn’t exactly a crowd. Most of the yokels thought they’d catch AIDS when they walked in the front door.”
“When did you open?”
“Seven and a half years ago. Couldn’t pay the light bill for the first two years, then it slowly came around. Rumor spread that this was Rake’s favorite place, so the town got curious.”
“I think the coffee’s ready,” Neely said as the machine hissed. “I never saw Rake read a book.”
Nat poured two small cups, on saucers, and placed them on the counter.
“Smells potent,” Neely said.
“It ought to require a prescription. Rake asked me one day what he might like to read. I gave him a Raymond Chandler. He came back the next day and asked for another. He loved the stuff. Then I gave him Dashiell Hammett. Then he went nuts over Elmore Leonard. I open at eight, one of the very few bookstores to do so, and once or twice a week Rake would come in early. We’d sit in the corner over there and talk about books; never football or politics, never gossip. Just books. He loved the detective stories. When we heard the bell ring on the front door, he would sneak out the back and go home.”
“Why?”
Nat took a long sip of coffee, with the small cup disappearing into the depths of his unruly mustache. “We didn’t talk about it much. Rake was embarrassed because he got sacked like that. He has enormous pride, something he taught us. But he also felt responsible for Scotty’s death. A lot of people blamed him, and they always will. That’s some serious baggage, man. You like the coffee?”
“Very strong. You miss him?”
Another slow sip. “How can you not miss Rake once you’ve played for him? I see his face every day. I hear his voice. I can smell him sweating. I can feel him hitting me, with no pads on. I can imitate his growl, his grumbling, his bitching. I remember his stories, his speeches, his lessons. I remember all forty plays and all thirty-eight games when I wore the jersey. My father died four years ago and I loved him dearly, but, and this is hard to say, he had less influence on me than Eddie Rake.” Nat paused in mid-thought just long enough to pour more coffee. “Later, when I opened this place and got to know him as something other than a legend, when I wasn’t worried about getting screamed at for screwing up, I grew to adore the old fart. Eddie Rake’s not a sweet man, but he is human. He suffered greatly after Scotty’s death, and he had no one to turn to. He prayed a lot, went to Mass every morning. I think fiction helped him; it was a new world. He got lost in books, hundreds of them, maybe thousands.” A quick sip. “I miss him, sitting over there, talking about books and authors so he
“Real estate.”
“Man, that’s original.”
“Pays the bills. Pretty cool store you have here, Nat. Curry tells me you’re doing well.”
“I’m just trying to breathe some culture into this desert. Paul loaned me thirty thousand bucks to get started, can you believe that? I had nothing but an idea, and eight hundred bucks, and, of course, my mother was willing to sign the note.”
“How’s she doing?”
“Great, thanks. She refuses to age. Still teaching the third grade.”
When the coffee was brewing properly, Nat leaned next to the small sink and stroked his bushy mustache. “Rake’s gonna die, Neely, can you believe that? Messina without Eddie Rake.He started coaching here forty-four years ago. Half the people in this county weren’t born then.”
“Have you seen him?”
“He was in here a lot, but when he got sick he went home to die. Nobody’s seen Rake in six months.”
Neely glanced around. “Rake was here?”
“Rake was my first customer. He encouraged me to open this place, gave me the standard pep talk—have no fear, work harder than the other guy, never say die—the usual halftime rah-rah. When I opened, he liked to sneak down here in the mornings for coffee. Guess he figured he was safe because there wasn’t exactly a crowd. Most of the yokels thought they’d catch AIDS when they walked in the front door.”
“When did you open?”
“Seven and a half years ago. Couldn’t pay the light bill for the first two years, then it slowly came around. Rumor spread that this was Rake’s favorite place, so the town got curious.”
“I think the coffee’s ready,” Neely said as the machine hissed. “I never saw Rake read a book.”
Nat poured two small cups, on saucers, and placed them on the counter.
“Smells potent,” Neely said.
“It ought to require a prescription. Rake asked me one day what he might like to read. I gave him a Raymond Chandler. He came back the next day and asked for another. He loved the stuff. Then I gave him Dashiell Hammett. Then he went nuts over Elmore Leonard. I open at eight, one of the very few bookstores to do so, and once or twice a week Rake would come in early. We’d sit in the corner over there and talk about books; never football or politics, never gossip. Just books. He loved the detective stories. When we heard the bell ring on the front door, he would sneak out the back and go home.”
“Why?”
Nat took a long sip of coffee, with the small cup disappearing into the depths of his unruly mustache. “We didn’t talk about it much. Rake was embarrassed because he got sacked like that. He has enormous pride, something he taught us. But he also felt responsible for Scotty’s death. A lot of people blamed him, and they always will. That’s some serious baggage, man. You like the coffee?”
“Very strong. You miss him?”
Another slow sip. “How can you not miss Rake once you’ve played for him? I see his face every day. I hear his voice. I can smell him sweating. I can feel him hitting me, with no pads on. I can imitate his growl, his grumbling, his bitching. I remember his stories, his speeches, his lessons. I remember all forty plays and all thirty-eight games when I wore the jersey. My father died four years ago and I loved him dearly, but, and this is hard to say, he had less influence on me than Eddie Rake.” Nat paused in mid-thought just long enough to pour more coffee. “Later, when I opened this place and got to know him as something other than a legend, when I wasn’t worried about getting screamed at for screwing up, I grew to adore the old fart. Eddie Rake’s not a sweet man, but he is human. He suffered greatly after Scotty’s death, and he had no one to turn to. He prayed a lot, went to Mass every morning. I think fiction helped him; it was a new world. He got lost in books, hundreds of them, maybe thousands.” A quick sip. “I miss him, sitting over there, talking about books and authors so he
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