Read Online The Accidental Pallbearer by Frank Lentricchia - Free Book Online
Authors: Frank Lentricchia
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where, I’m trying not to use foul speech for a change. Good luck with Katie, you’ll need it. See you at the Melville, shall we say 10:00 tomorrow morning?”
“Sure. Do get me the dope on Jed Kinter, Robert, if you don’t mind.”
Rintrona’s already there when he arrives. The place is empty, shabby, clean. On one wall, an actual harpoon, but his attention is riveted by a large painting, behind the cash register, of a looming white sperm whale in dramatic breach. The whale’s formal boundary is everywhere porous, its whiteness spilling into the whiteness of sky and white spray of the burst sea. Something indefinite about the whole, something, something nameless and unimaginable – it attracts him and fills him with fear, like looking over the edge of a high balcony. Throw yourself over.
Rintrona is talking with a sexy waitress in her late forties, whom he pats on the hip as Conte approaches. She says to Conte, “He acts like I’m in love with him since he’s been coming here for the last fifteen years – like I think he’s too good for me and that I don’t have everything I need right at home with Big Paulie, who’s very big, you can take it to the bank.” Rintrona pipes up, “Big Paulie is the consolation prize, Loretta, let’s face it.” She says, “What’ll you have, handsome?” Conte, in the swing of things, shocks himself: “I’llhave whatever Big Paulie most likes having.” She looks at Rintrona and says, “This one,” pointing at Conte, “is worse than you.” They’re having a very good time.
She brings him a mug of coffee and an outsized croissant, jelly and butter, and parts with, “Bobby is a softy who spends his entire life covering it up, what a g.d. shame, but I know who you are, darling, don’t I?”
Rintrona, blushing, “Let’s keep it between the three of us. Don’t mention it to Big Paulie.”
Conte pushes the CD of
Ballo
across the formica surface. Rintrona pushes a manila folder and says, “You get the worst of this deal, Eliot, but I’m not complaining. Good to see you again. Guess who did it?”
“Who did what?”
“The painting you couldn’t take your eyes off of.”
“The late great Herman Melville himself?”
“Big Paulie. Hell of a nice guy. I love’ em both. When are you seeing her?”
“For lunch.”
“Hey, I’m happily married, like Loretta and Paulie, otherwise …”
“Otherwise you’d sweep Detective Cruz off her feet.”
“Without saying.” Points to the manila folder. “What’s your interest in this animal?”
Conte tells the story.
“Once in a while, Eliot, bastards like Kinter meet their match, which almost makes me believe in God, just like that telephone met its match the other day. Who would guess you’re a scary guy – the opera, so forth, the gentle demeanor – all of a sudden someone’s life is hanging by his fingernailswhen the opera lover becomes a rage machine. The apple doesn’t fall far from the fuckin’ tree.”
Conte, looking away, “Silvio Silvio Silvio.”
“No offense. I never meant to insinuate your father does violence. People in politics fear him, this is well known, after all. He’s got their balls in his pocket and periodically squeezes hard to remind them who they are and who he is. Your father’s the Lyndon Johnson of New York politics. Me, I was always a big LBJ fan – especially when he made reporters interview him as he sits on the can shitting up a storm. In other words, he welcomed the press into their true element.”
Tapping the folder, Conte says, tonelessly, “Why not give me a quick summary of what’s in here?”
“At fifteen, he’s expelled from high school in Galveston and placed in meaningless detention for assaulting a female teacher.”
“Rape?”
“Strictly fists and feet. At sixteen, he takes a baseball bat to a kid’s head, who barely survives with permanent brain damage. Charges are mysteriously dropped. Kinter’s father is a mover in Texas oil, who’s
“Sure. Do get me the dope on Jed Kinter, Robert, if you don’t mind.”
Rintrona’s already there when he arrives. The place is empty, shabby, clean. On one wall, an actual harpoon, but his attention is riveted by a large painting, behind the cash register, of a looming white sperm whale in dramatic breach. The whale’s formal boundary is everywhere porous, its whiteness spilling into the whiteness of sky and white spray of the burst sea. Something indefinite about the whole, something, something nameless and unimaginable – it attracts him and fills him with fear, like looking over the edge of a high balcony. Throw yourself over.
Rintrona is talking with a sexy waitress in her late forties, whom he pats on the hip as Conte approaches. She says to Conte, “He acts like I’m in love with him since he’s been coming here for the last fifteen years – like I think he’s too good for me and that I don’t have everything I need right at home with Big Paulie, who’s very big, you can take it to the bank.” Rintrona pipes up, “Big Paulie is the consolation prize, Loretta, let’s face it.” She says, “What’ll you have, handsome?” Conte, in the swing of things, shocks himself: “I’llhave whatever Big Paulie most likes having.” She looks at Rintrona and says, “This one,” pointing at Conte, “is worse than you.” They’re having a very good time.
She brings him a mug of coffee and an outsized croissant, jelly and butter, and parts with, “Bobby is a softy who spends his entire life covering it up, what a g.d. shame, but I know who you are, darling, don’t I?”
Rintrona, blushing, “Let’s keep it between the three of us. Don’t mention it to Big Paulie.”
Conte pushes the CD of
Ballo
across the formica surface. Rintrona pushes a manila folder and says, “You get the worst of this deal, Eliot, but I’m not complaining. Good to see you again. Guess who did it?”
“Who did what?”
“The painting you couldn’t take your eyes off of.”
“The late great Herman Melville himself?”
“Big Paulie. Hell of a nice guy. I love’ em both. When are you seeing her?”
“For lunch.”
“Hey, I’m happily married, like Loretta and Paulie, otherwise …”
“Otherwise you’d sweep Detective Cruz off her feet.”
“Without saying.” Points to the manila folder. “What’s your interest in this animal?”
Conte tells the story.
“Once in a while, Eliot, bastards like Kinter meet their match, which almost makes me believe in God, just like that telephone met its match the other day. Who would guess you’re a scary guy – the opera, so forth, the gentle demeanor – all of a sudden someone’s life is hanging by his fingernailswhen the opera lover becomes a rage machine. The apple doesn’t fall far from the fuckin’ tree.”
Conte, looking away, “Silvio Silvio Silvio.”
“No offense. I never meant to insinuate your father does violence. People in politics fear him, this is well known, after all. He’s got their balls in his pocket and periodically squeezes hard to remind them who they are and who he is. Your father’s the Lyndon Johnson of New York politics. Me, I was always a big LBJ fan – especially when he made reporters interview him as he sits on the can shitting up a storm. In other words, he welcomed the press into their true element.”
Tapping the folder, Conte says, tonelessly, “Why not give me a quick summary of what’s in here?”
“At fifteen, he’s expelled from high school in Galveston and placed in meaningless detention for assaulting a female teacher.”
“Rape?”
“Strictly fists and feet. At sixteen, he takes a baseball bat to a kid’s head, who barely survives with permanent brain damage. Charges are mysteriously dropped. Kinter’s father is a mover in Texas oil, who’s
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