Welcome to the Arcade

By Michael F. DeConzo

Living in South Beach, Staten Island, the “forgotten borough” of New York City, best friends Johnny Romano, Ralphie Molinaro and Giulia Stringer struggle to understand a world that doesn't make a whole lot of sense to them. They're searching for answers to questions that seem impossible to figure out: why are their parents so crazy? How do they live with the hole left in their hearts when someone dies? Why is the gravitational pull of their neighborhood, a beach town next to the Verrazano Bridge that still hasn't shaken off its past, so powerful? What peculiar shapes can love take? And why has a rundown arcade two blocks from the beach become the center of their universe? But the people they meet--from Joey C., the local mob enforcer, to Luke, a transfer student at Tompkins High School, to Dinino, the mysterious owner of the arcade—all have their own secrets to hide. Covering a decade of their lives, from ten to twenty years of age, WELCOME TO THE ARCADE follows Johnny, Ralphie and Giulia as they move through the kaleidoscope of childhood to the insanity of young adulthood, always keeping one burning question in their minds: How do we figure out the greatest mystery of them all—growing up?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: May 8, 2023
• ISBN: 9781665736831

Michael F. DeConzo

Michael DeConzo has had the exceptionally good fortune to teach in the same schools that he attended as a student: IS 49, Curtis High School, and the College of Staten Island. Before he became an educator, he owned a candy store, a video store, drove a truck for a bar and restaurant supply, and kept uneven tempos in a few rock and roll bands. He has had an original screenplay optioned and a play produced on Staten Island. In 2022, he was awarded a grant from Staten Island Arts. TWO NICKELS, his first novel, was published in 2021. Always the optimist, he still lives on Staten Island, where he enjoys spending time with his wife and children and walking Gatsby, his Labrador rescue.

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Copyright © 2023 Michael F. DeConzo.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means,

graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or

by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the

author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents,

organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products

of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Archway Publishing

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or

links contained in this book may have changed since publication and

may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those

of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher,

and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are

models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

ISBN: 978-1-6657-3684-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6657-3682-4 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-6657-3683-1 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023900585

Archway Publishing rev. date: 04/28/2023

CONTENTS

Acknowledgments

Prologue

Sunrise

Part One   The Early Years

1   Arcade

2   Knucklehead

3   Dog Days

4   Outside Cat

Part 2   High School

5   Friday Night Fever

6   The Last Days of Catholic School

7   Luke

8   Waiting Room

9   Cousin Frank

10   ‘How Do You Solve a Problem Like Maria?"

11   Three Quarter Time

12   Travolti

13   Scarface

14   Mary the Blonde

15   Graduation Day

Part 3   Changes

16   Pink Flamingo

17   Pink Flamingos

18   Card Game

19   Wouldn’t It Be Nice

20   New Paltz

21   Cabaret

22   Rag Doll

23   Ciao, Joey C.

24   Ride My See-Saw

25   Aniko

26   Recital

27   Morrison Loses a Shoe

28   Sydney’s Cafe

Part IV   September 24th, 1988

29   Twilight Time

30   Roadhouse Blues

31   Welcome to the Arcade

Epilogue   Beyond the Sea

About the Author

To Elsie Juhasz DeConzo, the greatest mom of them all.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thank you to David Reuss and his extraordinary talent for designing a book cover that captures the way I remember South Beach.

Thank you to Dr. Allen Ascher, whose friendship and guidance never fail to inspire me.

Thank you to the wonderful people at Staten Island Arts, who have supported the publication of this novel through a DCA Premier Grant, with public funding from the New York City Department of Cultural Affairs.

Thank you to my own great Gatsby, who provides me with several opportunities a day to walk the neighborhood and wait for the muse to find us.

And, as always, thank you to my wife and children, whose unconditional love and support have made this book possible, along with everything else.

Salute!

For your listening pleasure, please check out the WELCOME TO THE ARCADE playlist on Spotify. The username is Juhasz300.

For updates, photos, and bonus content, please check out www.mfdeconzo

PROLOGUE

Sunrise

Giulia, September 24th, 1988

It’s not the kind of beach the poets write about.

Mary Oliver’s not taking in the rotting pier and penning At the Shore. Neruda’s not standing on our boardwalk staring at the traffic on the Verrazzano Bridge and writing The Wide Ocean. Maybe Ferlinghetti, since Coney Island’s right across the bay, but even that’s a stretch. He’s got that great bookstore in San Francisco. I don’t see him coming to Staten Island anytime soon.

This was always a big topic of conversation: if we could invite one person to our beach, dead or alive, who would it be? Johnny was all about Bobby Darin. He swore that Beyond the Sea was written about South Beach. It didn’t matter that everybody knows it’s based on an old French song. Darin’s family had a bungalow a few blocks from here when he was growing up, so for Johnny that was all he needed to hear. Ralphie voted for Julie Andrews, who I’m pretty sure never set foot anywhere near South Beach—probably anywhere near Staten Island. But at the time Ralphie was obsessed with The Sound of Music, so we had to give her some serious consideration.

I voted for the poets.

Alright, I know, there are worse things in the world than my favorite poets not showing up. But this is what happens when you’re studying to be an English teacher. Or at least I was, until I had to drop out of SUNY New Paltz last spring. But it’s still nice to think about—all these brilliant people whose words make my heart flip wading into the surf at dawn, notebooks in hand, writing about our imperfect beach.

I lean my back on the boardwalk railing and look towards Sand Lane, the street that leads straight down to the water. The neighborhood still has the feel of a beach town, only all the resorts and most of the rides burned down fifty years ago. The only attractions left are a tiny amusement park with kiddie rides and Dinino’s arcade, both across the street from the boardwalk. And whatever attractions go on under the boardwalk. Funny how that never changes. From the empty tequila bottle in the garbage pail by the opening, it looks like it’s still a pretty popular destination.

Way back before the bridge opened in 1964, South Beach was a big deal. People would take a special train from the ferry and stay here for the season. They would actually summer here. That’s pretty amazing on two fronts: people not from Staten Island coming here as a vacation spot, and also people using summer as a verb. Interesting—is that the only season we can use as a verb? I guess people can winter somewhere, but should we spring in Los Angeles, like my maybe future husband wants us to do?

I’ll admit it—I’m not sure about the idea of springing anywhere. I’ve had enough surprises sprung on me these last few months. Maybe it’s not a great move to pack our bags for California. I know—he wants to make movies. That’s his dream. And he has other reasons, too, very good reasons. Reasons that broke my heart when he finally told me. But I have my own surprise that I haven’t been able to spring yet. And after that, who knows? Maybe the baby and I will fall right here.

There are a few shadows at the end of the boardwalk. I walk down the wooden ramp, take off my sneakers and step across the wet sand, which at any other time of day is more orange than the usual color of sand, for reasons that none of us could ever figure out. Then I put my own feet in the surf—the water is warm, even though it’s the end of September and it’s only six in the morning.

Here’s what the poets are missing.

The sunrise over the Narrows, which is the name of the water between Staten Island and Brooklyn, is just about ready to go. And it always starts with the stars. Unlike the lights on the bridge, which refuse to give up, the stars know enough to bow out gracefully. They’re disappearing into the beautiful grey-blue air that’s only going to last for a few more minutes. That’s okay. I don’t have too much time, either.

We’re all staying with my mother right now—I want to get back to the baby before he starts to cry and wakes her up. And my California dreamer will sleep right through it. I can’t blame him for that, either. The whole thing’s been exhausting—getting pregnant, finishing up my classes in May, having the baby in June. Maybe getting married tonight. The last five months have been, as my mother likes to tell the nuns at St. Joan’s, Eventful.

My eyes take in the orange-red ball that’s rising straight into the sky east of the bridge and west of Coney Island. It’s turning everything different colors—the water, the sand, the boardwalk. Even what’s left of the pier looks romantic: two dozen purple popsicle sticks against waves the color of cotton candy. When things would get bad—or even really, really good—the three of us—Johnny, Ralphie and I—or sometimes just the two of us—would come down here and watch the sun pull itself over Brooklyn. Sometimes we’d bring coffee. Once in a while, we’d have a bottle of Mateus, when we were feeling sophisticated, and Ralphie would remember to put the corkscrew in his bookbag. We’d stretch out on the sand and read poems (I would read poems and they would humor me) or sing songs at the top of our lungs. Then we’d go back up the hill. I’d head to St. Joan’s, and the two of them would wander off: mostly to school or the arcade, when Dinino would let them stay. Sometimes they’d take the ferry into the city to watch movies. That was only a few years ago, but now that I’m twenty and things are a little more complicated, it feels like five hundred.

The whole thing happens fast—the sun is already more white-silver-yellow than red and is moving west over the Belt Parkway. The soft grey-blue air has turned into sunshine and spreads across the beach. The boardwalk wakes up: a couple on bicycles, a few dog walkers, and a pair of loud crows that share the top of the light post. One optimist paddles into low tide with a surfboard. The sand looks orange again. The pier is still rotting. The shadows disappear. Saturday morning has arrived.

I take a few steps backwards, then pick up my sneakers and move into the parking lot, where more cars have filled in the spaces. When I start up my mother’s Camry, I tilt the rear-view mirror to catch the sun. The inside of the car fills with light. It’s good to know that if you come here early enough, that yellow-white ball could make you feel like you’re fifteen again.

Even without the poets.

PART ONE

The Early Years

"The Child is father of the Man;

And I could wish my days to be

Bound each to each by natural piety."

My Heart Leaps Up

William Wordsworth

1

Arcade

Johnny, September 1979

W henever we come down to the arcade after school, Octavio can’t keep his eyes off Joey Colucci. I tell him, this is not a neighborhood where you want to stare at anybody, especially one of the local psychos, but Octavio claims he can’t help himself. He says he’s never seen anything like Joey C. in his life. And even though I grew up a few blocks from here and not on a military base like my friend, I tend to agree.

Joey C.’s body is enormous. It’s shaped like a giant stuffed shell and wrapped in an old army jacket that’s never buttoned, with the sleeves cut to show off his tattoos. Green, blue, gold and red flames flicker from his wrists up his arms to his neck, which is as thick as a snow tire. A pair of baggy dungaree shorts and blue flip-flops complete the picture.

There are all kinds of rumors about what Joey C. does. The one thing I know for sure is that every Fourth of July, he steals a car, fills it with M80s and gasoline and blows it up in the middle of the South Beach parking lot. Then he takes a bow and everybody watching from the boardwalk goes crazy. It’s the only time I’ve ever seen Joey C. smile. The problem is, on every day that’s not the Fourth of July, he stands on the corner in front of the Club Vino. We have to walk right past him to get to the arcade. And Joey C.’s definitely not smiling now.

You think he was really in the army?

Sshhhh, I say. Octavio always has a million questions, even when we’re not in school. He asks them in one of those squeaky whispers that slice right through the beach air and the voices of The Four Seasons singing, Who loves you, pretty baby? that come flying out of the open door of the bar.

Why does he look at you like that?

Sshhhh, I say again, trying to move him along. Like what?

Like he wants to say something to you.

No way, I say. It’s the sunglasses. Along with all the other things that Octavio finds fascinating about him, Joey C. wears a pair of silver aviators. When the lenses catch the afternoon sun, they blind you like a death ray. Octavio blinks at him for another three seconds, then turns away.

Maybe, he says, but I can tell he’s not convinced. Neither am I, really. Joey C. does look at me funny, even with the mirrored sunglasses. But by this time, we’re close to the opening of the arcade. I check the dial on Octavio’s watch, which is as big as the lid on a coffee can and has six mini clocks that show time from navy bases all over the world. As far as I can tell, it’s not even twelve-thirty. We’ll have the place to ourselves for another hour and a half.

The arcade is on Sand Lane. It’s about fifteen feet from the Club Vino and Joey C. and next to what’s left of the small amusement park, which loses a ride every summer. (When they break down, like the Caterpillar did this past July, someone just covers them up with a tarp.) The arcade’s got huge colored letters in front that spell out A-R-C-A-D-E, so the tourists who used to come to the beach but don’t anymore won’t miss it. The building is nothing fancy, just a cement bunker with two walls missing, one facing Sand Lane and one facing the water. The other two walls are painted black and packed with video games. Dinino, the man who owns the place, sits on a stool by the cash register twenty hours a day. He pulls the metal gates down when he closes up at night and pulls them up first thing in the morning.

Even with the openings and the mist, which comes off the water and sticks to everything in the neighborhood like salt on a pretzel, the arcade is always ten degrees hotter than anywhere else and smells like burning rubber. It’s only a matter of time before something blows. But we have the fire department up the block and the Atlantic Ocean a hundred feet away, so I think we should be good.

"Pucchiacha," Dinino says when he sees us coming, and we wave.

Dinino’s maybe fifty, maybe a hundred and twenty. He’s one of those people that’s impossible to tell how old they are, mostly because of the layers of clothes (black coat, sweater, hat, pants, boots and white apron and socks) that he covers himself with every day of the year, no matter how hot or cold it is. The five feet of Dinino start with his black felt hat and end with the rubber soles on his boots. I’ve never seen him wear anything else, and I’ve been playing games down here for seven years. When I was four, my grandmother Mary the Blonde walked me into the arcade, put me on a milkcrate in front of Whirlybird, and handed me a stack of quarters. Dinino’s been calling me "Pucchiacha" ever since. It’s an inside joke between the two of them. I know it’s Sicilian for something bad, but I’m not sure exactly what. Mary the Blonde says it’s better that way and laughs.

Because of my needs to apply himself more grades at Holy Calvary, I usually don’t get to the arcade during the week, but Wednesdays are a different story. Every Wednesday we get out of school at noon, so the church can funnel the public-school kids in after lunch and make some extra money. The nuns used to call it Release-time, only they stopped when parents said it sounded too much like prison. So now they call it CCD. Nobody knows what it stands for, but everybody’s thrilled, except for the poor PS 93 and PS 64 kids who have to sit in those hot classrooms until a quarter to three.

Our friend Artie’s already playing Skee-Ball when me and Octavio walk in.

Another record, my friends, Artie calls out, a huge grin on his face.

Artie’s very tall and thin—Mary the Blonde calls him lanky —with long, skinny arms that almost reach the ball-hop. He’s really good at Skee-Ball, and if anybody deserves to be really good at something, it’s Artie Brown. Sometimes kids tell him he should be playing basketball with those long arms. But none of it fazes Artie. He just smiles and sails another wooden ball into the 50-hole. It’s beautiful.

The green cardboard tickets you get for having a high score are pumping out of the ticket dispenser near the coin slot. They curl up like an old hose on top of Artie’s bookbag, which he’s dropped on the floor in front of the game. The tickets are completely worthless—you can redeem them for a comb if you have ten thousand of them—but the thought of getting them for doing something you like to do is a nice touch.

I nod at the tickets and then at Artie’s score and try to keep a serious look on my face. Not bad for an orphan, I say, and we both start to laugh.

Artie and I met in kindergarten and stayed best friends even after I was shuttled over to Catholic school for first grade. He ate lunch at my house for the whole year we were in PS 93 together. And even though I go to Catholic school now, he still eats dinner at our house at least twice a week. Artie used to live at the Bethlehem Home, which was an orphanage run by Lutherans on a hill by the Verrazzano Bridge, not too far from where we live. Mary the Blonde would take me there on Saturday afternoons to play nok hockey with him, and it didn’t seem like a bad place at all. He went into foster care when the home burned down a couple years ago. My family is so crazy about Artie that my mother wanted to take him in after the fire, but for some reason it never happened.

Octavio smiles at the pile of tickets on the bookbag, gives Artie a thumbs-up, then parks himself in front of the racing game. He’s about half the size of Artie, so he stands on his tiptoes and hangs onto the wheel like he’s heading into the last lap at Daytona. Octavio’s obsessed with cars, especially ones with nitro engines that need parachutes to stop. The Borbo family is from the Philippines, but his father’s a mechanic in the U.S. Navy. They live in Fort Wadsworth, the base under the Bridge, but they’ve moved like eight times since he was born. He arrived in Holy Calvary two years ago, when we were in fourth grade, and we both know the clock is ticking. But for now, everything is perfect. It’s only when Phillip Becker walks into the arcade that our beautiful September afternoon turns to shit.

Look who’s here, Becker says. His beady eyes move from our grey school uniforms and Artie’s Hawaiian shirt and shorts to our annoyed faces. Jerkoffs International.

The good news about Becker is that we don’t see him a lot now that he’s in high school. But whenever he does stop in the arcade there’s a problem, which comes down to one thing. It’s not that Becker’s the worst human being who ever turned up in South Beach. There are other bullies roaming these streets who are much more likely to knock you into a giant rose bush or twist your arm until you’re on your knees and then push your face into a pile of fresh dog crap. Becker is about as much of a physical threat as someone in a blue and white striped polo shirt can be.

What keeps us dreading Becker is that he has a big mouth. It’s full of nasty things that most of us know not to say and don’t really want to hear about anyway, especially when we’re in the arcade and all we want to do is play games. He also brags non-stop. He loves to tell us how good he is at everything and that everything he does and has is the best: he has the best arm in softball, he gets the best girlfriends, he has the best sneakers, he wears the best clothes, he has the biggest above-ground swimming pool you can buy. He even brags that he has the best braces. He was the same way when he went to Holy Calvary. He was a loudmouth then, only now that we don’t see him every day, he seems a lot worse.

Sometimes he pulls up to the arcade driving a yellow Trans-AM, even though he’s fourteen and he’s not even close to a license. Everybody knows it’s his older brother’s car, but he parks it up on the sidewalk for all the world to see. Some of what Becker says is true—he does have nice stuff. But it’s the way he says it. He goes out of his way to make sure everyone around him who doesn’t have all the stuff he has feels bad about it.

Like now.

Watch out, Becker says. Let me show you how it’s done.

Today Becker’s the best Skee-Ball player in the world and he’s not too happy when he sees Artie’s score. It doesn’t matter that there are four empty machines next to the game Artie was just playing. Becker has to play that game so he can wipe out what Artie’s just done. That’s what Becker does. My friend takes his hand off the wooden ball and takes a couple of steps back from the game.

Come on, Becker, Octavio says, We know how great you are. Why don’t you try the arcade in the mall?

Why don’t I try your mother, Borbo? he says. After Becker makes a few obscene gestures sliding his quarter in and out of the coin slot, he finally puts it into Artie’s machine. Tell your mom it was good, he says.

Dinino sits on his stool by the cash register. He sees everything but acts like he sees nothing. Alert, as Mary the Blonde would say. But from the way he leans forward I can tell what he’s thinking: This f---ing kid again. He’s not happy that Becker’s here. Dinino knows that Becker should be in school. But Artie should be in school, too, or at least in one of those hot CCD classrooms, so he doesn’t say anything.

After he shoots the first ball into the twenty-hole, Becker’s mad. That’s the way he gets when things don’t go his way immediately. He steps back from the machine. Take your garbage, he snaps, and makes a face at Artie’s bookbag like it has leprosy. When my friend doesn’t move, Becker makes a show of checking his watch.

Anytime you’re ready.

I look at Becker and think about how happy the three of us were five minutes ago. Then, before Becker says something really stupid, I take a step toward Artie’s stuff on the floor.

Chill Becker, I say, I got it.

But when I go to pick it up, Artie grabs my elbow.

Don’t, Artie says. He looks at Becker with an expression on his face that I’ve never seen before. Even though Artie’s always the tallest kid wherever we go, he’s the most peaceful person I’ve ever met in my life. He never gets angry, and he’s never in a bad mood. It’s probably one of the reasons why my mother wanted to take him in so bad.

"They’re just tickets, Phillip, I say. Becker hates when we use his first name. I don’t mention the bookbag, which looks suspiciously light anyway. You’re standing right there."

Shut up, Romano.

Fellas, Dinino calls out from the stool, what’s the problem?

"Your customer won’t get his belongings out of my way."

The way Becker says belongings makes it sound like a dirty word. And he doesn’t even look at Dinino when he says it. He just keeps staring Artie down. I feel my friend’s fingers press deeper into my skin.

What’s the big deal? Dinino says. "Raccoglili e basta. Dinino looks down at the tickets and grins. Non lasciare che questa bocca grande it dia fastidio."

We’re used to Dinino speaking Italian to us and we can pretty much figure out what he’s saying by the way he says it, especially since it’s always followed by pointing and cursing. Artie looks at Dinino like he understood every word, but he still doesn’t move.

I can’t, he says to Dinino. I’m sorry.

Dinino nods at me and Octavio, who somehow heard what was going on over the roar of the car game and is standing next to us. Then he slides off his stool and grabs his broom and a dustbin, which he uses to pick up anything that falls to the floor, from a quarter to a piece of pizza crust.

Artie steps between Dinino and his stuff.

He needs to hand them to me, Artie says, nodding at Becker.

My friend’s standing stiff and straight, but his eyes look like two cups of chocolate ice that have been sitting on the counter a minute too long.

Like dick I will, Becker says.

Dinino has the patience of one of the saints in the Bible who’s always getting hung upside down and hit with rocks but never loses his cool. But I can see that he’s had it. He puts his broom and dustbin back behind the register and turns his attention to me.

"Pucchiacha, he says, non fare niente do folle."

Then an unbelievable thing happens—Dinino leaves the arcade. He turns and walks out of the opening and stands on the sidewalk in front of Becker’s brother’s yellow car.

What’s he doing? Octavio says.

But then something even crazier happens—he takes off his hat. So the double shock of seeing Dinino hatless and out of the arcade in the sunshine stops us all in our tracks. For about ten seconds the four of us stand shoulder-to-shoulder and stare at Dinino with our mouths open.

Becker snaps out of it first. This is fucking stupid, he says, and immediately goes back to being an asshole.

But in that short time between us staring at Dinino with his hat off and Becker opening his mouth, I have one of those revelations that the nuns love to tell us about. I look at Becker and think: cuts from thorns heal. The smell of dog shit in your nostrils goes away. But this loudmouth, standing there in his polo shirt and his expensive braces, is about to do something worse than all the other lunatics in this neighborhood combined.

Come on Phillip, I say, Just knock it off.

Stay out of this, Romano, he says.

Octavio is thinking the same thing. Out of the blue he darts over to the Skee-Ball machine, scoops up the tickets and the bookbag, and puts them down on the floor behind us. But it’s too late. Becker finishes his sentence.

That’s your business if you want to hang around with n------s.

Once the word explodes out of Phillip’s mouth, Artie looks like he’s been punched in the heart. The melted ice in his brown eyes turns into tears.

That’s when I barrel my head into Becker’s stomach.

It’s funny when you don’t know you’re going to do something until you do it, but here I am, my head buried in the stripes of Becker’s shirt. Unfortunately, even though I’m three months away from being twelve, I weigh eighty pounds with two pockets full of change, and it’s far from a major blow. Becker just kind of swipes me away like a bullfighter and I end up on the cement floor by the register. But it’s not me he wants to make miserable.

Anybody can take one look at Artie and know how much he doesn’t want this. When we were in kindergarten, Artie traded me his Ball of Confusion 45 for my Let it Be 45. That’s how much Artie doesn’t want this. But when Artie sees me sitting on the ground, my best friend rolls his fingers into two fists and steps toward Becker. Then they both stop dead in their tracks.

Joey C., his palms held out in the air like the world’s largest crossing guard, is standing between Artie and Becker, shadowed by Dinino, who’s put his hat back on.

"Basta," Joey C. says, and everybody freezes.

He pulls off the mirrored sunglasses and slides them into the top pocket of the army jacket. He doesn’t look at me on the floor, or Octavio, or even back at Artie. Joey C.’s eyes, which look like the yellow fins on the old pinball machine, zero in on Becker, who’s still standing next to the Skee-Ball game.

I hear you’re pretty good, Joey C. says.

Becker looks at him like he has no idea what he’s talking about.

Joey C. pats the top of the Skee-Ball game with his toaster-oven-sized hand. To his credit, Becker manages to get two words out of his mouth, a tremendous improvement from the last terrible word that left his lips.

I’m alright, he says.

Joey C. stacks a handful of quarters on the game by the ticket dispenser.

Play.

I don’t feel like playing anymore, Becker says.

Sure, you do.

Becker looks at the expression on Joey’s face. Then he slides in front of the table, puts one of Joey’s quarters into the slot and starts to play. The balls hit the jump and land occasionally in the forty-hole, once in the thirty-hole, but mostly in the fifty-hole. Now Becker’s own tickets are sliding out and landing in a coil at his feet.

I take back what I said, Joey C. says. You are very good.

Thanks.

The sound that comes out of Joey C.’s mouth is not what I expected. His voice is gravelly, but the words come out steady and soft, not threatening at all.

No, I mean it, Joey C. says. Very, very good.

Becker grins, like it’s the most natural thing in the world to get