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Did I know what he was going to say next? No. I’m not that prescient. Was I surprised? No again.
Because the past isn’t just obdurate; it’s in harmony with both itself and the future. I experienced that
harmony time and again.
“Chaz Frati. You’ve probably seen him in here. He owns a bunch of hockshops. I wouldn’t exactly
call him a bookie, but he keeps plenty busy at World Series time and during high school football and
basketball season.”
“And you think he’ll take my action.”
“Sure. Give you odds and everything. Just . . .” He looked around, saw we still had the bar to
ourselves, but dropped his voice to a whisper anyway. “Just don’t stiff him, George. He knows people.
Strong people.”
“I hear you,” I said. “Thanks for the tip. In fact, I’m going to do you a favor and not hold you to
that five when the Yankees win the Series.”
4
The following day I entered Chaz Frati’s Mermaid Pawn & Loan, where I was confronted by a large,
stone-faced lady of perhaps three hundred pounds. She wore a purple dress, Indian beads, and
moccasins on her swollen feet. I told her I was interested in discussing a rather large sports-oriented
business proposal with Mr. Frati.
“Is that a bet in regular talk?” she asked.
“Are you a cop?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said, bringing a Tiparillo out of one dress pocket and lighting it with a Zippo. “I’m J.
Edgar Hoover, my son.”
“Well, Mr. Hoover, you got me. I’m talking about a bet.”
“World Series or Tigers football?”
“I’m not from town, and wouldn’t know a Derry Tiger from a Bangor Baboon. It’s baseball.”
The woman stuck her head through a curtained-off doorway at the back of the room, presenting me
with what was surely one of central Maine’s largest backsides, and hollered, “Hey Chazzy, come out
here. You got a live one.”
Frati came out and kissed the large lady on the cheek. “Thank you, my love.” His sleeves were
rolled up, and I could see the mermaid. “May I help you?”
“I hope so. George Amberson’s the name.” I offered my hand. “I’m from Wisconsin, and although
my heart’s with the hometown boys, when it comes to the Series my wallet’s with the Yankees.”
He turned to the shelf behind him, but the large lady already had what he wanted—a scuffed green
ledger with PERSONAL LOANS on the front. He opened it and paged to a blank sheet, periodically
wetting the tip of his finger. “How much of your wallet are we talking about, cuz?”
“What kind of odds could I get on five hundred to win?”
The fat woman laughed and blew out smoke.
“On the Bombers? Even-up, cuz. Strictly even-up.”
“What kind of odds could I get on five hundred, Yankees in seven?”
He considered, then turned to the large lady. She shook her head, still looking amused. “Won’t
go,” she said. “If you don’t believe me, send a telegram and check the line in New York.”
I sighed and drummed my fingers on a glass case filled with watches and rings. “Okay, how about
this—five hundred and the Yankees come back from three games to one.”
He laughed. “Some sensayuma, cuz. Just let me consult with the boss.”