tremendous pressure, I can think on my feet and verbally and strategically react to anything that might happen. But in this case, talking about taking a dog to visit an old fat man, I freeze up like a Fudgsicle.
“Sure. Happy to do it,” I say. In terms of level of truthfulness, that statement would rank with something like, “Damn, I’m going to be traveling to Saturn that day to go giraffe hunting.”
“Great. I’ll set it up.”
“You’re going to meet with Nicky Fats? And you’re taking a dog?”
The speaker is Eddie “Hike” Lynch, the lawyer who works with me when we have a case to work on, which means we don’t work together very often. He comes into the office pretty much daily to use the computer. Hike is cheap; he wouldn’t buy his own computer if the store threw in the antidote to a deadly poison he had just taken.
Hike also takes pessimism to a new level, so I’m not surprised that he sees my upcoming therapy session as a disaster about to happen.
“It’ll be a half hour, and I’ll be out of there,” I say.
“Really? What if you piss him off?”
“I won’t piss him off.”
“Come on,” he says. “You piss everybody off. You’re a really annoying person.”
“Thanks, Hike.”
“And speaking of pissing, what if your dog pisses on the floor?”
“Don’t call her my dog, OK? Her name is Tara.”
“What does that mean? She’s not your dog?’
“She’s my partner, and she’s a trained therapist.”
“Sorry. What if your trained therapist pisses on the floor?”
“There is no chance of that,” I say.
“Oh yeah? If I was alone in a room with Nicky Fats, I’d piss on the floor.”
My assistant, Edna, is not in because it is Tuesday. When we are not working on a case, Edna takes seven-day weekends. Tuesdays consistently fall within that window.
Her absence has left me with only Hike to talk to, which clearly is unacceptable, so I head for home. Laurie is not there; she’s teaching her criminology class at William Paterson College. But Tara is, and she and I need to talk.
I grab the leash, which sends her barreling toward the door. We take the same walk through Eastside Park that we take every day, but as always she treats it like it’s the first time she’s been in this wonderful aromatic world.
“Tara, we’re going to see this guy named Nicky; he’s pretty old and probably still pretty fat. He’s got a bit of a temper, so we want to be careful how we treat him.”
She’s not really paying attention, looking off toward a nearby tree. “You want to look for squirrels, or listen to me? Anyway, just be yourself, but follow my lead. Just do what I do, OK? For instance, don’t lick him unless I do, and I definitely won’t. Wagging your tail is fine.”
Tara doesn’t intimidate easily. I know that for a fact; we’ve argued over biscuit issues a number of times over the years, and the next time I win will be the first. She’s either not worried about meeting Nicky Fats, or she’s putting up a front. I suspect it’s the former.
I may be worrying too much, and at the same time underestimating Tara’s therapeutic powers. By the time she’s done with this fearsome Mafia figure, he’ll probably be a sensitive, poetry-reading, yoga-loving, introspective, mushy guy.
From pictures I’ve seen, he’s got the mushy part down already.
Somehow, Nicky Fats manages to be simultaneously fat and frail. He doesn’t seem quite as obese as the older pictures had made him appear, but I would still put him in the two-eighty-to-three-hundred-pound range.
But he’s also gotten very old, which I suppose is an accomplishment for someone in his profession. He seems weak, and his face is drawn and almost thin, a weird contrast to the rest of his body.
So far the visit has been not as awful as I expected. Nicky lives in Carmine’s house, which is on a nice piece of property just outside of Elizabeth, New Jersey. Two men greeted Tara and me at the door, but as
“Sure. Happy to do it,” I say. In terms of level of truthfulness, that statement would rank with something like, “Damn, I’m going to be traveling to Saturn that day to go giraffe hunting.”
“Great. I’ll set it up.”
“You’re going to meet with Nicky Fats? And you’re taking a dog?”
The speaker is Eddie “Hike” Lynch, the lawyer who works with me when we have a case to work on, which means we don’t work together very often. He comes into the office pretty much daily to use the computer. Hike is cheap; he wouldn’t buy his own computer if the store threw in the antidote to a deadly poison he had just taken.
Hike also takes pessimism to a new level, so I’m not surprised that he sees my upcoming therapy session as a disaster about to happen.
“It’ll be a half hour, and I’ll be out of there,” I say.
“Really? What if you piss him off?”
“I won’t piss him off.”
“Come on,” he says. “You piss everybody off. You’re a really annoying person.”
“Thanks, Hike.”
“And speaking of pissing, what if your dog pisses on the floor?”
“Don’t call her my dog, OK? Her name is Tara.”
“What does that mean? She’s not your dog?’
“She’s my partner, and she’s a trained therapist.”
“Sorry. What if your trained therapist pisses on the floor?”
“There is no chance of that,” I say.
“Oh yeah? If I was alone in a room with Nicky Fats, I’d piss on the floor.”
My assistant, Edna, is not in because it is Tuesday. When we are not working on a case, Edna takes seven-day weekends. Tuesdays consistently fall within that window.
Her absence has left me with only Hike to talk to, which clearly is unacceptable, so I head for home. Laurie is not there; she’s teaching her criminology class at William Paterson College. But Tara is, and she and I need to talk.
I grab the leash, which sends her barreling toward the door. We take the same walk through Eastside Park that we take every day, but as always she treats it like it’s the first time she’s been in this wonderful aromatic world.
“Tara, we’re going to see this guy named Nicky; he’s pretty old and probably still pretty fat. He’s got a bit of a temper, so we want to be careful how we treat him.”
She’s not really paying attention, looking off toward a nearby tree. “You want to look for squirrels, or listen to me? Anyway, just be yourself, but follow my lead. Just do what I do, OK? For instance, don’t lick him unless I do, and I definitely won’t. Wagging your tail is fine.”
Tara doesn’t intimidate easily. I know that for a fact; we’ve argued over biscuit issues a number of times over the years, and the next time I win will be the first. She’s either not worried about meeting Nicky Fats, or she’s putting up a front. I suspect it’s the former.
I may be worrying too much, and at the same time underestimating Tara’s therapeutic powers. By the time she’s done with this fearsome Mafia figure, he’ll probably be a sensitive, poetry-reading, yoga-loving, introspective, mushy guy.
From pictures I’ve seen, he’s got the mushy part down already.
Somehow, Nicky Fats manages to be simultaneously fat and frail. He doesn’t seem quite as obese as the older pictures had made him appear, but I would still put him in the two-eighty-to-three-hundred-pound range.
But he’s also gotten very old, which I suppose is an accomplishment for someone in his profession. He seems weak, and his face is drawn and almost thin, a weird contrast to the rest of his body.
So far the visit has been not as awful as I expected. Nicky lives in Carmine’s house, which is on a nice piece of property just outside of Elizabeth, New Jersey. Two men greeted Tara and me at the door, but as
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