Points Bulletin” for Pete Stanton. The Paterson police lieutenant is always in one of two places; either he is on the job, or he is at Charlie’s, the greatest sports bar in America.
Part of what I am saying is hearsay. Except for when his path crosses with mine on a case or at trial, I don’t actually see him on the job. But he is a star in the department, and seems to be involved in a large number of investigations and arrests. He also knows virtually everything about any case the department is dealing with, whether he is assigned to it or not. So I’m assuming he works long hours.
But when it comes to Charlie’s, I am an eyewitness. Pete, Vince Sanders, and I have a regular table at Charlie’s. I’m not there every night, nor is Vince, but Pete’s presence is a rock-solid guarantee. I think he handcuffs himself to the table.
Laurie is the only other person allowed at the table, but for some reason she doesn’t come by more than a couple of times a month. I’m not sure why; it’s possible she doesn’t care for the belching.
Pete’s probably the only true sports fan among the three of us. Vince and I bet on the games, and therefore have a manufactured interest. Pete doesn’t gamble, which in my view makes him a communist, but he will eagerly watch any sport on television.
Tonight is a perfect example. Because the four or five hundred ESPN channels each have to devour twenty-four hours of sports, they show games like Troy at Middle Tennessee State, which is on tonight.
I’m taking Middle Tennessee plus five points, while Vince has Troy. If I wasn’t betting the game, I wouldn’t watch it if you strapped me to the chair. But not only is Pete interested in it, he’s spouting facts about the key players on each team.
At the half, Troy is ahead by two touchdowns. I don’t mind that I’m losing; what bothers me is that Vince is winning. Vince is a terrible loser; he complains, makes excuses, and can’t let it go. He’s also a terrible winner; he brags, gloats, and is generally obnoxious. And tie games bring out the worst in him.
“How could you possibly bet Middle Tennessee?” he asks. “Northern Tennessee I could understand. Southern Tennessee I get. But Middle Tennessee? They play chess and jacks in the middle of Tennessee, not football.”
“You’re an idiot,” I point out.
“So you’re down two touchdowns to an idiot?” he asks, a question for which there is no good retort, because it contains the truth.
“Currently I am, yes.”
Satisfied with his rhetorical victory, Vince looks around the room, his customary frown on his face. “This place is turning into foo-foo land.”
There was a time, early in our relationship, when I would have said, “What do you mean, Vince?” That time has now passed; he’s going to tell me anyway, no doubt in a negative rant, so there’s no reason to pretend I’m interested.
“Just sitting here, I can see eleven beer bottles on tables.”
“So?”
“Of those, nine are light beers, and of those, eight are foreign.”
“I repeat … so?”
“So if they don’t like this country, and they don’t want to be fat, why don’t they go to some health spa in Paris, sip wheat germ, and let me drink real American beer and watch football?”
There’s no answer to that, and no reason at all to continue to talk to Vince, so I turn my attention to Pete. He hasn’t said much during the first half, which is typical for him. For one thing, he’s intent on watching the game. For another, it’s hard to chitchat when one has a beer bottle in one’s mouth.
For Pete, a beer bottle is like a pacifier. When he’s complaining, or talking too much, you just stick one in his mouth and he starts happily sucking on it.
“What’s new in the world of crime?” I ask.
“Why, you looking for some scumbags to represent?”
They’ve been verbally mistreating me like this for a long time, and I’ve suddenly had enough. “OK, listen, both of you. You are
Part of what I am saying is hearsay. Except for when his path crosses with mine on a case or at trial, I don’t actually see him on the job. But he is a star in the department, and seems to be involved in a large number of investigations and arrests. He also knows virtually everything about any case the department is dealing with, whether he is assigned to it or not. So I’m assuming he works long hours.
But when it comes to Charlie’s, I am an eyewitness. Pete, Vince Sanders, and I have a regular table at Charlie’s. I’m not there every night, nor is Vince, but Pete’s presence is a rock-solid guarantee. I think he handcuffs himself to the table.
Laurie is the only other person allowed at the table, but for some reason she doesn’t come by more than a couple of times a month. I’m not sure why; it’s possible she doesn’t care for the belching.
Pete’s probably the only true sports fan among the three of us. Vince and I bet on the games, and therefore have a manufactured interest. Pete doesn’t gamble, which in my view makes him a communist, but he will eagerly watch any sport on television.
Tonight is a perfect example. Because the four or five hundred ESPN channels each have to devour twenty-four hours of sports, they show games like Troy at Middle Tennessee State, which is on tonight.
I’m taking Middle Tennessee plus five points, while Vince has Troy. If I wasn’t betting the game, I wouldn’t watch it if you strapped me to the chair. But not only is Pete interested in it, he’s spouting facts about the key players on each team.
At the half, Troy is ahead by two touchdowns. I don’t mind that I’m losing; what bothers me is that Vince is winning. Vince is a terrible loser; he complains, makes excuses, and can’t let it go. He’s also a terrible winner; he brags, gloats, and is generally obnoxious. And tie games bring out the worst in him.
“How could you possibly bet Middle Tennessee?” he asks. “Northern Tennessee I could understand. Southern Tennessee I get. But Middle Tennessee? They play chess and jacks in the middle of Tennessee, not football.”
“You’re an idiot,” I point out.
“So you’re down two touchdowns to an idiot?” he asks, a question for which there is no good retort, because it contains the truth.
“Currently I am, yes.”
Satisfied with his rhetorical victory, Vince looks around the room, his customary frown on his face. “This place is turning into foo-foo land.”
There was a time, early in our relationship, when I would have said, “What do you mean, Vince?” That time has now passed; he’s going to tell me anyway, no doubt in a negative rant, so there’s no reason to pretend I’m interested.
“Just sitting here, I can see eleven beer bottles on tables.”
“So?”
“Of those, nine are light beers, and of those, eight are foreign.”
“I repeat … so?”
“So if they don’t like this country, and they don’t want to be fat, why don’t they go to some health spa in Paris, sip wheat germ, and let me drink real American beer and watch football?”
There’s no answer to that, and no reason at all to continue to talk to Vince, so I turn my attention to Pete. He hasn’t said much during the first half, which is typical for him. For one thing, he’s intent on watching the game. For another, it’s hard to chitchat when one has a beer bottle in one’s mouth.
For Pete, a beer bottle is like a pacifier. When he’s complaining, or talking too much, you just stick one in his mouth and he starts happily sucking on it.
“What’s new in the world of crime?” I ask.
“Why, you looking for some scumbags to represent?”
They’ve been verbally mistreating me like this for a long time, and I’ve suddenly had enough. “OK, listen, both of you. You are
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