Pool_1

for no hurricanes. You pray for shelter. And you, of course, pray for the dead and their children. Easy request. Not a single person dared to put a penny in those meters. No salary could compensate the outcome of any one who would write a ticket. The meters were dead. Marcus smiled as he passed all those headless upright metal posts, standing at intervals along the sidewalks at the curbs, tokens of the lines not crossed. Marcus remembered this period well as his dad often brought him along on social visits to the restaurant. Seldom did Nino engage in general conversation, let alone lend advice to other than Prio, but he did advance his concerns while hugging this visiting child who grubbed some of his confections, and absentmindedly jostling his hair in a playful manner, "You lika da sfogliatelli? Nice-a boy. You nice-a boy. You make-a no troub. You can-a sit on Nino's lap. Ah Frankie, dis-a boy can-a stan behin Nino. Dees-a man" grabbing Jazz Man by the shoulder, "he no mak-a troub. He can-a stand behind Nino, any time." Finger held up, "You watcha youself, Louie. Hayn will staba you ina back firsa chance. He no seea da line." waving his finger side to side. "Mangiare," meaning eat, prompting the youngster. "You no looka like him." pointing to Jazz Man and making a big nose gesture, then to the child, "You looka you mama. She wasa the prudiest agirl inna disa town." "Still is!" Jazz Man hurriedly corrected with a big hand gesture, "Still is.". "Ah. Yessa she is. She-a no grow up to youa papa." Nino smiled with a go away hand gesture. "Frankie, we make-a more sfogliotelle?" pointing to Marcus, adding a strange Italian pet nick name that he didn't quite catch.