Pool_2

John suddenly stopped and turned straight at Macaluso, " How, exactly, did a great thinker and writer come to befriend a bone doctor?" "Steamed puke." "Marcus!", Mina broke in with her spoon wavering in the air. "Jesus. Watch that thing. Shannon, sometime when John has his meal is safely digested, tell him of my acquaintence with Jake Green." She agreed. John went on, "In 1916 when the Easter massacre took place, Gavin’s father was just fourteen years old. That's an impressionable and unsettled age for a boy." "Wait," the waiter fetched the coffee pot, refilling all the cups. "OK, go on," propping himself forward on his backward seat, "Can’t get this stuff on TV." John looked at the waiter. "For the record, everything I am saying is just gossip and hear-say. OK?" A group nod and affirmative echoes of hear-say, oh yeses, and absolutelys served as introductory music for an unfolding drama, although Macaluso was muttering, "What record? Anybody see a record?" Blowing into the salt shaker, "pfffff fffff, testing. This thing on?" Marcus knew that nobody would dare bug this place. Dare? Or, live long enough. The old man still frequented this place. His place. Mac kept that to himself.