Pool_2

"Lucius? Can you do anything, besides farming?" A powerful voice which piped in from behind Morgan was another regular at the NAACP who sought to steer the debate away from crashing on the rocks to deeper waters. "I kin cook." He blinked a few times, then rattled off weaseling, tree skinning and other stuff none of them ever heard of, as Lucius assumed a don't ask me look. "Let's go Lucius," Jazz Man led him out as those who remained, smiled. Later Jazz Man presented Lucius to that old but still fearsome looking figure sitting in the back of his brother-in-law's restaurant. Chairs off the floor set on the table tops lent to an eery feel. The fixtures were elegant in a way that hinted age and wisdom. One could only wonder what these trappings could tell if they were alive. If, big if. One wonders what stories certain men could have told if they had been allowed to live. The decor and the ghosts had equal voice. But in that recess of darkness sat silence, itself. Nino. "Nino, can the Scar use a cook?" "Another one, eh compare? I'm a no think so. How about we teacha him to cook a so good, he cana be his owna boss ina his owna place ina - wherea you from?" Lucius was terrified of this menacing man in the gloom. That was normal. But, it turned out, Lucius could cook. He did great things with Creole-like spices. The railroad mechanism kicked in. Lucius was housed in donated garage space, four blocks away, as he built up a little nest egg for his future 'Creole Italian Restaurant' - in Georgia! Nino showed him the basics of Italian home cooking. "We no usa too mucha meat. Nice-a fish ana maka da soup ana da antipasto likea so..." Mr. Prio's cooks took Lucius to higher planes. But Lucius had his surprises, too. His version of Creole Italian stuffed peppers was becoming a big money maker at the restaurant. He was already earning his way. "I lika dis, Louie. Canna we freeza dis, Frankie?"