"Thirty-eight."
"What about the Dolphins and the Bills?"
"Miami plus six-and-a-half. Forty-two."
"I'll take the Dolphs and over for a hundred, and the Bengals and under for
forty . . . no . . . make it sixty."
Vinnie takes my money. "What about the nerd? Care to place a wager?"
"I'll pass," says Parker, fidgeting on his bar stool.
Vinnie chuckles. "Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Parker Granwell, sir" -- he makes it
sound like a title -- and limps into the back room.
I nod toward the door. "Let's go." We enter the storm again. Granwell seems like
a decent enough guy, and I figure I might as well give him what he wants. So as
we walk, I talk about the good old days, the days of Mary Pickford and Doug
Fairbanks and Scott Fitzgerald, the days of Gable, Harlow, and Cagney, the glory
days of Universal, Paramount, Warner Brothers, MGM, and of course RKO, the days
before the Screen Actors Guild destroyed something so pure and simple as the
studio contract. I even throw in some trite quotable stuff about Willis
O'Brien's brilliant animation and Max Steiner's under-appreciated musical score
and Merian Cooper's genius. What the hell, it was all true; I just never cared.
Anyway, Granwell nods and takes some notes and throws in a "Yeah-uh-huh -- okay"
every now and again, and when it's all over he tucks his notebook in his coat
pocket and frowns, the snow gathering in his neat beard.
"I do believe that is the longest line of bullshit I have ever heard," he says.
"I've had a lot of practice," I reply without missing a beat.
"I want the truth."
He's right, of course, about the bullshit. But he's wrong about the truth. He
doesn't really want it. None of them ever do.
We stop at the Cork Screw, a liquor store about the size of a meat freezer over
on Chestnut Street. Max closes at midnight but he's always in the back room till
around two or three, counting receipts, punching figures into his adding
machine, and drinking away his profits. I like Max. We've spent many an evening
together talking football and getting drunk. He's one of the few people in the
world who has never seen the movie, and has no desire to.
I rap on the back door. Max opens up and asks me in.
"Sorry, Maxy," I greet him. "I can't stay tonight. I got company I can't get rid
of."
