The Risk Pool

Just don’t try and bullshit me.”
    By the time my father finished, F. William Peterson was so angry he’d forgotten to be scared, but he kept his voice low. Icould barely hear him over the bar noise, but I’d never seen him so animated. “How’d you
get
so smart, Sam?” he said. “How’d you figure it all out like that? How’d you know I needed that little run-down piece of shit worth all of ten grand so I can retire in the tropics. You’re too smart for guys like me, Sam. I should have known better than to think I could pull something over on a sharp cookie like you.”
    “Well, Attorney Peterson,” my father said. “I may not be the smartest guy in Mohawk County. I may not even be as smart as you. But let’s see how smart
you
are. See if you can figure out the only reason you aren’t flat on your ass.”
    Mike was now looking over at us and trying to pretend he wasn’t.
    My father nudged me. “Tell him ‘you’re welcome.’ Tell him if it wasn’t for you he’d be right on his ass. And while you’re at it, ask him how much longer he figures it’ll be before he ends up there anyhow.”
    Eileen came in on the fly, nodding at Mike behind my father’s back. “We’re all set up,” she said. “You want to eat or what.”
    When my father stood, F. William Peterson moved back a step, though he still looked determined and flushed.
    “You want some dinner?” my father said to me.
    I stood up, turned toward the dining room.
    “You want some dinner?” he repeated.
    “Yes,” I said.
    “TALK, for Jesus Christ’s sake!” he said.
    “That’s great,” F. William Peterson said. “Take it out on him.”
    I think F. William Peterson knew he’d finally pushed the wrong button even before my father hit him. Either he had the slowest reflexes of any man I ever saw, or he was a fatalist. The punch my father threw was short and hard, and F. William Peterson’s lip seemed to burst like a grape upon impact. Suddenly his whole chin was red, and he wobbled uncertainly before righting himself. If the bar hadn’t been so crowded, he might have gone down. Instead, he blinked twice and said, “Agh!” quite loudly.
    Mike’s other bartender, who had made his way around the bar but arrived too late, grabbed my father and pinned his elbows behind his back and Eileen stepped in front of him to prevent my father from kicking F. William Peterson, who was still within range.
    “Agh!” F. William Peterson said again, even more loudly, as ifhe’d been hit again with some phantom blow. Everybody looked at him, puzzled, including my father. Then F. William Peterson did something nobody expected. He sneezed. Apparently my father’s punch had glanced off the lawyer’s nose, causing an uncontrollable, undignified sneeze, the force of which sprayed blood from his split lip all over everybody in the area. Eileen’s white uniform was suddenly speckled, and a man in a light blue, summer sport coat, who had not seen the punch my father threw, but who had the misfortune to turn just when F. William Peterson sneezed, looked down at the shoulder of his jacket and said, “Hey! Have a fuckin’ heart, Mac!”
    Suddenly, Irma, Mike’s wife, looking mean as a snake, was in the middle of it and Mike himself was heard trying to soothe things, saying that it was all over and just a misunderstanding. Eileen finally succeeded in turning my father in the general direction of the dining room, a sensible plan made difficult by the fact that the big bartender seemed reluctant to let go. The lawyer sneezed violently several more times into his own bloody hand, apologizing fervently between onslaughts. Nobody noticed me, for which I was grateful, because I was crying and I couldn’t stop.
    A few minutes later, somehow, my father and I were seated in the dining room with everybody staring at us. I was choking back sobs, and my father was telling me not to worry about it. We were both looking at menus. “You got any business of your own, lady?” my father said to a woman at a table near ours.
    “Why, yes. Thank you so much,” she said.
    “Good,” my father said. “Good for you.”
    After a while, people did go back to their meals.
    “You gonna cry all through dinner or what,” my father said, not looking up from his menu.
    I didn’t say anything. In the lounge, things had quieted down. Mike came in and said he’d got it all fixed, adding that there wasn’t much that a round of free drinks wouldn’t take care of, but