Scooch The little black Labrador pup came into our lives at an inopportune time. The marriage vessel was floundering in the shallows, the house atmosphere was stormy with more clouds on the horizon and a wreck on the rocks was imminent. There were five children to consider. I didn’t want to add a dog to the mess. But I was out-voted six to one and the pup came to live with us, a reluctantly added member to a dispersing family. I named him Scooch, an Italian slang word that roughly translates to “pain in the rear”. He was a rogue, and like all successful rogues he stole your heart. He had a knack for getting at the core of a matter. If you had a dozen pairs of shoes, he would select your favorite and destroy one of them. This was a fair bargain to Scooch; one for him and one for you. Any food that he could reach was his. He never begged, too much dignity for that, but you had to know where he was at all times. Many a kid lost a summer ice cream by failing to reckon with Scooch’s built in radar and ice cream homing system. But he had a way, and you had to love him for raising rascality to such an engaging art form. Scooch was responsible for 10% of the local ice cream store’s sales as I felt morally bound to replace the purloined cone with a new one. We could never keep a dog tag on him. He suffered no collars, slipping every one. This caused us a few problems, not to mention several fines from the local dog officer. I once fastened a clothesline to his collar and tied the line to one of our maple trees. He quickly freed himself by chewing through the rope. Like Cyrano De Bergerac who wore no man’s colors, Scooch wore no man’s collar. He was proud of his own coal black eyes and pitch-black coat. He displayed a few white hairs on his chest, barely visible, but grown there; I am sure, in nihilistic reaction to flawlessness. Scooch would have nothing to do with perfection. Life was too interesting to bother with it. So the few white chest hairs were there as a badge against purist pursuits. We lived near the Kingston Railroad Station and Scooch appointed himself official greeter. He performed no tricks. Tricks, in Scooch’s eye were akin to begging, well beneath his dignity. He liked the hustle and bustle of the train station. He discovered that interesting things happened when the trains stopped. He garnered tidbits from arriving and departing passengers and became the station’s unofficial greeter. But he could never keep a job. He would disappear for days at a time. We learned never to fret about his absences. He’d eventually show up. One morning after an overnight visit to the Great Swamp, a territory which covered hundreds of acres and lay behind the railroad station, he deposited a beaver in our yard. Scooch’s acquaintances extended to Station Masters, hippies, two retired schoolteachers who lived across Route 138, and, as I learned later, U.R.I. professors and students who called him “Jake, The quad dog.” And like most of the URI kids he did not confine himself to West Kingston. His territory stretched all the way to Providence via his association with our neighbor and friend, Richard Sanderson. Richard was one of the people who Scooch adopted. In keeping with the 70’s sub-culture, Richard sported a huge Wyatt Earp moustache, drove a dilapidated VW bug and lived alone in a three-room clapboard house. Winter heat was provided by a wood-burning stove, summer air-conditioning by open windows. Scooch loved the place since it was surrounded by acres of woods and had a running stream nearby. Richard would pick up Scooch by driving to our house, opening the passenger side door, and whistling. Scooch usually hopped on board ready for an adventure that could be a simple trip to the supermarket or a ride to Providence to explore life in the big city. On this occasion it was life in the big city. Richard was headed for The Met Café. The Met’s eclectic clientele of bikers, hippies, college kids, and erstwhile nihilists regularly filled the premises, and Richard and Scooch fit in seamlessly. Richard would nurse a few drinks and listen to the live music. Scooch would camp under the table to observe life from ankle level. Denizens of the café would buy a hot dog or burger or fries and, some with fanfare and some silently, slip the morsel under the table. Scooch gratefully accepted all donations, but he never left the cover of the table, which was where he preferred to spend his evening. His frequent visits earned him the name of “The Met Dog”. On this particular evening, Richard and Scooch hung in until closing time. Richard and Scooch arrived, but Richard, Scooch and a young lady were leaving together. It happens! But what happened next was a one-timer; they walked together to the VW and Richard unlocked the car, opened the passenger side door and Scooch jumped onto the front seat. Richard attempted to shoo Scooch to the back, but Scooch refused to budge. “C’mon Scooch”, said Richard, “Make room for the lady”. Scooch sat firmly. “Scooch, move over”. Scooch refused to budge. The young woman seized the door handle in an obvious attempt to commandeer the seat. Scooch reacted by baring his teeth and growling menacingly. Richard commanded, cajoled and threatened, but Scooch would not be gainsaid. He made it very clear that Richard would have to make a choice, the lady or the dog. Richard called a cab, tucked his lady friend into it and drove back to his house with Scooch happily occupying the front seat, nose to the wind. Richard says that he has no idea why Scooch did what he did, but he’s sure that Scooch saved him from something. Scooch never uttered a word about the incident. Typical of Scooch, he supplied me with my saddest and most joyous moments on the same day. I was at work one afternoon when Henry, our second floor tenant of about six months, called me. “I’m sorry to tell you this, but Scooch was hit by a car. He didn’t make it. There’s no blood, but he’s definitely dead. I put him in the garage.” It was early afternoon and my day collapsed with the news. The imps of doubt and recrimination danced into my consciousness, revealed themselves then popped like soap bubbles. No sooner was one gone than another would follow. Imp – “you should have kept a reflective collar on him”. Soap bubble - “He has slipped every one for 6 years.” Imp - “Why didn’t you tie him before you left for work.” Soap bubble – “He chews through the tie line.” Imp – “You could have used a chain.” Soap bubble – Yeah, tried it once and found him dragging himself to exhaustion after eight hours of unrelenting tugging.” Imp – “Get back to work.” Soap bubble – “You’ve got to be kidding.” The imps and the soap bubbles kept at it all the way to quitting time and then sat on my shoulder during the drive home. I pulled up to the front of the house and sat in the car for a moment trying to steel myself for the death scene waiting for me in the garage. I looked up ready to disembark and across the yard, ears up tail raised high, looking directly at me and waiting for my “come here signal” stood, steadily and sturdily and proudly, Scooch. I jumped from the car, patted my chest, which was the signal to Scooch that he could run full gallop and leap up to my chest where I would catch him, only occasionally being knocked head over teakettle by the impact. Scooch ran and jumped. I caught and hugged while Scooch licked my face in a warm greeting. “Scoojims, Scoojims, Scoojims” was all I could say. I then put Scooch down and headed for the garage while Scooch, never too sentimental, dismissed me and went about his own business elsewhere. I expected to find no dog in the garage. Maybe Scooch was just stunned, Henry’s no vet and not overly burdened with gray matter. But when I opened the garage door I found a dead black lab. The dead ringer looked enough like Scooch to fool a passing acquaintance, but it sure wasn’t Scooch. I bribed Scooch into the house with some leftover meatloaf and called the dog officer who knew Scooch well. I told him the story and he showed up a little later, collected the dead ringer, called me aside and told me he was glad it wasn’t Scooch. I’m sure he was looking forward to several more years of merry chases.

Feeding the Dog We’re having the kitchen remodeled. A day spent while the kitchen is being remodeled is one you don’t have to spend in Purgatory - I have since collected quite a few indulgences. David, Christine’s brother, I hate to say my brother-in-law, since the term does not adequately convey our relationship, David, who has just retired from the fire department, and who, when taking the fireman’s entrance physical examination, broke the speed record for grabbing a fire hose and ascending a two story ladder, David, who single handedly, and I mean all alone, climbed a ladder with a good sized Anderson window in his hands and installed it on the second story of our house, is doing the work as part of his new home construction/ renovation business with the mutual understanding that he work us into his schedule. This is why we have a remodeling job that only seems as long as the siege of Leningrad. Nothing is in its proper place, and as I go through the no longer routine motions of feeding the dog I spin pirouettes and figure eights, which if accomplished with a basketball, would land me an Allan Iverson type NBA contract. First task is to retrieve Bud’s dish from the deck; that has not changed. Go to refrigerator and get can of “Bud’s Delight” dog food - actually, any food is “Bud’s Delight”. The dog eats peaches, apples, pears, figs, lettuce, green beans from the garden, tomatoes, citrus. Now, have you ever known a dog to eat citrus? Bud does. We are careful not to gorge him with too many corncobs, watermelon rinds, cantaloupe skins, and like dainties. Bud was ten years old when he came into our lives. Christine assented to take him, virtually sight unseen, about an hour ahead of the pound. His former family was breaking up, house sold, etc. So it was that Bud came unto us. He’s 13 now and still a handsome creature. As I do the light fandango with dog dish in hand Bud lies on his dark blue bed looking as close to a shadow as any 65 pound black Lab can look. Most of Bud has disappeared. He is totally relaxed. He has learned the new routine much quicker than I. At first he would get to his feet and follow me around as I danced with his dish. He just watches now, as with dish in hand, I move to the refrigerator, which by some quirk of the remodeling crew, is somewhat close to its usual spot. Aced! Aced by Christine! There’s not enough dog food left to make a Bud sized meal. I place dish and can on a board covering a large plastic container which is holding torn pieces of cardboard set for the dumpster. Dish and can are at rest and I am now on a two fold mission: Obtain spoon to scoop and mix Bud’s food and get new can of food at base of cellar stairs. Spoon firmly in hand, headed towards basement stairs when headquarters interrupts my confident stride with an urgent message, “You’ll need to use a can opener”, this occasions an immediate right foot pivot inspired by years of watching Earl “The Pearl” Monroe or “Black Jesus” as his contemporaries named him. I retreat for the can opener and in no time am standing on the same spot I occupied, not 10 seconds ago. Now we’re making progress. I proceed to what is hopefully my final fetch while Bud lies passively, a mere shadow, a fractional essence, a dog in neutral. I descend into the basement and retrieve a can of “Bud’s Delight”. I ascend, light footed and light hearted with the warm assurance that I may now proceed with the actual “Scooping of the Food”, a ceremony which causes a stir on the dark blue bed. Food in dish, now to add water, I take a step towards the sink. Gottcha! The sink isn’t there. In fact the nearest running water to be had is from the faucets of the downstairs bathroom, “Your choice, Sir, you may use either the sink, which you will find much to shallow for kitchen use, or the bathtub which you will find most ungainly. Have a good day, sir.” I go for ungainly. Bud’s dish in hand, food properly moistened, now to add the dry ingredients and mix. But wait; saw dust and debris have precluded keeping the dry dog food bag in the kitchen. The dry food now lies next to the wood burning stove. I do a tight 180, like an NFL wide-out running a hook pattern, deserting the kitchen for the living room I place the dish on the floor, creating a stirring from the dark blue bed. With great restraint Bud lies almost motionless. Ears up, but just a bit, no full-blown commitment yet, head still on bed, but cocked, ever so slightly. One last swing from the living room through the sliding door and onto the deck, dish in hand all the while; a lively waiter with a dog in his wake. I place the dish upon the deck, and, voila, dinner is served. But first Bud gets to lick the spoon.

Me and Ron Two jr. high misfits from the wrong side of the tracks. Happened into the same home room - “T’s” thru “Z’s” lumped alphabetically. We both remember Nancy Urassio. Who is that kid with the thick glasses reading every day from a huge book. - Later talks with Ron convinced me that there really was such a thing as great literature - I remember once asking him, “Why a poem, Ron”. To this day I don’t have the faintest idea what I meant. But for the next 60 years Ron patiently explained. It became part of the mortar that binds friends. Anyway, I observe this kid from Leidy Elementary - now Leidy Elementary means he lives in a poor Jewish neighborhood somewhere around 42nd Street. I lived on 40th in the poor Italian neighborhood. - reading what turns out to be “Les Miserables”, Very thin on the left side and very thick on the right, gradually both side even up and I said, “He’s really going to do it. I gotta talk to this kid”, and that’s when I first introduced myself to Ron. We were just getting by in school, but were brilliant in chemistry - I bet you didn’t know that Ron was the inventor of Zornium, a metal of miraculous qualities with its own molecular structure and valances, while I produced Tuonium, and the great Tuonium - Zornium war was launched in 10th grade chemistry class. We also had Phillies vs. A’s arguments. Ron was a Philadelphia A’s fan and I was a Phillies fan. We’d argue for the length of the baseball season as to which of Philadelphia’s two last place teams was better than the other. Contrary to all appearances, Ron was not born a Red Sox fan. Ron couldn’t get Spanish. He sounded awful speaking it, and never really bothered to learn much vocabulary. Fifty years later we vacationed in Guatemala together. I could report no progress. In college, it was Ron, the center city dweller. The aspiring poet. My admiration for him reached new heights after this conversation while sitting in his apartment. Me - Ron, you have four clocks in your apartment and all four are slightly off, no two times alike??? Ron - Well, I need to know the time. It’s important in my everyday life, but I don’t really want to know the exact time. I don’t want the clock to rule my life. He changed the way in which I let time intrude on my life. To this day, I wear no watch. So time ran out on Ron, but he hasn’t run out of my heart and he planted a nice little garden in my soul that I’ll cultivate until time runs out on me. I’m gonna miss Ron

Me and Ron Two jr. high misfits from the wrong side of the tracks. Happened into the same home room - “T’s” thru “Z’s” lumped alphabetically. We both remember Nancy Urassio. Who is that kid with the thick glasses reading every day from a huge book. - Later talks with Ron convinced me that there really was such a thing as great literature - I remember once asking him, “Why a poem, Ron”. To this day I don’t have the faintest idea what I meant. But for the next 60 years Ron patiently explained. It became part of the mortar that binds friends. Anyway, I observe this kid from Leidy Elementary - now Leidy Elementary means he lives in a poor Jewish neighborhood somewhere around 42nd Street. I lived on 40th in the poor Italian neighborhood. - reading what turns out to be “Les Miserables”, Very thin on the left side and very thick on the right, gradually both side even up and I said, “He’s really going to do it. I gotta talk to this kid”, and that’s when I first introduced myself to Ron. We were just getting by in school, but were brilliant in chemistry - I bet you didn’t know that Ron was the inventor of Zornium, a metal of miraculous qualities with its own molecular structure and valances, while I produced Tuonium, and the great Tuonium - Zornium war was launched in 10th grade chemistry class. We also had Phillies vs. A’s arguments. Ron was a Philadelphia A’s fan and I was a Phillies fan. We’d argue for the length of the baseball season as to which of Philadelphia’s two last place teams was better than the other. Contrary to all appearances, Ron was not born a Red Sox fan. Ron couldn’t get Spanish. He sounded awful speaking it, and never really bothered to learn much vocabulary. Fifty years later we vacationed in Guatemala together. I could report no progress. In college, it was Ron, the center city dweller. The aspiring poet. My admiration for him reached new heights after this conversation while sitting in his apartment. Me - Ron, you have four clocks in your apartment and all four are slightly off, no two times alike??? Ron - Well, I need to know the time. It’s important in my everyday life, but I don’t really want to know the exact time. I don’t want the clock to rule my life. He changed the way in which I let time intrude on my life. To this day, I wear no watch. So time ran out on Ron, but he hasn’t run out of my heart and he planted a nice little garden in my soul that I’ll cultivate until time runs out on me. I’m gonna miss Ron

Delaware Tuoni 1900 census

Found Gabriel and Angelina Tuoni in 1900 census - living in Delaware at the time.

Back Alley Christmas

A Back Alley Christmas

Okay, so the title lies. This isn’t about Christmas. It’s about Christmas time, specifically those days between December 25th and January First. We, the barely teens and the sub-teens of the neighborhood, would gather together on those cold and dark nights in the dirt-floored alleyway between Cambridge and Poplar Streets. The alley was ours after dark.

In the daytime, the older guys, the teenagers and the young men in their twenties, would use the alley to shot craps or otherwise gambol and gamble. Alley gambling took place off the streets, behind the houses, and away from the eyes of the Philadelphia police. True, once in a while the police would come charging up the alleyway to scatter the craps shooters and then pocket the money that had been left behind by the fleeing players. It was recognized by players and police alike as a kind of informal payoff, for often enough, the police would know of the game and ignore the illegal proceedings. But as I said, the alley belonged to the sub-teens after dark. For most of the winter we would build small fires and roast potatoes by attaching them to a wire coat hanger and placing them in the embers. We rarely pulled out a properly cooked potato, but that wasn’t the point. It was dark. It was cold and we were warm. We played the game of “Chip or Skip”. The rules were simple, if a latecomer wanted to hang around the fire he had to contribute some wood. The wood was the “chip”. If you had no fuel you were banished until you returned with a contribution; that was the “skip”. But at Christmas time, that joyous Yule season, there were discarded Christmas trees to burn and the alley was bedecked with boughs of Scotch pine or white pine or spruce just waiting to be set ablaze by the neighborhood corps of junior pyromaniacs.

It is true that our parents discarded the trees properly by placing them with the weekend trash for pickup, but we would purloin the trees and drag them into the alley for the evening’s bon fires. We husbanded the trees, stashing away a dozen, and usually burning only two or three each night. Tree burnings were ritualistic and involved very specific techniques for tree placement and lighting. Usually the cheap wooden stand would still be attached to the tree enabling it to set upright in the middle of the alleyway away from the backyard fences. If the tree had no stand, an enterprising young carpenter would hustle up a few nails, a hammer, and some wood and bang out a crude but effective tree stand. Once a stand was secured to the base of the tree a back alley shaman schooled by a teen aged elder who had recently graduated to the daytime craps game would stuff newspaper in the lower branches, light the paper and we would watch the leaping lizards of flame crackle up to the topmost branches as the aromas of pine and smoke filled the night air.

I was old enough to have witnessed the great pyres, but still too young to handle one on my own or even to understand the mysteries which lay behind the ceremonial rituals. Youth often goes where angels fear to tread, and I advanced with the speed of the damned. I decided to try a burning on my own. One evening I slipped out from the back of the house to the alleyway and grabbed a tree that I had had my eye on only to discover that it had no base. I was much too unhandy and far too impetuous to bother with trying to make a base. “Easy enough”, I thought, “I’ll just prop it up against this wooden fence”. I gathered the requisite newspapers and stuffed them into the lower branches then reached into my pocket for the matches that I had lifted from the kitchen. It was cold and my fingers were numb, but industry and perseverance bring a sure reward and I finally managed to light the newspaper. I stood back to observe my handiwork as the lower branches began to crackle and burn. The flames licked up the dry tree and the back alley was aglow with light. Soon the crackle of the pine had ceased but the light of the blaze increased in intensity and the conflagration persisted.

I took a very careful and sober look and, “On what did my wondering eyes gaze, but a burnt out tree and a fence all ablaze. I was the culprit all guilty and sick and I ran to my home in haste, double quick.”

I dashed down the alley, on to Cambridge Street and entered my house via the front door, nowhere near the scene of the crime. I was sitting in the parlor when I heard the fire engines and expressed great surprise to learn that someone’s fence was on fire. The fence had to be replaced, but no one was hurt and no one ever found the culprit.

Did I stop burning Christmas trees? Not on your life. I learned to make crude but effective tree stands.

Tuoni Aunts and Uncles

Paternal Aunts and Uncles: Figli di Niccola Tuoni eD Angela Maria Madonna

The spelling of the last name has been a source family controversy for several generations. Some of my father’s siblings spelled it "Touni", others Tuoni. I have a document dated 1905, "The Constitution and Rules of the Society of Mutual Help of Saint Michael the Archangel, Fraternal Order of Sons and Daughters of Monteroduni" which has my grandfather's name spelled Tuono. My father adopted the Tuoni spelling, Tuoni being the plural form of Tuono?
Grandpa Niccola Tuoni was born in 1865 and died September 24, 1946. I have no record of Grandma Angela's birth or death dates. I barely remember her. She died when I was quite young. I have a sweet memory of sitting upon her knee and being bounced and sung to in Italian. I could not have been more that 3 or 4 years old at the time. I also recall her funeral, which was held from the house at 4040 Cambridge Street. After she died Grandpa Niccola's physical and mental health deteriorated so much that he became incontinent and spent his last days in a home for the aged. He hated the home and would run off from it at every opportunity. He would return to Cambridge Street where I often met him and we shared some kind of grandchild to grandparent communication. I grew to love him and was saddened when he would be whisked away and sent back to the home.

My paternal uncles:
Joseph (called Joe), Antonio (called Shad), Michele (called Mike), and Lorenzo (called Larry)

My paternal aunts:
Aunt Maime died before I was born. She was one of the victims of the influenza epidemic which swept the country after World War I. She married very young, no more than 17 years of age. Like all of the Tuoni woman she was quite good looking. She bore a daughter, Francis, who was raised by the family. I have no idea of what happened to her husband. I don’t even have his name.


Leina [Ferrara] (called Lena),

Aunt Mary was palsied. she had only shaky control over her arms, but a strong spirit. She played in the weekly card games, though someone had to shuffle and deal for her. She liked to smoke cigarettes, and used an amber colored cigarette holder. I watched in amazement as her palsied hands would extract a cigarette, place it in the holder and then use a lighter. Book matches were more difficult. She was a good cook too, and according to my sister Florence, a fine mess sergeant. She would never allow anyone to do anything for her that she could do herself, no matter how laboriously accomplished.


Julia [Greenberg] (called Jewel), Catarina (called Catherine), Matilda [Yates] (called Tilda),


Maime born 10 September, 1889
Joseph born 28 October, 1890
Leina born 20 April, 1893
Mary born 10 September, 1895
Thomas born 25 October, 1898
Antonio born 22 December, 1900
Julia born 4 July, 1903
Catherine born 5 July, 1905
Michele born 14 November, 1907
Matilda born 17 January, 1907?? (Date on document is in error, probably 1909)
Lorenzo born 19 August, 1919

philly40

philly40

Dave’s Pool Room, 40th Street

Pickles of the cool gray Italian silk suits and the paten leather shoes and the abundant and wavy black hair and the sociopath’s brain, Pickles who apprenticed the gigolo trade from his uncle, Jumper Phillips, Pickles who courted and won the heart of all of the women in his life and who never gave anything of his true self. Pickles of the quick wit and charming patois and the nightclub ways and the gambler’s life, Pickles was in Dave’s pool room holding court. He had disappeared from the neighborhood for several weeks – jail? Chicanery? Who knew? He showed up with a white Cadillac convertible and a lady almost twice his age from Boston whose family owned a shoe manufacturing plant. Pickles, who was later to run off with the company payroll and leave the lady stranded in West Philadelphia, Pickles was playing Louie the Lug in a heavy stakes game of straight pool – first one to pocket fifty balls pocketed a goodly wad of money.

The Lug, as usual, bedecked in his khaki grease stained garage mechanic overalls, who quietly could run a rack or two, and on a good day, three had just played an elegant safe, leaving Pickles with the cue ball against the back rail and a virtually undisturbed rack of balls. Lug said nothing; his huge triangular shaped head topped off with wiry copper hair the color of his overalls was, as usual, held straight and tall from his broad shoulders. No one would ever call The Lug handsome, but formidable would fit nicely. Lug said little, or should I say just enough. He knew how to goad and he did so with a Spartan like mastery.

Pickles strutted around the table looking over the rack for a “dead shot”. -Now, a dead shot is a ball, which if the rack is struck properly, will fall into a pocket. - If a good shooter was fortunate enough to find a “dead one” he would call the ball and pocket, smack open the rack, make the dead ball and have an open table from which to pick his shots. Finding a “dead one” virtually assured a win with players at this skill level. Pickles holding his cue like a baton and strutting like a drum major perused the table. He circumnavigated it once looking at the rack from the angle of each of the six pockets, paused, looked again and declared that the five ball was “dead” for the right corner pocket. Even to my inexperienced eye it was a dangerous gamble. The five was in the middle of the pack and the rack would have to be struck with considerable force for the ball to have enough leg to roll into the corner pocket. The second problem was that since the five was in the middle, the force of the blow would send balls careening off the rails and one might bounce back and knock the five off its course. The third problem was that the cue ball was fast against the back rail and it was doubtful that the shot would be powerful enough to send the five ball into the pocket.

Prudence declared that Pickles play a safe. He assumed his shooting position, declared that he was playing a safe, and said in a stage whisper, “The five is dead”. He slowly drew his cue stick back to tap the cue ball softly and play his safe and said again, “The five is dead”. Lug, who had been quiet all this time said in a barely audible basso, “Can’t go.” Pickles stopped his stroke, picked up his cue stick and did another tour around the table. “The five’s dead” he declared, but got back into shooting position and declared he was playing a “safe”. Again, a barely audible, “Can’t go” came from the Lug’s throat. Pickles was unable to resist the challenge. “Five ball in the corner pocket” he said and laid a powerful cue shot at the rack. Balls went careening everywhere and the five, as if on string began its tortuous way towards the corner pocket, moving so slowly that it was easy to read the black 5 in the white spot painted on the orange surface of the ball. The five inched its way towards the center of the pocket. Pickles had been correct, the five was dead. But the Lug was more correct. The five stopped less than an inch from the pocket lip. The shot had failed. It was Lug’s turn to shoot, and with the rack busted wide open, he ran the table, making every ball, never relinquishing his turn to Pickles. Lug walked off with some of the Boston money and Pickles, unflustered, left the poolroom and went back to the well for more easy money. Losing never bothered Pickles. It usually wasn’t his money anyway and he got his pleasure from the thrill of the gamble. But he didn’t like being shown up. Louie The Lug showed him the door while pocketing his cash.