The Round Table: Merchant of Time

© 2023 J.N. Carroll. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse  04/19/2024

ISBN: 979-8-8230-0562-3 (sc)

ISBN: 979-8-8230-0561-6 (hc)

ISBN: 979-8-8230-0560-9 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023906491

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To

my daughters,

Sunrise and Sunset,

If you wake up

with fleas, look around;

there’s probably a dog,

or a cat,

or a rat,

or a bat.

How ’bout that?

John showed me exceptional kindness and hospitality while I was playing in the Cape Cod Baseball League. His simple adages and unique perspective helped give me a foundation to be successful in life. As simple as it is, I will always remember him telling me over and over again .... just do the right thing. Those words speak true to his character.

Parker Rigler

Ex-Professional Baseball Player in the Chicago White Sox Organization

I met John in Fort Lauderdale in 1988. He taught me the art of sales. More importantly, he always stressed, pursue your dreams! My life’s passion had always been horses! With his encouragement I competed as an equestrian rider and trainer for years. Today I can be found professionally judging top ranked horse events around the country. John and I have managed to keep in touch the past thirty years. I fully appreciate his impact on my life.

Lisa Forman

U.S.E.F & U.S.H.J.A. R judge

Owner of SignatureSpurs.com

Prestige Italia Saddle Fitter & Sales

CONTENTS

| Prologue

Section I |

|Eyes Wandering

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

Section II |

| On the Road

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

31

32

33

34

35

36

Section III |

| Provincetown

37

38

39

40

41

42

43

44

45

46

47

48

49

50

51

52

53

54

55

56

57

58

59

60

61

62

63

64

65

66

67

68

69

70

71

72

73

74

75

76

Section IV |

| Las Vegas

77

78

79

80

81

82

83

84

85

86

87

88

89

90

91

Section V |

| Back to the Castle

92

93

94

95

96

97

98

SECTION I |

| PROLOGUE

|Eyes Wandering

In the pale yellow glimmer reflecting off the wet road, a cluster of oak leaves swirled around the red sports car and then stuck to the windshield until the wipers swept them away. The tired Alfa Romeo sputtered and almost stalled, as if it knew what was coming. There wasn’t much room between the dashboard and my six-foot frame, but there was no turning back. It had to be that night. I pressed the clutch and slammed the car into gear. The back tires fought for traction on the narrow winding road. Giant oak trees, near-stripped of their fall foliage, leaned from side to side like spectators watching a back-of-the-pack runner finishing a long race. My heart pounded as the car rounded a corner and the fork in the road appeared.

The Alfa was going too fast, and the rock seemed much larger than it did when I first found this spot, just last week.

I closed my eyes, took my foot off the gas pedal, and slammed into the gigantic boulder. It was a deafening crash, as expected, but the rest was a surprise.

Instead of screaming to a dead stop, my red missile crashed nose first through a split-rail fence, smashing into a soggy field thirty feet ahead of the rock.

When my heart slowed, I knew I was okay. I pushed at the wedged door, jammed from the impact, and got out to inspect the damage. The front end was beyond recognition, and the tires were flat, but the damn engine was purring.

I took a lug wrench from the trunk, knelt at the front of the car, and smashed the oil pan until black liquid streamed out. Before long, the engine smoked, shuddered, and died.

The nighttime mist turned into a cold rain, but I was happy, my mission accomplished. As I turned from the wreck to head toward the nearest town, I locked eyes with a golden Labrador sitting across the road. My plan hadn’t called for a witness, not even a canine. Unbothered by the weather, the dog simply observed me.

The tilt of his head asked, What was that?

I took both hands out of my pockets and broke into a sprint.

I didn’t know where I was going, but I was running toward the future.

1

A Month Earlier | September 1979

The alarm blared at seven, as usual. I then sat up, rubbed the sleep from my eyes, and groaned. The only shower in the house would be tied up for a half hour as my younger brother and sisters got ready for school.

At least it was Friday. The Bay State League’s football season would kick off this weekend, and everyone in Natick, Massachusetts, took pride in the student athletes. My dad coached the high school’s baseball, football, and basketball teams, so I was always excited about a new season. It was in my blood.

Dad’s voice filled the kitchen as he strategized for tomorrow’s game. And even though he was a regular phone-pacer, Mom still put on quite the show as she prepared breakfast for the kids, ducking and dodging the cord.

Morning, Coach, I said as I walked in. I then grabbed the milk, smelled it before pouring a glass, and put a few pieces of bread into the toaster. Upstairs, the younger kids threatened each other over the bathroom. And while my mom was busy packing lunches for them, she gave me one of those smiles that said, I know what you’re thinking, and I wish I could help.

Dad then put the phone down. Walpole is a powerhouse this year, he said. Those kids are a lot bigger than ours. Tomorrow’s going to be tough.

Don’t worry, I told him. Natick’s coach is all over it.

He smiled, yelled, Bye, kids! to the gang clambering down the stairs, and then headed for the door.

As he was leaving, ten-year-old Blaine reached for a piece of toast, knocked over my milk, and yelled, Fumble. We all laughed, even Mom, who grabbed a towel to mop it up.

Joanne was a high school junior and said, Good luck today, Jake, as the three of them scrambled for coats and books.

Yeah, knock ’em in the head, seven-year-old Sessy said.

It’s ‘knock ’em dead,’ Mom corrected.

Sessy smiled. Whatever. Bye, Mom. Bye, Jake.

When the door slammed, the house fell quiet. At the kitchen table, Mom flashed that smile again. Honey, is everything all right?

I looked down at the tiled floor and then back up at her. It will be, Mom. I just need a chance, that’s all—a chance to make a sale. Don’t worry, I’ll make it happen.

She reached across the table and squeezed my hand, leaving a five-dollar bill behind. She then stood and took the breakfast dishes to the sink.

Thanks, Mom. I’ll pay you back.

2

Wearing blue bell-bottoms, a white dress shirt, and Coach’s blue tie, I headed out to the 1969 Alfa Romeo in the driveway, my pride and joy. I had earned it selling Electrolux vacuum cleaners. I was one of the top twenty-five reps in New England last year. The job taught me to work hard but, more importantly, to work smart. And it wasn’t smart to keep slogging door-to-door through New England winters.

So I went to real estate school and snagged one of the last one-shot brokers’ licenses. It was just before the commonwealth started requiring a salesman’s license and a year’s apprenticeship as prerequisites. I landed a position in a fine Framingham real estate office, Price & Ross. I was twenty-one years old, as green as green could be, and in a firm of forty, all middle-aged women. It was a start in a direction. And any direction was fine for me prior to this gig, but the excitement of a new job had quickly dissipated. I had run out of patience and money. And I hadn’t seen a paycheck in a long time.

As I thought all this over, the Alfa took a while to start. But the engine finally caught, coughing up a cloud of black smoke. I then headed toward the center of Natick, the gas gauge on empty. While I drove the single Midnight Confessions by the Grass Roots crackled from the radio, lifting my mood. It was time for my apprenticeship to end, time to make some money, and time to have a heart-to-heart with the owner of the brokerage, Marilyn Price.

And while my mood was lifting, I noticed that the line of cars waiting at Maybardi’s Service Station was nuts. No one could explain where all the gas had gone, not even President Jimmy Carter. At eighty-five cents a gallon, it was still hard to find sometimes. My friends thought that the US was stockpiling reserves for a war in the Middle East. A new dictator, Saddam Hussein, had seized control of Iraq, Ayatollah Khomeini was holding sixty-three Americans hostage in Iran, the Russians had just invaded Afghanistan, and I was going to be late for work because I couldn’t gas up.

When I finally reached the pump, Mike Maybardi told me five gallons was the limit. And that was okay by me. It left just enough from Mom’s handout for one hot dog at Casey’s.

What does Coach think about our chances tomorrow? Mike asked.

I shrugged. You know my dad, no predictions. He says winning is a result of effort and pride, a byproduct of doing things right.

Well, see you at the game. Go Natick! Mike yelled. His voice was hardly audible as I pulled out of the station.

I waved, and the lineup at the pump, in my rearview mirror, made me think about the haves and have-nots of the world. I knew which group I wanted to join, and I had already planned my showdown with Marilyn Price.

3

In the Price & Ross parking lot, the Alfa trembled, backfired, and spat out a plume of black smoke. It was a fitting announcement. Here was a guy who meant business. There would be no more, Jake, honey, dash out and get us some coffee, Jake, I have a showing; run my Lincoln to the carwash, or Jake, be a dear and watch my kids while I go to a closing.

With that in mind, I knocked on the open door of Marilyn Price’s private office, where she was reviewing paperwork. Come in, Jake, she said, flashing a smile that complemented her success. What can I do for you?

Marilyn was fortysomething and looked fine. She had shoulder-length blond hair, blue eyes, and a petite figure, which was flattered by a designer outfit. Looking at her, I forgot my mission for a split second but recovered.

Marilyn, for months, I’ve done whatever anyone asked. I helped whenever I could, and I never complained. Yet, any time a new client calls or an opportunity shows up, I’m passed over. I’m here to say that it’s my turn to prove myself. I know I can sell. Now I need to know if you’re going to give me a shot.

As I spoke, her engaging smile faded. She then stood to face the window, looking out over the highway. You know, Jake, I wasn’t much older than you are, with a degree from Boston College, when I started working here. It was Ross Realty then, and Bill Ross ran a no-nonsense, roll-up-your-sleeves office. I was the first female ever hired. And if I told you no one took me seriously, I’d be putting it mildly. Christ, it was unusual for a woman to drive a car in those days, let alone compete in a man’s workplace.

Her tone was calm and thoughtful as she gazed at the traffic crawling by, no letup in sight. I know it’s tough to break in. But you’ve got to stay positive and, above all else, do your homework. If you do, you’ll be ready when your chance comes.

She then gestured for me to join her at the window. Look at that. Thousands of people drive by every day on their way to work so they can support their families. Every one of them needs a place to go at the end of the day. It’s the American dream, Jake, to own a home, to own a bigger home, and to own a better home. That’s what we’re here for. To help all those people fulfill their dreams.

She swept her hand across the scene. The successful agent makes his or her fortune out there, not in any office. So go make it happen. The sales are waiting for you. Tell all those people that Jake Arril is on this earth to help them fulfill their God-given right to pursue the American dream.

I knew she was good, but I didn’t know she was that good. Marilyn?

Yes?

How did you end up owning the company?

She turned to me; her smile slowly reappeared. By taking no prisoners, kicking ass, and letting no one stand in my way.

I get it. I headed for the door. The money’s out there, not in here. So just wait and see; I’m going to be the best damn agent you’ve ever known, Marilyn. I’ll work morning to night. No job is too big or small.

Jake, she called, will you do something for me now?

Name it.

Be a dear, run over to Dunkin’ Donuts, and get the girls and me the usual.

4

I practically ran the hundred yards to the donut shop. Fresh-brewed coffee and sugar had never smelled so good. The money was waiting outside the walls of the office, not inside.

I saw it now.

When I arrived, Dunkin’ Donuts was almost empty. I noted a pair of women who appeared to be in their fifties chatting away at a small table. And I fired off a memorized list of beverages and snacks for the firm. I was certain at least one of them needed a bigger, better house. And since it would be a few minutes for the order, I thought I’d put Marilyn’s wisdom into action.

Good morning, ladies. Beautiful day, don’t you think?

With a half-glance in my direction, one replied, Mhm. I’ll have a regular coffee, with a blueberry muffin.

The other followed her friend’s assumption, Make mine a bran.

I returned to the counter to pick up my order. Table over there wants two regulars, a blue, and a bran, I said before leaving.

Once in the parking lot, I paused to let a new Ford Ranchero—half pickup, half car—pull into a parking space. Gloria Gaynor’s I Will Survive blared from its stereo. When the driver trotted off to the donut shop, I peered in the passenger side to admire the interior. I then caught my reflection in the window. It was time for an image check. I wore a pullover sweater and an outdated tie, and I had long hair reaching down my back. It was no wonder those two women thought I worked there. Time for a new suit, shirt, shoes … maybe start with a haircut. It was time to make money, but I was still holding the damn coffees.

Friday afternoons were usually quiet around the office, most of the staff off getting their hair done for a night out at some fancy restaurant or a show. I handed a coffee to Sally, Marilyn’s personal assistant, who was on the phone. She smiled and blew me a kiss.

Marilyn’s desk was surrounded by her three top guns, a trio responsible for most of the firm’s sales. I’d been told that in most sales organizations, 10 percent of the staff produces 50 percent of the business, and top producers tend to be a high-maintenance group. Massaging egos and catering to pet peeves, Marilyn was a champ at keeping these three happy—at least most of the time.

I put the coffees on the desk, nodded to the cream of the crop, and mouthed to Marilyn, Thanks. See you Monday.

I stepped outside again and sucked in the cool air. I looked around at a new world, or perhaps it was my vision that altered. Either way, I was hungry for the opportunities that awaited me.

5

Friday afternoon was a good time to drop in on Mario and Antonio Panniello, who owned the garage at the Citgo gas station. I’d bought the Alfa from Mario about a year before, and the brothers usually found time to give it a once-over at the end of the week. If it had serious problems, I didn’t want to find out about them in the middle of a New England blizzard. Like a sick kid threatened with a doctor’s visit, the Alfa started right away.

Traffic was heavy on the highway; the prospect of a nice weekend had people leaving work early, heading to the beaches of Cape Cod or the mountains up north. I took a detour on the way to Mario’s, turning right on Concord Street toward my old neighborhood in Framingham. Stopping in front of 24 Belvedere Road, I felt a bit sentimental. It had been years since I’d seen the old place, and old it was: faded white with black trim, pigeons’ nests crammed under the eaves, bird crap staining the corners of the roof. I could still picture Coach on a ladder, pushing the nests out with a broom, muttering, filthy rats.

One morning, as I supported the bottom of the old two-piece ladder, the wood snapped and the ladder broke. Twenty-five feet in the air, Coach held on for dear life. I ran onto the neighbor’s lawn as the ladder pulled away from the house and froze in an upright position. Coach sliding halfway down jumped, narrowly missing the cracked asphalt driveway. He landed on the grass, where he executed a perfect somersault. Jumping to his feet, he pointed his finger at me and said, "Ya gotta know how to fall, Jake." The pigeons were hysterical.

As I drove back to Concord Street, the old neighborhood looked beaten up, yet so many great childhood memories were born there: black-and-white TV, Red Sox games on the radio, hot summer nights on the porch with a Wallace’s ice-cream cone. Things were a lot simpler then.

Feeling nostalgic, I pulled onto Thelma road, recalling fond memories of my best friends George, Karl, Pat, and Mike: the gang. This neighborhood hadn’t fared any better. Where their houses once stood were now empty lots. I headed for downtown Natick, the Alfa on its best behavior. I drove passed Dug Pond, where I’d spent many hot summer days swinging from ropes tied to massive oak trees and dropping into the cool water. Trout fishing opened here in April. With frost on the ground and mist rising from the water, the line would tug as trout nibbled the bait. Driving past People’s Cemetery, I tried to ignore the fresh flowers on new graves. I was still young enough to excuse myself from the debt to be paid by all men.

Like most Boston suburbs, Natick’s center featured a firehouse, a red-brick library, a bank, and a couple of restaurants. At the edge of town, I put on my right blinker, passed a few body shops, and pulled up to Casey’s, the world’s best diner. Originally horse-drawn around town by Joe Casey’s grandfather and then his father, the eatery had come to rest in this gravel lot. Its sliding door opened to twelve round stools and an ancient hand-rubbed wooden bar. The smells inside meant home.

The flat steel griddle, scraped clean since lunch, was polished and lined with containers of chopped onions, mushrooms, sliced tomatoes, fresh burgers and cheese, tuna salad, egg salad, mayo, and relish—a hungry man’s paradise. Behind the bar stood Joe Casey, a big man with thinning hair wearing an apron and a smile. He put a paper plate, napkin, and fork on the bar and punched my shoulder.

What’ll it be today, my boy?

One all-around with onions, please, Joe.

Anything to drink?

I shook my head. No thanks.

Grinning, he lifted the lid from a hot copper box and reached in for two steamed buns, then snagged a couple of dogs with a fork. He topped them off with catsup, mustard, and chopped onion, then plopped them on the paper plate. As I inhaled half of a dog, he snapped open a can of Coke, winked, and said, On the house, kid.

I loved everything about Casey’s. At the takeout window, people patiently waited for their orders, as Joe’s friendly demeanor made conversation easy. Most were townies—carpenters, doctors, teachers, and janitors—born and raised in Natick and proud of it. Once home to Champion Sporting Goods, the town was dubbed the Home of Champions years ago. Though the factory had long since moved away, the name stuck, and the town lived up to it, turning out some of New England’s finest athletes.

Photographs of Natick’s notables hung on the cracked leather walls. The screening process was tough, the qualifications known only to the Casey family, but I knew two things for sure: they’d all contributed to Natick athletics, and they were all dead.

I finished the Coke, retasted the onions when I burped, and waved to Joe, who was occupied at the takeout window. He gently paused his customer midorder. Tell Coach I wish him good luck this season.

I nodded and ducked out the door. I could’ve eaten a hundred of those dogs.

6

Main Street traffic was backed up, but no one seemed to mind. Drivers chatted across lanes, waving when one finally moved. Slowly passing the fire department, I spotted a former teammate washing down a truck. Hey, Slats, I hollered, good thing we’re not in the starting lineup against Walpole tomorrow!

Natick wouldn’t stand a chance! Slats called back. Slats had wanted to be a fireman since we were kids. I was glad to see him happy.

Past the congestion, I headed to Mario’s, though it felt like I was going to the dentist. When I turned into the old Citgo at the intersection of Routes 9 and 30, familiar chimes rang as the Alfa ran over the cable next to the pumps.

In an open service bay, under a car hoisted six feet in the air, the younger of the two brothers yanked on something with a wrench.

Need help, Tony? I asked. He put the wrench down and grinned. Take the rest of the day off, I joked. You know what? Go back to Italy. I’ll finish up whatever you and Mario have going. How tough can this stuff be?

When Antonio first arrived in America, just a few years earlier, I introduced him to English, including a few choice phrases. I had known his older brother a lot longer.

Where’s Mario anyhow?

Tony led me through the garage, ducking under a bright yellow Fiat that was suspended on a lift.

Fiat: Fix It All the Time. Right, Tony?

Pieces of shit. Can’t be made in Italy. He pulled two icy beers from a cooler, snapped off the caps with a bottle opener, and handed me one. Salut.

We found Mario at the back of the garage, inspecting a blue Ferrari, a 1969 246 Dino, named for Enzo Ferrari’s son. With its V6 engine and steel bodywork, it was a resurgence car for Ferrari, the first all-around street supercar the company had offered to compete with Porsche in years. It was a collector’s car; only thirty-nine hundred had ever been produced.

Next to the Ferrari sat a silver Porsche 911 Turbo, the newest design in what many considered the world’s finest sports car. Built in 1975 but not available in the United States until the following year, it boasted a top speed of 160 mph and went from 0 to 60 in 4.9 seconds. It was a rocket with a five-speed manual shift for the serious driver.

Both cars looked as if they’d just come from the showroom, posed for the cover shot on a high-end automotive magazine. In his blue jumpsuit with his name printed on the pocket, Mario looked like he belonged in the picture too.

Jake, what’s up? he asked, his expression serious.

The car is dying, man. She’s hard to start, smells like oil, and shakes like she’s gonna fall apart whenever I take a corner or hit a bump.

Mario shrugged, and we headed toward the front, but the Alfa wasn’t where I’d parked it. I was excited for a few seconds, thinking it had been stolen, but then the familiar cable chimed as Tony drove toward us from the pumps. He winked, and I knew he’d filled the tank.

We stood around staring at the Alfa until Tony pushed down on the left front end and let it go. The car made a sick metal-on-metal sound. When he pushed again, the Alfa bounced like an overgrown Slinky. He shook his head, looked at Mario, and walked away.

Frame’s broken, Mario said. Not good.

How not good is it? What’s it gonna cost?

He muttered in Italian and drove the car into the service bay, where Tony had just lowered the yellow Fiat from the lift. Once the Alfa was in the air, Mario grabbed a light with a long extension cord and hooked it to the underbelly, and both brothers inspected the damage.

Jake—Mario cranked his neck so I could see the effect of his eyebrows rising—what you been doing to this car? The frame’s split. You been four-wheeling?

No, I haven’t been four-wheeling. How bad is it? It can be fixed, right? This time Mario walked away.

Insurance, Tony said.
I didn’t get it.


This car is done. Cost more to fix than it’s worth. Insurance.


I still didn’t get it. And I didn’t like the idea of being broke without transportation.

Insurance, Tony said again. No big deal. We do it all the time.
He took my arm and led me back to the blue Ferrari and the silver Porsche.
Remember the cars out front when you bought the Alfa last year? I nodded, no closer to getting the point. Jake. He motioned to the cars before us. Still nothing.

I didn’t see a blue Ferrari or a silver Porsche.

Tony used a screwdriver to scrape paint from the underside of the Ferrari’s passenger door. Ferrari red. He pointed. Remember the black Porsche?

I got it. These are the cars that were here last year? With different paint?

Tony shook his head. Not just different paint. Better. Insurance makes them better.

I stared at him.

The Ferrari has been totaled three times this year. Mario collects from insurance, buys it back at auction, fixes it, wrecks it, collects again, buys it back again … Get it?

I definitely got it, though it was more than I wanted to hear.

Tony pressed a finger to his lips. This car’s worth thirty grand. Mario’s collected eighty so far.

Do something quick, Tony advised. Your Alfa’s not safe.

7

I parked in front of the house—no need to spill more oil on the driveway—and went in through the garage. At 7:00 p.m., the dogs from Casey’s were a distant memory. I was famished.

Blaine and Sessy were watching a new TV show, The Dukes of Hazzard, and Mom was at the sink, rinsing up the remnants of supper. I gave her a hug and a peck on the cheek, Anything left?

"Dinner’s in the oven, honey. How was your