A Perfect Shot

by Robin Yocum

  Duke bought a spiral notebook and began sketching out his plan for a new restaurant and bar in Mingo Junction. It would provide the best of both worlds. He would play on his local celebrity while creating a new business. When he went to the next reunion in five years, he would do so as a successful entrepreneur. His place was to be a first-class operation, not a shot-and-a-beer joint like the Oasis, but a real restaurant with a nice menu and cloth napkins. He carried that notebook with him everywhere, jotting down ideas, formulating and reformulating his plan.

  More than a year later, he was still carrying around the notebook, still jotting down ideas, and still formulating and reformulating his plan, but he hadn’t taken the first step toward opening a restaurant. It was Moonie Collier who finally goaded him into making the move.

  Moonie, Angel, and Duke went to Welch’s Bar after work on the Friday before Labor Day, 1992. Moonie was celebrating his divorce from wife number three, or possibly number four. “How can you not know how many times you’ve been married?” Angel asked.

  “There was this weekend in Manila when I was in the army,” Moonie said. “I had a three-day pass, but everything was a blur after about six hours. I met this prostitute in a bar—Angeline—and . . . well, there’s a possibility that I married her.”

  “A possibility that you married a Filipino prostitute?” Duke asked.

  Moonie shrugged. “Who knows? Either way, I don’t really count that one.”

  Duke snorted into his beer. “Of course you don’t. Meanwhile, there’s probably some flat-faced, half-white kid running around the streets of Manila with a head the size of a beach ball.”

  Moonie threw an elbow at Duke but missed.

  The most recent former Mrs. Theodore Collier had held the title just under four months. Moonie met her at the bowling alley and was engaged two weeks later, swearing that she was truly, “the one.” Angel and Duke took Moonie to breakfast at Paddy’s Diner and tried to talk him out of it. “It’s a bad move, Moon,” Duke said. “You don’t even know her.”

  Moonie leaned his head back, squeezed his eyes shut, and said, “You know, when I close my eyes and think about her, I can hear angels singing.”

  No amount of logic was going to change his mind, and they were married at the courthouse the following week—the bride in a too-tight scarlet dress that was riding up her hips, and Moonie in his work jeans and steel-toed boots. A week later, as Moonie was pulling back the covers and running a calloused hand up her thigh, his new bride announced that she could channel the Virgin Mary through a ceramic statue of the Blessed Virgin that sat on her dresser.

  “This never came up during your whirlwind courtship?” Duke asked.

  He shook his head. “Not one damn word. Then, she also informs me that Mary had been watching my every move.”

  “That certainly couldn’t be good.”

  “It wasn’t. Trust me.”

  This revelation signaled the end of marriage number three, or possibly four, leading to the celebration at Welch’s. “I’m done with marriage,” Moonie said, hunkering over a Rolling Rock longneck. “Something about me just brings out the worst in women.”

  “Maybe it’s your habitual gambling and beer breath,” Duke offered.

  “But those are my only vices.”

  Duke picked up a half-empty pack of Lucky Strikes off the bar and held it at eye level.

  Moonie rolled his eyes. “It’s a lot to give up for a woman. I’d just as soon stay single.”

  “Probably a wise decision,” Angel said.

  A half-dozen beers later, Angel walked over to the jukebox and played G-6. Foster off the glass, good, 67-55, Dayton St. Andrew. A cheer went up from a cluster of millwrights at the end of the bar, and they toasted Duke with their beers. He returned the salute. “Sometimes I wish I’d never made that last shot,” Duke said.

  Angel frowned. “That’s got to be the beer talking.”

  “I’m serious. What have I done since then? Not a damn thing besides work in that godforsaken steel mill and hack up fly ash every night.”

  “Duke, you’re a legend around here. You’re the guy all the rest of us want to be.”

  “Exactly, for something I did when I was shaving once every other week. I want to accomplish more than that.”

  “You’ve been talking since the reunion about opening up your own restaurant. What’s holding that up?”

  Duke shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  They sipped their beers for several minutes, each staring at their reflections in the mirror behind the bar, when Moonie said, “I know.”

  “You know what?” Duke asked.

  “I know why you haven’t opened up the restaurant.”

  Duke folded his arms over his chest and turned toward Moonie. “Oh, really? Well, by all means, please share,” Duke said.

  “You’re afraid of missing the shot, Bo-Peep.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You know what I’m talking about. You’re worried that you’ll jigger and trigger, then clank one off the rim.”

  “Are you saying I’m afraid to fail?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying. You don’t want to tarnish the legend.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “You aren’t afraid?”

  “No, of course not.”

  Moonie leaned back and examined Duke’s backside. “I don’t see an anchor tied to your ass. What’s holding you back? Just like Angel said, you’ve been talking about it for over a year.” He made a yapping motion with the thumb and fingers of his right hand. “You’re all talk, talk, talk, but no action.”

  The rebuke stung. It was a surprise slap in the face from his old friend. “Kiss my ass, Moonie.”

  “The building where Belle’s Diner used to be is available. I’ll bet the kitchen equipment is still there. If you were serious, you could open it there.”

  “I could.”

  “Why don’t you?”

  “Maybe I will.”

  “Uh-huh. I’ll believe it when I see it.”

  “You’ll see it.”

  “When?”

  “Soon.”

  “How soon?”

  “Soon enough.”

  “Talk, talk, talk.”

  The heat raced up Duke’s neck and burned his ears. He wanted to punch his old friend in the nose, even though he knew Moonie was absolutely right.

  Angel said, “I’ll help you, Duke. I’ll do the books and work out the finances. Do you have any money saved?”

  “I’ve been hiding some cash from Nina for a divorce. I could use that.”

  “How much?”

  “Thirty-five thousand dollars.”

  Angel’s eyes widened. “Thirty-five thousand? Can you get at it?”

  “Yeah. It’s in the trunk of the Buick.”

  Angel pinched his temples. “What’s the Buick paying in interest these days?”

  “I couldn’t put it in the bank where Nina could find it.”

  “Understood. We’ll incorporate. We’ll take the cash and put it in an account for a holding company—a corporation where she can’t get access to it.”

  Duke felt instantly energized. “Maybe it would work.”

  “Sure, it would work. We’ll need a name. You could call it Duke’s Castle?”

  “Clever, but a little pretentious,” Duke said.

  “Duke Ducheski’s Bar & Grill,” Moonie offered.

  “Too long,” Duke said.

  “The Miracle Minute Sports Bar,” Angel said.

  “Smacks of desperation,” Duke said.

  “Duke’s Place,” Moonie offered.

  Duke thought about that for a moment, then nodded. “I like it.”

  “Me, too,” Angel said.

  “Make it happen,” Moonie said.

  Ducheski breaking for the basket. Five seconds. Across the lane, three seconds, the jigger, behind his back, the trigger, from fifteen feet, the horn, the rim, it’s up and, in!

  Welch’s exploded i
n cheers.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  As Duke walked up Commercial Street that foggy Tuesday morning in September 1993, he was one month shy of his forty-first birthday and two months from the opening of Duke’s Place. He was determined not to fail. It was to be his ticket out of the steel mill. Everyone in Mingo Junction would forever associate him with the Miracle Minute, and that was fine, but he had to prove to himself that he was not a one-trick pony.

  Duke’s Place was to occupy the bottom floor of the vacant Weiskercher Building, the former home of Belle’s Diner. His long-term plan was to refinish the apartments on the top two floors, but just getting the restaurant open was a mammoth task, and he could only tackle one project at a time. The Weiskercher Building was the ideal setting for his restaurant. It was situated just south of the intersection of Commercial Street and McLister Avenue, and kitty-corner from the catwalk that carried steelworkers from the street, over the railroad tracks, to the north entrance of Wheeling-Pittsburgh Steel. The clientele was readily available. Steelworkers drink a lot of beer, and Duke’s Place would be ready for them when they spilled off the catwalk after their shifts. Duke vowed to watch over his business and protect it like a young child. He would not let it fail.

  The windows had been soaped white on the inside, keeping the gawkers at bay. He slipped a key into the heavy brass lock and entered. This ritual was repeated nearly every morning, since he liked checking on the progress of the contractors, plumbers, painters, and electricians. The plaster walls had been stripped away and replaced with sheet rock, which was patched, taped, buffed smooth, and covered with the first coat of primer. In the corner were cardboard boxes containing oak strips for the floor. They would stay boxed until the walls and the turn-of-the-century ceiling tiles were painted, and the scaffolding broken down. Against the back wall, a spot had been plumbed in for the bar. It would stretch across the entire back of the taproom, a dominating mahogany structure with ornate carvings, a brass foot rail, and four beveled, inlaid mirrors. It would eventually be the centerpiece of Duke’s Place, but on that morning it was disassembled and in several pieces.

  As he did on most mornings, Duke resisted the overwhelming urge to call off work and begin stripping the old varnish from the bar. He checked his watch—ten before eight. It was time to punch in. He gave the interior of Duke’s Place a final glance. The possibilities this presented for his future sent chills shooting up his forearms, and he rubbed his palms together like a five-year-old looking at a cake full of candles. He locked up, crossed back over Commercial Street, and jogged to the steps of the catwalk. The first hint of sunlight was filtering through the fog and smoke. He took the steps two at a time to the grated walkway, under which trains rumbled in and out of the mill. The incoming trains pulled gondolas carrying the lifeblood of the mill: coal and iron ore. The outbound freights were flats and boxcars loaded with the finished products—I-beams and coiled bands of steel. The exhaust of the diesels drifted up through the grate and left a gritty, oily residue on the surface. The time clock was just beyond the walkway; Duke punched in at 7:53 a.m.

  He had a few minutes to spare, and knew he would find Moonie in the locker room where he took a shower every morning before reporting to his job. If Moonie Collier was anything, he was neat to a fault. He showered three times a day—before and after work, and once in the evening for good measure. When Duke had asked him about the idiocy of showering before heading into the bowels of the steel mill, Moonie shrugged and said, “I just can’t start the day without a shower.”

  Moonie was seated in front of his locker, work pants on, a roll of flab the color of a fish belly resting atop his unhitched belt, his back dripping wet, and his last few strands of hair—“the survivors,” he called them—plastered to his round, shiny pate.

  When the boys were building Fort Logan, Moonie stripped off his shirt one steamy afternoon and revealed a thick matte of hair blanketing his entire stomach. Prepubescent Angel and Duke were mesmerized. “Where’d that come from?” Duke asked, pointing at the fur.

  Moonie rubbed the rounded patch and smiled. “Beats the hell outta me,” he said. “I woke up one day and I had hair growing everywhere. Look at this.” He unsnapped his jeans, hooked a thumb in the elastic of his briefs, and pulled it down below his privates, revealing a continuation of the thicket and a member that would have been the envy of most every man in Mingo Junction.

  “Oh, my God,” Angel said. “That means you’re a man.”

  Moonie squinted and smirked. “That’s right. It means I can pop a girl’s cherry if I want.” He flicked his thumb and the elastic snapped back into place.

  Duke was eleven and had only recently come to terms with the fact that men and women took their clothes off—together—and mutually participated in this act. He found it repugnant, especially when it dawned on him that his parents must have been among the participants. Duke and Angel went back to whacking at a locust trunk while Moonie rattled off the names of a dozen or so girls whose cherries he considered ripe for popping.

  Moonie was quite proud of his newly discovered manhood. Unfortunately for him, the same hormonal gallop that produced the chest hair when he was eleven years old would also cause the follicles on the top of his head to start leaping overboard in his early twenties.

  He had powdered his feet and was pulling on his socks when he spotted Duke in the doorway. “Hey, Bo-Peep,” Moonie said, working the thick, wool sock up to half-calf. “How goes it, my man?”

  “Not bad, Moon.” Duke set his lunch pail, Ohio Valley Morning Journal, and hard hat on the bench. “How about you?”

  “Just another day in paradise. We’re doing some rewiring down at the blast furnace—heat, fire, smoke, and molten steel. Does life get any better than that?”

  “I don’t see how it possibly could.” Duke straddled the bench and sat down. “So, you had a good night?”

  “Yeah, it was a good night.”

  “Really? Good night, huh?”

  Moonie’s left brow arched. “Yeah. Why?”

  “Well, I was wondering . . . if losing eight hundred dollars on a single football game and owing Antonelli two thousand dollars constitutes a good night, what’s a really bad one look like?”

  Moonie’s jaw went slack and he emitted a small groan. It was, no doubt, similar to the one emitted when he realized that Denver could not cover the spread. “Christ almighty, how’d you find out about that already?”

  “How do you think? Carmine jumped my ass first thing this morning. He’s pissed—says you’re always there early to collect when you win, which apparently isn’t often, but he can never find you when it’s time to settle up.”

  Moonie laughed. “Part of the old Collier charm.”

  “It won’t be so charming if Tony DeMarco breaks your fingers, or worse.”

  “That little prick isn’t going to break anything of mine. I’ll kick his sorry, Dago ass. Carmine isn’t going to sic him on me. I’m good for the money. He knows that. Besides, I’ve got a sleeper coming in Saturday night in the seventh race at Mountaineer Park. You want in?”

  “No, Moonie, I don’t want in. The last time I bet on one of your sleepers, he lost by twenty-seven lengths, and I’m not inclined to take gambling tips from a guy who is two grand in the hole.”

  “I couldn’t believe it. The Broncos were supposed to mop up the floor with the Chiefs. Not only did they not cover the spread, they lost the game outright. The Chiefs are so bad they couldn’t even score a touchdown. All their points were on field goals, and Denver still couldn’t beat them. The Broncos better get a quarterback; that Elway is worthless. If they think that guy is ever going to win a Super Bowl, they’re dreaming. And I’ll bet on that, too.”

  “Maybe you should give up betting on football. Try hockey, or something.”

  Moonie toweled off his thinning locks. “I don’t know nothin’ about hockey.”

  “Yeah? Apparently you don’t know anything about football, either.” Moonie laughed. “I’m s
erious, Moonie. You’ve got to get this taken care of.”

  He hung his towel on a hook in the locker. “You worry too much, Duke. I’ve been two thousand in hock before, and I’ve always gotten out of Dutch without gettin’ any bones broke.” He held his hands up in front of a sly grin and wiggled his fingers. “See, they all still work.”

  “All right, man. It’s your hide.” Duke got up, slapped his friend across the shoulder with his Morning Journal, and headed to his job at the rolling mill. “I’m going to finish stripping the old stain off the bar tonight. You in?”

  Moonie looked at Duke as though he had asked how to divide decimals. “It’s Tuesday night, Bo-Peep!”

  “Yeah. And . . .”

  “I’ve bowled every Tuesday night for fifteen years. You know that.”

  “You owe Carmine two thousand dollars, and your answer is to go bowling?”

  He shook his head. “I swear to Christ, you’re like an old woman, you know that? I’ll take care of it. Get your granny panties out of a wad and quit worrying.”

  When Moonie Collier was your best friend, that was easier said than done.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Moonie, Angel, and Duke camped out at Fort Logan at every opportunity that summer of 1964, sleeping under the smoke and in the comforting cast of the grinding sounds and lights of the Ohio Valley. They would build a little fire and sit on the parapet they had constructed to guard their left flank, roast hot dogs, drink Nehis, and eat Snyder of Berlin potato chips. Below them, barges plowed the Ohio, their floodlights skimming the dark waters from bank to bank; freights rumbled along the shore; and they could stare into the fiery maw of Wheeling-Pittsburgh Steel, a cauldron of fire and smoke and molten steel that belched like the bowels of a volcano. When oxygen was pumped into the conversion ladle, sparks erupted, like thousands of white-hot fireflies dancing above the melt, and orange streams arced into the night. It looked as though they were staring into the fiery gates of hell, and Duke made the mistake of saying so one night.