My Honor Flight Read Online Free

mouth.  He jawed constantly during the
hands, commenting on other player’s dealt cards, or cussing when he lost.  And
he lost a lot.  He cussed louder and louder as he lost hands. 
    We watched
for probably ten minutes while this guy got more and more agitated.  After he'd
lost all of his money, he stood up.
     “You’re a
dirty cheating son of a bitch!” he yelled.
    Trumbull didn’t
look up, just slowly gathered the money from the pot. 
    By that time,
quite a crowd had gathered around.  There were about ten men standing around
the table.  I couldn’t tell if they were buddies with Fatty, or just curious.  Petey
ducked out for a minute and roused Kozlowski.  Petey was a big guy, stood
probably around six foot two.  I don't know, he might have weighed about two
hundred pounds.  He was easygoing enough, but if there was a scrap, you wanted
Petey with you.  But Kozlowski.  There’s one thing you have to know about Kozlowski. 
He liked to fight more than anyone I ever met.    
    The loser had
been yelling for a few minutes, and he was real red-faced, spitting as he
yelled. 
     “Just take
it easy,” said Petey, as he returned to my side. 
     “This son of
a bitch your friend?” Fatty shouted.
     “Yeah, he
is,” replied Petey.  “What’s the problem?”
     “The fucker’s
cheating!”
     “How do you
know that?” asked Petey.
     “Because no
one can win every hand!  No one!  And he just won every single hand since I sat
down!”
    A couple of
guys snickered in the crowd.  I'm sure they were thinking the same thing as me—he
must really stink at cards.  I bet there were about twenty guys standing around
the table now.  I didn’t like the way this was going, because I recognized only
one guy in that crowd except for Petey, Kozlowski, and Trumbull. 
    Petey
shrugged.  “Maybe you’re just a bad card player,” he said.
    Well, that
made the guy REALLY mad.  He kicked his chair back and sent it flying behind
him.  “You got a really big mouth, pal!”  He started around the table toward us,
and Kozlowski met up with him halfway around.  Kozlowski kept closing his hands
into fists, and then opening them again.  I could tell he was getting real
excited because he tilted his head back and forth, cracking his neck joints. 
He was smiling this big goofy grin.  The loser pulled up short, looking at Kozlowski. 
 
     “What the hell
is wrong with you, halfwit?”
    Kozlowski
lost his goofy grin.  He clenched his jaws and his fists.  I’d been on the
receiving end of a scrap with Kozlowski a few days before, and I knew what was
coming next.  I looked around the room. Several guys stepped up next to the
loser.  This was shaping up to be a lot more than a fistfight between two men. 
     “This is
going to be trouble,” I whispered to Petey. 
     “Twins are here,”
he whispered back, nodding toward the door.  That made me relax a little bit. 
     “Whaaaaat? 
Yous goombas got nothing better to do than fight each other?” asked Morelli.  “Come
ON!  We got all the fucking krauts in the world to fight.  Save it for them
bastards!”  He waved his hand, like he was waving off a bad thought.
     “Yeah,” replied
Chartelli. “You know, we got a saying back in the Bronx.  Why smash each others’
heads when you can smash someone else’s?”
    They just
kept talking as they walked.  It was clever, because it bought them time to get
up to the table in case a scrap broke out.  And, since everyone was watching
their little comedy show, people didn’t really notice another five or six guys
from our platoon walk into the hall a minute later, and join in around the
table.  If the fight dispersed, no one got hurt.  But if it turned ugly, they'd
stalled long enough that they were now in the middle of the crowd, and Buzz
Company had people all around the circle. 
     “So, what’s
the REAL problem here?” asked Chartelli.
     “This son of
a bitch cheats at cards,” said