That was the evening we discovered Tony Gorzola was no slouch on the checkerboard, which we’d spread out on the coffee table in the sitting room so we could sit by the fire and enjoy ourselves. Mr. and Mrs. Ledbetter had “retired,” leaving us the run of the place. The snowstorm dumped about eight inches of fresh snow, but the plows were running and streets were being cleared out. The Congressman took his leave, and Mack disappeared as well.
Tony put his dinosaur book to one side of the coffee table—he did not seem to want to part with it—and expertly placed the pieces where they belonged, then regarded me solemnly across the board. There was a hint of mischief in his eyes, as though he planned to whoop my Southern ass and relished the thought of it.
And whoop my ass he did.
To be fair,
