Word: salooner
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...writers go, F.X. Toole was not one of your precocious, dewy-eyed Iowa Writers' Workshop debutants. He attended the M.F.A. program of hard knocks. If his author's bio is to be believed, he was a taxi driver, saloon keeper, bullfighter (really?) and, most notably and relevantly, a boxing trainer and cut man. Toole (a pseudonym) was also the author of the story collection Rope Burns, best known for the short story Million Dollar Baby, which became a movie of the same name. Rope Burns was Toole's literary debut...
...Five years later, Roosevelt was involved in another racially charged incident, and in this one his behavior offered less to admire. On Aug. 13, 1906, a dozen or so gunmen went on a 10-minute shooting spree in the small town of Brownsville, Texas. They left a saloon bartender dead and a police officer seriously injured. Townspeople reported that the attackers were soldiers from the all-black 25th Infantry Regiment, who had been stationed just a few weeks earlier at nearby Fort Brown. Tensions between the soldiers and the white citizenry had been brewing since the day the troops arrived...
...laws. He scored a few successes initially, weeding out corrupt veterans. To see whether patrolmen were walking their beats, he began making the same rounds late at night and incognito--though at times in the company of a newspaper reporter. Once, Roosevelt found three bluecoats loitering outside a saloon at 2:30 a.m. "What are you men doing here?" he asked abruptly. "What the %$*&# is that your business?" snapped one of them, in vintage New Yorkese. Roosevelt, spectacles glinting, then introduced himself and lectured them on performing their duty. "These midnight rambles are great fun," he later confided...
...That Got Away." And at the end, one of Mercer's most important interpreters came on stage: Margaret Whiting, still a pistol at 81. The night I attended, she went dry on some lyrics to "One for My Baby," then won the audience back by muttering, in her best saloon-chanteuse alto, "Of all the songs to blow, it had to be this...
Specialist Four Edward F. Pimental, 20, left his barracks at Camp Pieri in Wiesbaden on the evening of Aug. 7 for a few hours of fun at the Western Saloon, a favorite haunt of U.S. soldiers at the base. He had a drink with a dark-haired woman dressed in blue jeans, who appeared to be with a tall mustachioed man she called Jeff. Pimental left with the couple. Next morning he was found dead, shot in the back of the neck with a large-caliber gun. Minutes after his body was found, a terrorist car bomb exploded inside...