Find Big Fat Fanny Fast by Joe Bruno, Cecelia Maruffi Mogilansky, Sherry Granader Read Free Book Online

that.
     
    CHAPTER 7
    Ann O'Reilly
     
    In 1960, Tony B met the love of his life, Ann O'Reilly, a lovely Irish lass who was the librarian at the local Greenwood Lake library. Tony B was used to the Italian broads in Little Italy, who were a little rough around the edges, didn't hesitate to curse and would cut your throat like a man. Ann was different. Blond and built like Ginger Rogers, she had a sweet smile and a vocabulary an English teacher would admire. Tony B met Ann when he dropped into the Greenwood Lake library to pick up the biography of Al Capone for some light summer reading.
    It was love at first sight for Tony B. He had never met a girl like Ann before. So soft and sweet, always smiling. Not a bad thing in the world to say about anyone. Not like the bawdy cuginettes, strutting about Manhattan's Little Italy and Bay Ridge in Brooklyn. The kind of broads who were either snapping gum, puffing an unfiltered Camel, or cursing and spitting out of the sides of their mouths.
    After a few more trips to the Greenwood Lake library, and after he ran out of mob books for Ann to find for him, Tony B asked her for a date. She accepted and Tony B was floating on air when he arrived at the door of her Greenwood Lake home.
    But not for long.
    Tony B didn't know it at the time, but the problem men had with dating Ann, was her loud, vulgar, Irish-bastard father, who was the Major of Greenwood Lake and loving every minute.
    Ryan O'Reilly drove a Daily News delivery truck for a living, and that being a union job, he was controlled by the friends of Tony B's. In truth, O'Reilly did not like Italians too much. He called them Guineas, Greaseballs, Dagos and Wops. And that was on the days he liked them.
    Wearing his best sharkskin suit and holding two dozen roses in his hand, Tony B knocked on the O'Reilly resident door. It was opened by a big, fat, tub of lard, whose immense figure blocked the entire entrance.
    “Yeah, what do you want?” Ryan O'Reilly said
    Tony B forced a smile. “I'm here to pick up your daughter, sir.”
    “My daughter? What is this? Some kind of sick joke?”
    That said, O'Reilly slammed the door in Tony B's face.
    Tony B could hear the Mick bastard scream from inside the house, “Oh Bejesus. What, in Paddy O'Leary's name is that greaseball doing at my front door?”
    The door soon opened and a pretty, middle-aged, blond woman appeared. She smiled at Tony B. “You must be Tony. I'm Ann's mother Betty. Please have a seat on the porch and my daughter will be out shortly.”
    Tony B sat on a wicker chair. “Thank you, ma'am.”
    “Can I get you some ice tea, or a soda?” Betty said.
    “No thanks, Ma'am.”
    Betty smiled. “I'll tell Ann you're outside waiting for her.”
    That said, she sashayed back inside the house and Tony B could not help but admire her fine rear end.
    A few minutes later, a stunning Ann O'Reilly walked out the front door.
    Thus, started their first date.
    Tony B didn't think it was a good idea to take a classy lady like Ann to one of the hot joints in Greenwood Lake. So he thought it would be a nice idea to take her to the Warwick Drive-In Movie, which was just on the other side of scenic Mt. Peter, on Route 17 A.
    Tony B was a little confused as to what the proper protocol would be on a first date with a class act like Ann. Most of the bimbos Tony dated in New York City would open their legs wide on a first date, as easy as opening a bottle of beer with a church key. But Ann was different, so Tony B decided to proceed with caution.
    They were at the Warwick Drive-In, sitting in Tony B's 1960 black Fleetwood Cadillac convertible, with the top up, watching Anatomy of a Murder starring James Stewart. The Caddy had red leather, bench seats in the front, and Tony B didn't know exactly how far he should slide over to the middle, without giving the impression he was trying to get fresh. So Tony B sat far left in the driver's seat, almost touching the driver's door, not to give the impression