have you been snitching, Stevorino? What is it? You think of me as the Abominable Titman, the fucken Hugh Hefner of St. Michaelâs parish? See me coming with a roll of Kodak and you get an instant woodie?â
âNo, sir,â the kid said.
Joe went outside and sat in his idling car, studying the photos, thinking of Capri, of the intensity of being alone with her, of her endless inventions and surprises, but then he thought of her deceptions, their arguments, and of her talk of leaving for L.A. It
was there, in the car with her photos on the dashboard, that he let her go, accepted, as he hadnât until that moment, that she had to want to stay or it wasnât worth it. He didnât let thinking of her distract him from his plan of action, which required watching the Walgreens exit. A plan was the distinction between a man with a purpose and some joker sitting in a car, working himself into a helpless rage. Two hours passed before the kid came out. He was unlocking his bicycle when he saw Joe Ditto.
âMister, I said I was sorry,â the kid pleaded.
âStevo, when they ask how it happened say you fell off your bike,â Joe said, and with an economically short blur of a kick, a move practiced in steel-toed factory shoes on a heavy bag, and on buckets and wooden planks, hundreds, maybe thousands of times until it was automatic, took out the kidâs knee.
Joe never did get around to making that blowup of Capri. He hasnât heard from her in months, which is unlike her, but he knows sheâll get in touch, thereâs too much left unfinished between them for her not to, and, until sheâs back, he doesnât need her muff on the wall.
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Tuesday afternoon at the Zip Inn is a blue clothespin day. Thatâs the color that Roman Ziprinski, owner and one-armed bartender, selects from the plastic clothespins clamped to the wire of Christmas lights that hangs year-round above the cash register. With the blue clothespin, Zip fastens the empty right sleeve of his white shirt that heâs folded as neatly as one folds a flag.
Itâs an afternoon when the place is empty. Just Zip and, on the TV above the bar, Jack Brickhouse, the play-by-play announcer for the Cubs. The Cubbies are losing again, this time to the Pirates. Itâs between innings, and Brickhouse says, Itâs a good time for a Hammâs, the official beer of the Chicago Cubs.
âOfficial,â Zip says to Brickhouse, âthatâs pretty impressive, Jack.â
To the tom-tom of a tribal drum, the Hammâs theme song plays: âFrom the land of sky blue waters,â and Zip hums along, âfrom the land of pines, lofty balsam comes the beer refreshing, Hammâs the beer refreshing â¦â
Hammâs is brewed in Wisconsin. Zip has a place there, way up on Lac Courte Oreilles in the Chain of Lakes region famous for muskies. Itâs a little fishermanâs cottage no one knows he has, where he goes to get away from the city. A land of sky blue waters is what Zip dreamed about during the war. Daydreamed, that is. If Zip could have controlled his night dreams, those would have been of sky blue water, too, instead of the nightmares and insomnia that began after he was wounded and continued for years. Sometimes, like last night, Zip still wakes in a sweat as sticky as blood, with the stench of burning flesh lingering in his nostrils, to the tremors of a fist hammering a chestâa medicâs desperate attempt to jump-start a dead body. No matter how often that dream recurs, Zip continues to feel shocked when in the dark he realizes the chest is his, and the fist pounding it is attached to his missing right arm.
When he joined the Marines out of high school, his grandmother gave him a rosary blessed in Rome to wear like a charm around his neck and made him promise to pray. But Zipâs true prayer was one that led him into the refuge of a deep northern forest, a place heâd
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