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palms. “I’ll bring some dinner up later.”
    We sip our tea in silence. I know she’s hoping I’ll tell her more about my busted nose, but I’ve got to keep handing her the same line I’ve been giving Doolie: a fight broke out at the bar and some guy, an ex-boxer with a cauliflower ear, came at me. He broke my nose but I managed to wrestle him out the door. I’m not sure Doolie believes me but I’m sticking to the story. I even covered my tracks by swearing Homer to secrecy. I can’t tell the gang at the Ink Well that Reeger is targeting me because he thinks I’m hiding a convicted cop killer. That would put everybody in constant fear of Reeger. And Garvey. And me.
    â€œYou still worried?” I ask her.
    â€œOf course I am. Look at you, Jersey. You look awful.”
    I’m glad the name Snowball has vanished along with Garvey, but hearing Angela talk about my ugly mug hurts in a place far deeper than the bridge of my nose.
    â€œWhat if that man comes back looking for you?” she asks me. “What will you do then?”
    I can’t tell her the truth. And I can’t tell her that I know how to handle myself, not while I’m holding an ice bag against my busted nose.
    â€œHe’ll never find me,” I say. “Because I’ll be here, drinking iced tea with you.”
    A smile crosses her face but it doesn’t stick.
    I try a second time.
    â€œI promise I’ll call Doolie if the guy shows up again,” I tell her, hoping my tone is soothing enough to stop her from digging for more. “Really, I’ll be fine.”
    She goes into the kitchen to refill the ice bag, so I don’t have a chance to ask her if she’s still considering going back to school. We used to talk for hours about my year at City College, why I quit, and why saving the Hy-Hat was more important to me than earning a degree. She treated me like some kind of professor because I’d walked into a college classroom. I didn’t deserve it, but I’d sure like to see that look on her face again.
    I get up and peel back the shade on the window that faces Vine Street. The bench in front of Ronnie’s Luncheonette hasn’t been empty since Reeger rearranged my nose. This morning, a guy with a mustache sat there, eating breakfast. Now an old dame is in his place—she’s got a Bible in her lap but she’s not reading it. I wasn’t born yesterday. It’s ninety degrees out there and Ronnie didn’t get this kind of business in the heart of spring.
    Angela comes back with a fresh bag of ice and I take it.
    â€œYou might be right,” I say, holding the sack against my face as I return to the couch. “Maybe we should get a second man at the Ink Well, just until I’m back on my feet.”
    I can see the relief wash over her. “You’re not as dumb as you look,” she says, smiling.
    If that impressed her, she’d be really dazzled to know that I’ve already got the man for the job. He’s eager, trustworthy, and strong—and he can’t stand bulls. I just have to be sure he won’t go crazy and press a utility knife up against anybody’s throat. Again.

    It’s Friday night at the Ink Well. The joint is dimly lit and fully stocked; the radio is playing softly behind me. Things are returning to normal: we’ve already served the wave of factory workers who come here to revive their souls after spending eight hours on an assembly line.
    So far, the only interruption to the room’s chatter was a radio update on Garvey. The state police think he’s moving west—a woman says she saw him on a bread line in Harrisburg. Everybody at the bar stopped to listen before doubling down on whiskey and calling Garvey a scumsucking murderer. The only one in his corner was Homer; he kept punching his thigh and asking me how Garvey might dodge the cops and make it out of the country. I didn’t