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Candlepins for Cash and eating bowls of ice cream. Something went wrong once and they rushed Aggie to the hospital with tubes up her nose and eyes gone back in her head. For three weeks after that, Kevin’s grandmother ate ice cream alone, just her and the sound of pins falling on the black-and-white in a small kitchen at the back of the office. Kevin watched once from the dark hallway but left without saying a word.
    “Tell Mary I got peach today,” Aggie said.
    “Peach?”
    “Ice cream. She knows cuz she bought it. Make sure you tell her.”
    “You got it.”
    “Gotta go. Bye, Kevin.”
    The mouse hole snapped shut and Kevin was left on his hands and knees. He got up from the floor and took Aggie’s cup and plate into the kitchen. His great-uncle, Shuks, sat at the table. He had the Herald laid out in front of him and a large black coffee beside it.
    “Hey, Shuks.”
    “Hey, kid. What did Aggie want?”
    “Nothing. She just gave me her stuff.” Kevin dumped cup and plate in the sink. “Bobby up?”
    “Haven’t seen him.”
    “He’s gonna let me drive one of the cabs.”
    “Good for you.”
    Kevin could have said he was gonna drink a case and a half of beer and piss off down the Mass Pike blindfolded and Shuks would have been all in. Dukie was the youngest and most naturally Irish of the five brothers, with curly hair of iron gray, long, sharp features, and a nose you wouldn’t forget. He was also probably the best-looking, which wasn’t saying a whole lot unless you said it to him. Shuks, on the other hand, wasn’t pretty. His face was lumpy like soft potatoes. His hands were huge, with doorknobs for knuckles and thick, coarse fingers stained with nicotine. Still, he was Kevin’s favorite. Shuks had been a wild manback in the day—boozing and brawling his way through most of the Irish joints in Boston until he finally decided to let his fists earn him a living. Kevin had seen one of the old boxing posters, so he knew it wasn’t the usual family bullshit. Shuks at twenty-three, crouched in front of the camera, tight blue eyes stitched above a set of black gloves. Underneath, the script read NEW ENGLAND JUNIOR WELTERWEIGHT CHAMP , 1937. Most of Shuks’s fights were at places like the Taunton Civic Center or the Allston VFW. Twice Shuks fought in Filene’s window. He told Kevin those were the best-paying bouts. They’d set up a ring in the big window on Washington Street and people would stand on the corner and watch. Shuks wasn’t the type to brag, but Kevin liked to hear about the fights. And he thought Shuks liked to talk about them. Why the hell not? Kevin slapped his glove on the table and pulled out a chair.
    “Sox win?”
    “Three to two. Lynn hit a home run in the eighth. Goin’ all the way this year, kid.”
    “They always blow it.”
    “Not this year.”
    “You think?”
    “I got a feeling.” Shuks reached for a pack of Lucky Strikes on the table, shaking out a cigarette and pointing the business end at Kevin. “Don’t start. Cuts down on your wind.” He always said that before he lit up. And Kevin always nodded.
    “You got practice today?”
    “Yeah.”
    “What time?”
    “Eleven. We play Dorchester for the title next week.”
    Blue streams of smoke issued from the tunnels his great-uncle called nostrils. “I’ll be there.” Shuks lived by himself in a cheap studio across from Tar Park and never missed a game. Rarely missed a practice. He didn’t say much. Just sat on one of the benches drinking tallboy cans of Schlitz. Drank and smoked. Smoked and watched.
    “It’s down at the Commons,” Kevin said. “Bobby told me they announce your name over a speaker.”
    “You gonna be nervous?”
    “Probably.”
    “You don’t look it out there.”
    “No?”
    Shuks shook his head and pulled again on the Lucky. Kevin could hear the tobacco crackle and burn.
    “When I played baseball, I was a wreck,” Shuks said.
    “Come on.”
    “Ask your grandmother. I’d shake like a