Fred Paige, with time on his hands, had become a regular at Chuck’s. The intentionally scruffy coffee shop near the pier where the locals hung out was, in fact, named Fisherman Joe’s. The locals, however, had been calling it Chuck’s as long as John could remember. And no matter who owned the shop or who poured out the thick black brew, the regulars called him Chuck.
John Katsaros sat over a cooling mug of oily black coffee. Fred installed himself on the stool next to him. Over the till, next to the fly-spotted NO TALKING POLITICS sign, hung a photograph of John’s grandfather sitting on a rock where the landmark Casino would be built in 1929. Fred pointed to it and said to John, “Chuck here tells me that guy in the photo’s your granddad that you were telling me about.”
“Yep.” John stirred
