A huge Italian blocks the door, every bit as hairy as the dude on the neon sign. He wears pinstripe pants that look like part of an expensive, hand-tailored suit, suspender straps dangling like gangster chains from his waist, and a white tank top that glows in the light outside the bar. With his arms crossed, that tank top makes him look invincible, his biceps bulging with veined muscles as if he’s just waiting for someone to start something. It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask him if he’s Ugly, but I’m not that stupid. As it is, I almost manage to get by him without incident until I ask, “Didn’t this used to be Whalin’s?”
He grunts and doesn’t answer. I see dark ink trailing like a vine up the back of his neck and wonder how far down that tattoo goes. Across his back, I’m sure, but over
