CHAPTER 9I felt better once I got the hell out of the house. I headed straight for the old neighborhood and Gypsy’s basement digs in the Projects, these ugly-as-s**t concrete high rises around the Diamond Salt Company on the banks of the Cuyahoga River. The salt still looked like a mountain range of dirty snow. A rusty, old barge was still anchored there like forever.
Gypsy was sunk into a beanbag, smoking a Camel, a red scar ran from his nose to his lip and chin. A tray of half-eaten French fries, cold and lardy, lay on a dish on the floor. Gypsy stabbed his cigarette into a mound of darkened ketchup when I came in. His record player was on full blast. I waited for “Twist and Shout” to spin out.
“Sorry about your jaw, man. I heard about the hospital bill.”
Gypsy looked at me as if I s
