Joe Wilson stared out the window at the roof of the Acme Tool and Die Works. “You, Joe,” the city editor said accusingly. Joe removed his gaze to the wall above the sports editor’s desk and the framed and autographed photograph of Mike Gibbons, the St. Paul Phantom, not to be confused with Tommy Gibbons, the man who fought Jack Dempsey. “Holy Jesus!” he said. What’s more, if he didn’t take the four hearts right now, Massinov, who almost certainly held the queen of spades, would likely retaliate by sticking him, instead of George Ballantyne, with it, and that would cost thirteen points, or sixty-five cents. “Come on, Joe,” the sports editor encouraged him. “Play. It’s only money.” Joe played the ace of hearts and drew the trick toward him, full of rectitude and sorrow. Then he got out with
