Saturday morning, I called Mike, telling him I was going to see my godson and that I’d stop by. After breakfast, two cups of coffee with the Sun-Times, I took a shower, got dressed, then drove over to Joyce’s. Walking down the gangway, I stopped at the front door and rang the doorbell. The guy who opened the door stood about 5 feet, 10 inches tall, about 180 pounds, with black wavy hair, a pencil-thin mustache, and a somewhat swarthy complexion. I thought that he could have been Italian.
Sun-Times“Can I help you?” he asked, eyeing me up and down.
“Is Joyce home?”
“Who wants to know?”
“Little Mike’s godfather.”
“Who was at the door, Ray?” Joyce asked, coming down the stairs.
“Says he’s Mike’s godfather.”
“Well, I heard you were back,” she smiled.
“Hello, Joyce. I just stopped by to
