Angelo’s may not be the best pizza in town, but at a buck a slice it keeps the locals connected. I’m on my way in when I see Joey G coming out. I try to dodge him, but forget about it.
“Hey, Rile, how you doing?”
“Good, Joey, I’m doing good.”
“Christ, I haven’t seen you since they sent up Hobbsy.”
“Three years now. His mom just passed.”
Marshall Hobbs, my former partner, presently serving zip/six at Graterford. For some stupid reason I think of Marshall when I shave every morning, always along the jawline, a flicker in my brain. I don’t know what it means except those are good years going down the drain and somebody should feel bad about it.
“Me and Franny got a place on 58th,” Joey tells me. “Nice place, two bedroom, we’ve been getting our shit together.”
“Glad to hear it,” I say what you say. Never mind Joey looks like hell and . . .
. . . . . . .
[ subscribers: login for full text ]