Mickey Mopolowicz was in his cups. Noting his long face – rare for the Mope, who managed to smile his way through various indictments and even a few jail terms – I bought him a round and inquired.
I sat on my customary stool in the Thieves N Hoodlums lounge, not having even removed my overcoat. This has been a real Chicago winter, and not even the gallons of hot cocoa I’ve poured down my throat have made it bearable.
There I sat, on my usual stool in the Thieves N Hoodlums Lounge, worrying about the Sox, who were no longer a mortal lock to repeat as World Champs. Mickey the Mope strolled in, looking even larger than usual. I noted his girth, and he rubbed his hard round belly happily. “Just got back from Itly,” he said. “Great chow.”
It was hot, and I was TWT (Tired, Worried and Thirsty), so I went down to the Thieves N Hoodlums Lounge, where I was welcome despite being neither. I always paid my tab, and I knew when to keep my mouth shut.
