Wisconsin
Two steps inside Jackie’s joint on 43rd Street, sight of an evil face sliced off twenty years like brain surgery with a straight razor. The cop was sixteen years old again, full of hate. Hastily he turned his back on the booths (made from old car seats) and ducked toward a rickety barstool.
Bobby the Fist had spruced up some since the days, and he looked old, like he’d seen plenty, but the cop recognized him. The Fist was sleeker looking, wearing a purple shirt with sparkles all over it and a babyblue suit with lacey white embroidered lapels, his forty dollar hair dripping greasy ringlets over his ears like he was in show business. He was black and ugly as ever. Next to him in the booth was a white girl about half his age with a presumptuous look in her eyes like she owned the place. Jackie’s.