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shook out an unfiltered Lucky. I reached over to give him a light.
    â€œThis is bad for us, Mulligan. Guys like me ain’t got much turf left as it is. Payday loan companies have put most of the loan sharks out of business. The Indian casinos in Connecticut have wiped out our poker rooms. State lotteries control the numbers game, which was our biggest cash cow back in my day. Colorado just legalized marijuana, for fuck sake. The way things are goin’, every vice you can think up is gonna be legal. You got a stake in this, too, Mulligan. My offer stands, but if Attila the Nun gets her way, there ain’t gonna be shit left for you to run.”
    I didn’t say anything to that.
    â€œLook, I know she’s a friend of yours. Can’t you talk some fuckin’ sense into her?”
    â€œI doubt it.”
    â€œThen appeal to her self-interest.”
    â€œMeaning what?” I asked.
    â€œTell her some friends of yours got a six-figure campaign contribution for her if she backs off. If she don’t, we’re gonna bankroll her Republican opponent, whatever gun-worshipin’, union-hatin’ dickhead that turns out to be. And that’s just my crowd. She’s declaring war on the NCAA, the major sports leagues, and the Vegas casinos, and they’ve got way deeper pockets than we got, believe you fuckin’ me. Make sure she understands that.”
    â€œI’m sure she already does.”
    Whoosh stubbed out his Lucky and stuck a fresh one in his mouth. I lit it for him and got a cigar going.
    â€œSo,” he said. “Got any personal business to conduct before you go?”
    â€œWhat are the odds on the Celtics stumbling into the playoffs?”
    â€œEven.”
    â€œPut me down for fifty on them washing out.”
    â€œYou got it,” he said. “Oh, and I almost forgot.”
    He rose, shambled to his storeroom door, rummaged around inside, and came back out with a box of illegal Cuban cigars—his gift to me every time I paid him a visit.
    â€œCould I maybe have two boxes this time?”
    â€œJesus, Mulligan. How many sticks a day are you suckin’ down now?”
    â€œIt’s not for me,” I said. “I got a palm that needs greasing.”

 
    7
    First thing Tuesday morning, Chuckie–boy strutted over to my cubicle and said, “Good of you to finally join us.”
    â€œGood for you, maybe.”
    â€œI need you to cover a ten A.M . press conference off the TV,” he said. “Some preacher is going to announce his candidacy for the Republican nomination for governor.”
    â€œGot a name?”
    He checked his notes and said, “Lucas Crenson.”
    â€œYou’ve got to be kidding.”
    â€œYou know this guy?”
    â€œAren’t many people in our little state that I don’t know, Chuck.”
    â€œ Mister Twisdale to you.”
    â€œWe gonna go another round on that?”
    â€œSo who is he?” he asked.
    â€œHe’s the founder of the Sword of God Church in Foster.”
    â€œWhere the hell is Foster?”
    â€œIt’s a little town in the rural, northwest corner of the state. Rhode Island’s only got thirty-nine cities and towns, Chuck. Maybe it’s time you learned their names.”
    â€œSword of God? What kind of church is that?”
    â€œA congregation of fundamentalist whack-jobs.”
    â€œMulligan, you eastern media-elite snobs are all alike. You think anybody who believes in God is a lunatic.”
    â€œLast time I joined Reverend Crenson and his flock for a Sunday service,” I said, “all the members of the congregation, even the kids, brought firearms to church for the annual blessing of the guns. And Crenson offered a prayer for the death of President Obama.”
    â€œOkay, but keep your personal opinion out of the copy.”
    â€œNo problem. If I wanted to be a blowhard, I’d be writing editorials.”
    â€œSo does this