A Futureshop and an AMC theatre now occupied most of the building, their gaudy red lettering replacing the sturdy brown brick of the original façade. He recalled the only other time he’d been inside. His father, the timid immigrant tailor from Poland, had never watched a hockey game in his life but had believed his twelve-year-old son should share the quintessentially Canadian father-son dream of watching the Montreal Canadiens during their legendary Stanley Cup run. “Meshugas,” he had announced after three hours of plugging his ears and trying to watch the tiny black disc ping-pong around the rink. Craziness. Green had never been to a game since, although Tony was beginning to wheedle, and he knew he’d have to give in. History had a way of racing ahead, leaving nothing but regret in its wake. He pushed aside the twinge of nostalgia as he reached for the door of Guido and Angelino’s. Once a news hound, always a news hound, he thought as he walked into the bar and caught sight of the rumpled figure perched on a barstool at the very end of the bar.
