“Where’s the sugar?” she asks, her voice soft as the hum of the small table fan on top of my radio. “There isn’t any,” I say. “I’m running low on everything. I’ll stock the kitchen tomorrow.” She looks at me like I’m kidding, but I mean it. I’m not bad with a skillet in my hands; I used to do a lot of cooking for the kids at the Hy-Hat. I’m about to ask her to come back for dinner next week, but my eyes start shimmying. I block her view by pressing the bag of ice to the bridge of my nose. I’ve spent most of the last two days in the same position: stretched out on the couch with my head on a pillow and my nose on ice. I know the risk that comes with hospital paperwork, so I asked Doolie to track down a Philadelphia doctor willing to do a house call at a juice joint. The best he could come up with was a trainer from a boxing gym in South Philly. The guy knocked on the back door of the Ink Well right after I locked up last night.
