Midafternoon, Rose, Paddy, and Jamie pulled out chairs at a Formica table in the Cozy Corner and settled themselves. At that slack hour there were no other customers, apart from itinerant scrap dealer, Barkin’ Bob, in a corner, laboring over a gravy chip while humming a speeded-up version of “Amazing Grace.” “’Cos, you know,” Rose continued, “from the time my Paddy was in with you last week, I thought maybe a body would of run across them, like.” Biddy Mulhern, for thirty-five years the proprietor of the greasy spoon that was the Cozy Corner, leaned over the counter, cradling her bosom in flour-coated arms, and said, “Well, you know, Rose and Paddy, you’ll never believe it.” She disappeared from view, and seconds later, a set of shiny pink dentures appeared on the trio’s table. “God-savus,” said Rose, staring in disbelief. “Yer talking teeth, Paddy.” “Well, that’s the damnedest thing.”
