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I F G O D W E R E A W I S E G U Y Finally we understand his silence, his distant ruthlessness, and kiss his ring. Protection, bought and sold for the cost of a hallelujah, and heaven brighter than any white-lit federal city. We owe the bookies nothing. We eat antacid with our pasta e fagioli and still get our thumbs broken though we pray with proper respect, arrogance mixed with dirty radiance, not, for once, to a bag of blue indifferent sky, but to a brass-knuckled, wire-tapped tough capable of making us feel important for a few crummy moments before the indictments roll in. Indictments always roll in. We take the fall. That much never changes.  Barresi pages:Layout 1 5/12/10 1:43 PM Page 65 But on the long perp-walk to eternity, where lewd cigar-smoke incense clears or rises to become one hymn knocking us to our knees, then, this divine, this wholly uncharacteristic family loyalty: an angel in a worsted suit leans in, hisses, “The boss says thanks. Says don’t worry, He’ll take care of your wife and kids.”  Barresi pages:Layout 1 5/12/10 1:43 PM Page 66 ...

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