“On one side, a patron labored over burger and fries. The second, larger area attracted the neighborhood’s serious drinkers. Blue-gray smoke spiraled from overfilled ashtrays. Conversation was sparse and muffled, and Dennis Day crooned from the jukebox. Riddle’s had ignored the passage of thirty-five years. It is trite to say that Boston never changes, that the city’s deep cultural rifts just grow deeper and molder with the passage of time. Beantown’s melting pot never did have much of a flame, ...and no one stirred the ethnic stew. Racial, religious, and ethnic enclaves defined geography and politics. This turf happened to be owned by white, Irish-American, Roman Catholic, clean-shaven males. Two men sat at the bar nursing whiskey shots and draft chasers. Three more occupied a table and watched a basketball game on a silent TV. J-Cubed—Dermott Fremont—sat with a newspaper, a mug of Guinness, and a young girl on his lap. The kid’s age was indeterminate—twelve? fifteen?—but she had no business in Riddle’s.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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