Twisted

thing she isn’t is a kid.”
    “Has a Southern sound to it.” I’m a native of North Carolina and went to school with a bevy of Sally Mays and Cheryl Annes.
    “It does, yeah. But she’s not. She’s from Ohio. Born and bred.” Manko glanced at his watch and stretched. “It’s late. Almost time to meet her.”
    “Allison?”
    He nodded and smiled the trademarked, toothy Manko smile. “I mean, you’re cute in your own way, Frank, but if I gotta choose between the two of you . . .”
    I laughed and repressed a yawn. It was late—eleven-twenty P.M. An unusual hour for me to be finishing dinner but not to be engaged in conversation over coffee. Not having an Allison of my own to hurry home to, or anyone other than a cat, I often watched the clock slip past midnight or one A.M . in the company of friends.
    Manko pushed aside the dinner dishes and poured more coffee.
    “I’ll be awake all night,” I protested mildly.
    He laughed this aside and asked if I wanted more pie.
    When I declined he raised his coffee cup. “My Allison. Let’s drink to her.”
    We touched the rims of the cups with a ringing clink.
    I said, “Hey, Mr. M, you were going to tell me all ’bout the trouble. You know, with her father.”
    He scoffed. “That son of a bitch? You know what happened.”
    “Not the whole thing.”
    “Don’tcha?” He dramatically reared his head back and gave a wail of mock horror. “Manko’s falling down on the job.” He leaned forward, the smile gone, and gripped my arm hard. “It’s not a pretty story, Frankie boy. It’s not outta Family Ties or Roseanne. Can you stomach it?”
    I leaned forward too, just as dramatically, and growled. “Try me.”
    Manko laughed and settled into his chair. As he lifted his cup the table rocked. It had done so throughout dinner but he only now seemed to notice it. He took a moment to fold and slip a piece ofnewspaper under the short leg to steady it. He was meticulous in this task. I watched his concentration, his strong hands. Manko was someone who actually enjoyed working out—lifting weights, in his case—and I was astonished at his musculature. He was about five-six, and, though it’s hard for men—for me at least—to appraise male looks, I’d call him handsome.
    The only aspect of his appearance I thought offkilter was his haircut. When his stint with the Marines was over he kept the unstylish crew cut. From this, I deduced his experience in the service was a high point in his life—he’d worked factory and mediocre sales jobs since—and the shorn hair was a reminder of a better, if not an easier, time.
    Of course, that was my pop-magazine-therapy take on the situation. Maybe he just liked short hair.
    He now finished with the table and eased his strong, compact legs out in front of him. Manko the storyteller was on duty. This was another clue to the nature of Manko’s spirit: Though I don’t think he’d ever been on a stage in his life he was a born actor.
    “So. You know Hillborne? The town?”
    I said I didn’t.
    “Southern part of Ohio. Piss-water river town. Champion used to have a mill there. Still a couple factories making, I don’t know, radiators and things. And a big printing plant, does work for Cleveland and Chicago. Kroeger Brothers. When I was in Seattle I learned printing. Miehle offsets. The four- and five-color jobs, you know. Big as a house. I learned ’em cold. Could print a whole saddle-stitched magazine myself, inserts included, yessir, perfect registerand not one goddamn staple in the centerfold’s boobs . . . Yessir, Manko’s a hell of a printer. So there I was, thumbing ’cross country. I ended up in Hillborne and got a job at Kroeger’s. I had to start as a feeder, which was crap, but it paid thirteen an hour and I figured I could work my way up.
    “One day I had an accident. Frankie boy, you ever seen coated stock whipping through a press? Zip, zip, zip. Like a razor. Sliced my arm. Here.” He pointed out the scar, a wicked-looking one. “Bad enough they took me to the hospital. Gave me a tetanus shot and stitched me up. No big deal. No whining from Manko. Then the doctor left and a nurse’s aide came in to tell me how to wash it and gave me some bandages.” His voice dwindled.
    “It was Allison?”
    “Yessir.” He paused and gazed out the window at the overcast sky. “You believe in fate?”
    “In a way I do.”
    “Does that mean yes or no?” He frowned. Manko always spoke plainly and