supervisor based upon being married to a daughter of the kingpin of the Yard Gang, a man who collected favors and handed out patronage as though he was an old-style Mafioso godfather.

Round-faced and round-bodied, Frankie may have been the model for the Pillsbury Doughboy. To top it off he had a slightly effeminate air about him and a squeaky voice that’d peak into shrill territory whenever he was excited or upset. It was always considered a fine day whenever someone could make Frankie squeal like a girl.

On a morning when Eric and I were the designated workers, a hopper full of iron ore pellets was spilled on the ground. We took to the task of cleaning up the mess with all the enthusiasm of death-row inmates on theirgoing to the foreman then so am I to tell my side of the story—though I suspect that there were some nasty cusswords sprinkled in at appropriate junctures.

I took off like a shot, running after him. I caught up, grabbed him by a shoulder and spun him around to face me. I had him lined up and would have cold cocked him with a right cross, except for the frightened look in his eyes. He was as tall as I was—we were eyeball to eyeball—but all of a sudden he looked like a little boy. I could taste the fear coming off him.

He wrenched free from my grip and continued on his way to the office. I followed, arriving when he was in mid-whine. The foreman, a swarthy