Chickenwing only had one fully formed arm. The other one’s forearm just hung sort of sideways off his thin upper arm.
After he’d just checked in to the rehab, he disappeared somewhere. I stopped in the chow hall and asked if anyone had seen him.
“New guy, short black hair, big nose, Italian-looking,” I said.
“Nope, haven’t seen him,” Ape said.
“That could be, like, ten guys in here,” Friday said.
“Kind of a withered arm,” I continued.
“Oh, yeah, him.” Suddenly everybody knew him.
“Chickenwing. He’s out back having a smoke.”
“‘Withered’?” Sammy said. “Was it once a thriving arm?”
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