No writer’s block here: it’s just that I’ve been reluctant to bump Uncle Ed off the front page; one way and another he’s taken more than enough bumping off. But I am now resigned to never hearing from the descendants of his cronies or his killers. I guess this means that any further reconstruction of his life and death must take the form of a novel. I’ll work on it. My daughter tells me I’m not bad at turning fiction into fact, so I hope it follows that I can do the reverse to equal effect. But meanwhile a plague of locusts, a case of frostbite, five-pin bowling with Yvonne Kebalo, and a bunch of other stuff wants airing in Winnipegland. Tonight’s winners, though, are a trio of career busboy/dishwashers: Little George Gage, Crazy Albert, and Fat Barry. I’ll just go and open their coffins now, and they’ll be here, briefly, just before sunrise.