Tommy greets me with an effusive smile and a "How the hell are ya Pick?"

We shake hands and I ask, "Got something to show me Tommy?"

"Sure, sure, you're going to love this. It's in the back of my van. Come, take a look."

Of course, I was born yesterday. I walk over to the back of the van, lean into the rear to get a better view. Guess what? The lights go out. My lights.

Son of a bitch wacked me upside of my head.

By this point in the story, Kelly and I had moved into the living room downstairs. We started on our second cups of coffee.

Over the next few minutes I tell Kelly the rest of the tale, about how the next thing that happens is waking up in a dumpster in Manhattan. I fill her in on what I managed to buy that day, the call to TJ and Doo-Wop's demise.

The last I tell her is about my visit to South Philly that evening and Tommy G's death.

She looks at me with those bright green eyes and is incredulous when she says, "You let them kill that poor bastard on the say so of a ghost!"

"Not just any ghost" I say, "Uncle Moe."

Now, I have to tell you, PKAL has always had trouble with this ghost thing.

Moses Aronson, my Uncle Moe, was my father's father's brother. So actually, he's my Great Uncle. Got that? Here's the interesting bit, he has been dead for nearly thirty years.

Moe has taken an active part in my upbringing since I was six. My mother died young and I never knew my father. The convincing part of this whole ghost argument is that Moe knows things that I can't possibly know. Take that for what it’s worth.

At that very moment, just as I finished bringing Kelly up to date, the front door swings open. Two men walk in. Their right arms are extended and holding guns. Both are pointed directly at my chest.