THE CONCERTINA, sleeping beside Joey, has started to wheeze. It's the middle of the night, even the streetlights have their misty blinders on, and the concertina can't seem to catch her breath. In the dark, Joey listens to her ragged sighs. He can't sleep to the concertina's labored breathing. He's worried. He can't help thinking about what happened with the glocken spiel, how he would wake to find her place beside him on the bed empty, and then, from the locked bathroom, he'd hear her heart hammering arhythmically and flat, a dissonant rise and fall of scales. Once it began, it went on like that night after night. The neighbors complained; finally, he lost his lease. And, one day at dusk, he found himself standing on a street of pawn shops and tattoo parlors, with nowhere to go, and only a pawn ticket to show for what had been his life. He'd wandered then into a tattoo