CHAPTER TWO Old Style suds dripped down Torpe’s crippled hand as he poured another draft for Norm.  The grizzled war veteran limped around the bar to the front door, locking it.  Then he turned off the “Mickey’s Tavern” neon sign. “I’m not kicking you guys out,  I just don’t want any other ding-a-lings walking in,”  he said.  It was late.  I’d been here for four hours, ever since coming home from school and finding a note from my landlord reminding me that I had to be out of the apartment in three days.  The apartment in the four-flat that was being turned into a condominium – like so many others in my Bucktown neighborhood.  So here I sat in my favorite dive bar with…