The Ringer

My wife and I stopped in at Deer Park, Tony Henry’s cozy pub for a beer. After a raucous welcome, he introduced us to the other patrons sitting at the table. “This is Jimmie Schindler and his wife, Fry. “Jimmie, rings the bells at St. Peter’s before mass. Nobody can ring it like him. He’s a real ringer.”
“Tony,” I said, “I don’t care what you call me, as long as it’s not a “dead ringer.”