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Statue of Liberty. He was a small matter. His wife said she was willing to spend a little money to have him come home. I never found him, but Mrs. Aleidis never paid me any money either. It was a warm day, almost the dream teen boy end of March, and I stood outside the barber shop looking up at the dusty windows with a sort of ecstatic fixity of expression, like a cornered rat. It got up slowly, retrieved a hat and stepped back onto the sidewalk. It was a big man but not more than six feet five inches tall and not wider than a beer truck. He was about ten feet away from me. His arms hung loose at his aides and a forgotten cigar smoked behind his dream teen boy enormous fingers. Slim quiet Negroes passed up and down the street and stared at him with darting side glances. He was worth looking at. He wore a shaggy borsalino hat, a rough gray sports coat with white golf balls on it for buttons, a brown shirt, a yellow tie, pleated gray flannel slacks and alligator shoes with white explosions on the toes. From his outer breast pocket cascaded a show handkerchief of the same dream teen boy brilliant yellow as his tie. There were a couple of colored feathers tucked into the band dream teen boy of his hat, but he didn't really need them. Even on Central Avenue, not the quietest dressed street in the world, he looked about as inconspicuous as a tarantula on a slice of angel food. His skin was pale and he needed a shave. He would always need a shave. He had curly black hair and heavy eyebrows that almost met over his thick nose. His dream teen boy ears were small and neat for a man of that size and his eyes bad a shine close to tears that gray eyes often seem to be broken, but the arm was numb. "It's that kind of a place," I said, rubbing my shoulder. "What did you expect?" "Don't say that, pal," the big man purred softly, like dream teen boy . |
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