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was a big man would probably take it away from me and eat it. "Go on up and maybe nibble a couple." "They won't serve you. I told you it's a colored joint." "I ain't seen Velma in eight years," he said in his deep sad voice. "Eight long years since I said goodby. She ain't wrote to me in six. But she'll have a reason. She used to work here," he said gently. He wasn't listening to gay fetish me. We went on wrecking my shoulder with his hand. "A dinge," he said. "I just thrown him out. You seen me throw him out?" He let go of my shoulder and squashed it to a pulp. Then the hand moved me through the doors and casually lifted me up a step. The large face looked at me. A deep soft voice said to me, quietly: "Smokes in here, huh? Tie that for me, pal." It was dark in there. It was quiet. From up above gay fetish came vague sounds of humanity, but we were alone on the stairs. The big man stared at me 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 small matter. His wife said she was willing to spend a little elbow room. I wasn't wearing a gun. Looking for Dimitrios Aleidis hadn't seemed to require it. I doubted if it would do me any gay fetish good. The 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 enormous fingers. Slim quiet Negroes passed up and down the street and stared at it vaguely. Then it settled its hat jauntily, sidled over to the wall and walked silently splay-footed off along the block. Silence. Traffic resumed. . |
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