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said to me, quietly: "Smokes in here, huh? Tie that for me, pal." It was dark in there. It was quiet. From up above came vague sounds of humanity, but we were alone on the stairs. The big man stared at me with a sort of sadness in his gray eyes. "I'm feelin' good," he said. "I just thrown him out. You seen me throw him out?" He let go of my neck was shemale cocktail 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 brilliant yellow as his tie. There were a couple of colored feathers tucked into the band 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 shemale cocktail pale and he needed a shave. He had curly black hair and heavy eyebrows that almost met over his thick nose. His 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 have. He stood like a statue, and after a long time he smiled. He moved slowly across the sidewalk to the double swinging doors which shut off the stairs to the second floor. He pushed them open, cast a cool expressionless glance up and down the shemale cocktail street, and moved inside. If he had been a smaller man and more quietly dressed, I might have thought he was going to pull a stick-up. But not shemale cocktail in those clothes, and not with that hat, and that frame. The doors swung back outwards and almost settled to a stop. Before they had entirely stopped moving they opened . |
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