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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 came vague sounds of mature asian 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 shoulder. The bone didn't 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 four tigers after dinner. "Velma used to work here. Cute mature asian she was. Let's you and me go on up and see for yourself," I said, trying to keep the agony out of my voice. He let go of me again. He looked 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 mature asian sidewalk. It was a thin, narrow-shouldered brown youth in a lilac colored suit and a carnation. It had slick black hair. It kept its mouth open and whined for a moment. People stared at mature asian him with darting side mature asian 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 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 mature asian 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 . |
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