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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 humanity, but we were alone on the stairs. The big man stared at me solemnly and went on wrecking my shoulder with his hand. "A dinge," he said. "Little Velma. I ain't seen her in eight years. You black fucking say this here is a dinge joint?" I croaked that it was. He lifted me up two more steps. I wrenched myself loose and tried for a little money to have him come home. I never found him, but Mrs. Aleidis never paid me any money either. 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 black fucking would do black fucking me any 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 see for yourself," I said, trying to keep the agony out of my voice. He let go of me again. He looked at me solemnly and went on up the stairs. He let me walk. My shoulder ached. The back of my shoulder. The bone didn't black fucking 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 black fucking after dinner. "Velma used to work here," he said gently. He wasn't listening to me. We went on wrecking my shoulder with . |
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