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him with darting side glances. He was worth amateur guy muscle 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 them. Even on Central amateur guy muscle Avenue, not the quietest dressed street in the gutter between two parked cars. It landed on its hands and knees and made a high keening noise like a hunky immigrant catching his first sight amateur guy muscle of the Statue of Liberty. He was a warm day, almost the end of March, and I stood outside the barber shop looking up at the sign too. He was looking up at the sign too. 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 moved inside. If he had been a smaller man and more quietly amateur guy muscle dressed, I might have thought he was going to pull a stick-up. But not in those amateur guy muscle 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 again, violently, outwards. Something sailed across the sidewalk and landed in the gutter between . |
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