Sunday, December 27, 2009


He has an odd looking face. It looks almost as if it had been split in half and then put back together again, rudely, too much flesh used to paste it together across the forehead and the bridge of the nose. Olive-dark, pockmarked, beginning to go jowly with his sixty-odd years, teeth rarely showing even in a broad smile because they are flattening and hollowing down a little with age; short, swept-back, crinkled graying hair that roughs up at his collar – all in all, with his strut and his black leather coat and his take-no-prisoners demeanor, he looks like someone whom you would not want to meet in a dark alley. Certainly you would not want to feel his grip on your arm and hear his raspy gravelly voice in your ear as he caught you shoplifting. Is he armed? It took a month’s acquaintance, and a careful study while talking to him, to notice that his small, deep set eyes are blue.

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