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almost the end of March, and I stood outside the barber shop blow forced job looking up at the jutting neon sign of a second floor dine and dice emporium called Florian's. A man 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 maybe nibble a couple." "They won't serve you. I told you it's a colored joint." "I ain't seen Velma in eight years," he said in his deep sad voice. "Eight long years since I said goodby. She ain't blow forced job wrote to me in six. But she'll have a reason. She used to work here. Cute she was. Let's you and me go on up and maybe nibble a couple." blow forced job "They won't serve you. I told blow forced job you it's a colored joint." "I ain't seen Velma in eight years," he said in his deep sad voice. "Eight long years since I said goodby. She ain't wrote to me in six. But she'll have a reason. She used to work blow forced job here," he said gently. He wasn't listening to me. We went on wrecking my shoulder with his hand. "A dinge," he said. "I just thrown him out. You seen me throw him out?" He let go of my shoulder and squashed it to a pulp. Then the hand moved me through the doors and casually lifted me up a step. The large face looked at me. . |
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