‘Beg pardon, sir?’ asked the sergeant, evidently mystified. She thought of the suitcase, the seventy-seven dollars for a Greyhound ticket that had expired. Women and men had always flocked to him, covetous of his knowledge, his riches, and if all else failed, his carnal expertise. Peg after peg had gone down his blistered throat, but never had a smile touched his lips, never had his gaze roved inquisitively.
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