Word: corneres
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Dates: during 1970-1979
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...cowlicky, lanky, lefty country boy, Marxist from east Kentucky. He was ugly, but endearingly ugly, with black hair that flopped over his ears and into his eyes. He always looked wet, and fixin' to die from pleurisy and lung concer from the Lucky Strike that was always in the corner of his mouth. Like a big bedraggled hairy bassett hound, with great hazel eyes and a wet nose. He wore a coat he's finagled from the Freshman Coat Fund two winters ago, or a corduroy jacket he'd bought second-hand, levis, and boots. He was a psychotic...
...smoking a very cheap cigar without realizing it was burning a hole in the vest. The kid's name was Larry and he dad gone to a Catholic high school in Queens without hating it. To Carlo, who for the last seven years had managed to slip into the corner drug store every Sunday while his parents thought he was at Mass, anyone who liked Catholic school qualified as a certifiable madman. Even worse, the kid liked baseball and drank beer like a walking keg and though St. Paul's was a cathedral somewhere. No pretensions, no class. From...
...husband's clouds, went into a spiel about the nicer attributes of modern architecture and how, after all, Carlo was still at Harvard, surrounded by brilliant people living the life of the mind. Besides, she added, pointing out the charming bastion of ruggedly individualistic capitalism occupying the opposite street corner, there's a superette nearby so Carlo won't starve when he's up late studying...
Then it happened. Out of the corner of my eye I spotted a particularly drunk old-timer, the type who spends his days going to the wakes of his "life-long friends" and his nights telling strangers what dirty so-and-sos they were for not leaving him anything in their wills. Definitely someone to avoid, but as avoiding a drunk at an Irish bar is about as easy as outswimming a tiger shark, I knew I was a goner...
...with the hand gripped sweatily around the handle turning away for dear life, or death. The hand is turning and the grinder is grinding and somewhere in between there's the owner of the hand, who is quickly turning himself into so much ground round. And over in the corner there's the suave detective, with a little moustache and a twenty-below-zero stare watching perfunctorily. Looking at the owner a weasily guy who is paying to attention to the grinder, the detective rattles in his just-the-facts-ma'am-I've-got-to-finish-my-report-before...