Then he remembered his trip to crazy old bitch-lady Rhea’s house. Her eyes particularly. Most had gone over, but some of the wild ones still throve, making Jake think of the rose in the vacant lot at Forty-sixth and Second with a longing so deep it was an ache. Behind them, Citgo’s few remaining pumpers squalled tiredly.
Like huge silver cans, they were. Capi made no attempt to buck him off, but Sheemie winced as his wounded part settled atop the ridge of the mule’s spine. Yet he did not think he really believed that. Jake turns for him, and is not surprised to see a green-faced woman in a pointed black hat swimming inside the ball.
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