He looked like he had just come from the Brooklyn College campus, all tweeds, a white shirt checked in blue and red tattersall and the kind of foulard bow tie that screamed college professor. It was a cold day in November, and he wore a coat so long it practically swept the floor. His red scarf was almost as generous. When Ira let him in he hugged me to him and said, “How’s the incipient gangster?” “More incipient than gangster,” I said. “Thanks for coming.” “From what I understand coming here is the only way to see you.” He tossed a copy of the Daily Mirror on the coffee table. With relief I noted that the editors had been forced to look further afield than the life of Russell Newhouse for a front page. DOGS SET ON MARCHERS HUNDREDS ARRESTED IN ALABAMA PROTEST “Yeah,” I said. “I saw it on TV. “ “I’m going down tomorrow.” “Where?” “Birmingham,” he said. “Fucking redneck cocksuckers.” I nearly asked if these were the only cocksuckers he did not approve of, but it would have been unfair.
What do You think about The Iron Will Of Shoeshine Cats?
