“Odd indecipherable designs, ink-spotted blotched words, esoteric ideographs, tormented figures in a steaming sulfurous lake, a stylish nude rising newborn out of cold water. Not bad at all though more mannequin than Knidean Aphrodite. Scarpio, sharp-nosed on the former art student’s gaunt left, looking up from his cards, inspects her with his good eye. “Not bad, who is she? One of the girls here?” “Nobody I really know.” “You must be hard up.” “I always am.” “Quiet,” rumbles Angelo, the padrone..., on Fidelman’s fat right, his two-chinned face molded in lard. He flips the top card. Scarpio turns up a deuce, making eight and a half and out. He curses his Sainted Mother, Angelo wheezing. Fidelman shows four and his last hundred lire. He picks a cautious ace and sighs. Angelo, with seven showing, chooses this passionate moment to relieve himself. “Wait for me,” he orders. “Watch the pot, Scarpio.” “Who’s that hanging?” Scarpio points to a long-coated figure loosely dangling from a gallows rope amid Fidelman’s other doodles.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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