algonquin blue bar or the one next to it.
whatever.
another literary haunt
Faulkner had
barked in eating
lunch
with writing lions
etc
another couple of scotch rocks
and
some $48 dark wine.
no animals in here at all. early pm.
outside
in
the
entrance to a truck garage
short arse big arse
irish old cop
is
twisting in his own wind.
cap points at all angles.
real character. should have been an untouchable.
old wheelgun hanging low
and
swinging by his knee in chewed leather holster
bangs
against his short leg.
hes beautifully side litby
5th
ave
pm
sun.
wonder what capones he must have seen.
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