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Show 48, Jeffries, Islamorada [Section 2] line, with big eyes watching shrimp creole seething in an iron tub. Weaving back and forth on their tired feet they smiled, 'You want slaw or kale?' 'And what would that be?' 'Collards? Never et kale? Where has this boy been. Never had the poke salad. Never et hoecake and corn dodgers.' A rare knock on his door awoke Dorian Clayton from a wild dream about women. He threw on some pants and caught a fearsome Robinson Crusoe look in the mirror, and opened his door into the fecund trees and a soft figure, passing as a component of the powerful and undismissed dream. "Young. . .uh, young lady?" Long lashes and mischief in the eyes, the fashionable 0 of a mouth. "Here mithter I've baked you a cake." "What--oh, gosh," Clayton blinked awake. "Well Mincer it's you." A sibilant slip of a boy. Baking. His sisterly concern. Dangerous. The sheen to his mauve slacks. The raucous allure of the impersonator. "Well, sir, how's. . .everything?" I'm going to go out for a pot of coffee, Clayton promised himself. Mincer worked his anomalous charm in the soft wind over the aloes. |