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Show Jeffries, Section 3, Page 52 The soft blue lights of the patrol car spun in the dusky room. With four of them prying at me it was open sesame. 'Ahem-ahem.* The cops at the door. 'Sheik Masoud's lodging, go away, a family affair,' the Grand Wazir responded 'Ahem.' 'Her circumcision is not a secular concern.' "You're not going to have that mule skinner cut me! 'We follow. . .the old ways,' the Pooh-bah soothed, wow it was climax city, that black-hearted fellow sure enough lopped off the lobule and I guess you heard the rest, the hemorrhaging, the door kicked in, the retinue ready to fight to the death, the Grand Pooh-bah of Irate off to the substation, and isn't it a good thing I wasn't caught stealing." Those last few days before the hurricane. He'd be down at the Cheeca Lodge with any excuse, playing tennis, rallying with a fat tourist, and he'd see her soft eyes at the window, and he'd go all adolescent like the idea of Vic Damone singing On the Street Where You Live. He couldn't care that the reporters were there, and her eunuch was there, and Effman was around--it was just Dory Clayton, walking up on the wall of the Cheeca Lodge, as determined as Tom Sawyer showing off for Becky Thatcher- mooning around after Daisy. |