Michael Malone - Weebly

was only staring indomitably at Limus Barnum. This
upstairs room was, needless to say, a private retreat of
its owner, locked against the conspiracy of the outside
world to ignore him.
A barbell in each hand, Barnum stood in his jockey
shorts before a full-length mirror. Thrown in the corner
were pants and jacket and tasseled loafers to which
blades of wet grass from his night walk through
Elizabeth Circle still clung. His face was red from his
exercising, and the veins on his neck puffed out. Raising
first one arm, then the other, Barnum sped up his
rhythm and wordlessly talked to the straining image.
One-lousy-thirty A.M. Listen to them. Bigshot poker
players! Penny-ante! Fat lot they know about the game.
Boy, I could take them all for a ride. Like that big shot
in Pittsburgh that night. Two hundred big ones. Bluffed
him right out. He never knew what hit him. What the
hell they got against me? I've been right here on this
crummy block for fifteen crummy years. Isn't that long
enough for the snots? Bet I'm in a lot better shape than
Hayes, make a hell of a lot more, too. That boozed-up
Commie; rather go out drinking with a dwarf than a