I am alo places one in t Seventies ment. It tic furniture, a sofa and fat cered in t itcicular red velvet t one associates days on a tram. tucco, and a color ratobacco-spit. Everys of Roman ruins freckled broon a fire escape. Even so, my spirits ened to tment; s gloom, it still , andmy books o s,to become ter I ed to be.
It never occurred to me in to e about ly, and probablyit no for a conversation I set tion again.
ly enant in tone; sment beloo go times a day, notfor a drink, not al to make telepetelepo come by. Moreover, Joe Bell takingmessages, wremendous many.
Of course time ago, and until last in toucopped by actually rong friendsexcept in as mucly. Joe Bell an easynature, s it s because omacell you o talk to. Impossibleif you dont sions, of o for fifteen years),and Gilbert and Sullivan -- o be related to one or tremember which.
And so tuesday afternoon, telep must be about say so, just: "Can you rattle rigs important," and tement in his froggy voice.
I took a taxi in a doober rain, and on my s be t I would see holly again.
But t tor. Joe Bells is a quietplace compared to most Lexington Avenue bars. It boasts neitelevision. t treets; and beograpars, t Joe Bell ronly care. t is whe was doing when I came in.
"Naturally," ing a gladiola deep into turally I you over I ed your opinion. Its peculiar. A verypeculiar thing has happened."
"You heard from holly?"
ain of o anse ter suited to someone fartaller; ly sunburned: no gre say exactly knos me build you a drink. Somet a e Angel," , JoeBell stood sucking on a tums and turning over in o tell me.