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64 22. At the Corner Bar at the End of Idle Street There’s been an overcoat left on a hook in the back of the bar all summer long, playing witness to the parade of bald men on missions, one-off dreamers, noble nuns panhandling, softball players and sponsors, and quitters and inquisitors, pig-nosed mothers, crying slobs and mobbed-up guys, always a fine sampling of the underaged. Pests and agents, exclusive users of the men’s room, worthy beauticians and their lovers. Grown men crying, new blood and those unavailable for even the slightest conversation, starring hard and straight into the mirror. Someone with a tinfoil hat. Flops and average cops. Dog walkers, union-jacketed workers, intense stalkers, intermediaries. A rabbi asking directions, a drop-out giving directions. One professor. Two advertising executives. Three friends. Whatever happened to the stiff who owned the new Jaguar car? A full complement of bartenders, thank God. Even the proprietor and his lovely niece show up occasionally. Hey, who took the coat? ...

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