The exact design he had visioned was not in stock; he was forced to settle for a retro Beatle. The toes were too
pointed, the heels too Cuban, and the leather was mere Padua, but at least they
were not disfigured by buckles. All
the way up Broadway he felt rabid, scraped raw, but exulting; a thoroughbred on
the muscle. Every bitch he passed, it seemed, had legs up to her armpits. Long, lissome and luciferous—what man
had said that? At the corner of 42nd, a girl in cut-offs saw his boots, and she flashed
him her scars. Razor slashes, they looked like, and maybe a cigarette burn or
two. If
there was one thing that lit Willie’s candle, always had done, it was a quality
deformity, and these looked aces high.
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