Blind Man With a Pistol Read Free Page A

tongue, one eye popped out from its socket. One could tell his blood was stirring, but one couldn't tell which way. He couldn't control himself. He stepped out from his hiding place.
          At first no one noticed him. He was an ordinary-looking light-haired white man dressed in light gray trousers and a white sport shirt. One could find white men on that corner on any hot night. There was a bright street lamp on each of the four corners of the intersection and cops were always in calling distance. White men were as safe at that intersection as in Times Square. Furthermore they were more welcome.
          But the white man couldn't help acting guilty and frightened. He slithered across the street like a moth to the flame. He walked in a one-sided crablike motion, as though submitting only the edge of his body to his inflamed passion. He was watching the frolicsome sissies with such intentness a fast-moving taxi coming east almost ran him down. There was a sudden shriek of brakes, and the loud angry shout of the black driver, "Mother-raper! Ain't you never seen sissies?"
          He leapt for the curb, his face burning. All the naked mascaraed eyes about the lunch counter turned on him.
          "Ooooo!" a falsetto voice cried delightedly. "A lollipop!"
          He drew back to the edge of the sidewalk, face flaming as though he were about to run or cry.
          "Don't run, mother," someone said.
          White teeth gleamed between thick tan lips. The white man lowered his eyes and followed the edge of the sidewalk around the corner from 125th Street down Seventh Avenue.
          "Look, she's blushing," another voice said, setting off a giggle.
          The white man looked straight ahead as though ignoring them but when he came to the end of the counter and would have continued past, a heavyset serious man who had been sitting between two empty seats at the end got up to leave, and taking advantage of the distraction the white man slipped into the seat he had vacated.
          "Coffee," he ordered in a loud constricted voice. He wanted it to be known that coffee was all he wanted.
          The waiter gave him a knowing look. "I know what you want."
          The white man forced himself to meet the waiter's naked eyes. "Coffee is all."
          The waiter's lips twisted in a derisive grin. The white man noticed they were painted too. He stole a look at the other beauties at the counter. Their huge tan glistening lips looked extraordinarily seductive.
          To get his attention the waiter had to speak again."Chops!" he whispered in a hoarse suggestive voice.
          The white man started like a horse shying. "I don't want anything to eat."
          "I know."
          "Coffee."
          "Chops."
          "Black."
          "Black chops. All you white mothers are just alike."
          The white man decided to play ignorant. He acted as though he didn't know what the waiter was talking about. "Are you discriminating against me?"
          "Lord, no. Black chops -- coffee, I mean -- coming right up."
          A sissie moved into the seat beside the white man, and put his hand on his leg. "Come with me, mother."
          The white man pushed the hand away and looked at him haughtily. "Do I know you?"
          The sissie sneered. "Hard to get, eh?"
          The waiter looked around from the coffee urn. "Don't bother my customers," he said.
          The sissie reacted as though they had a secret understanding. "Oh, like that?"
          "Jesus Christ, what's going on?" the white man blurted.
          The waiter served him his black coffee. "As if you didn't know," he whispered.
          "What's this fad?"
          "Ain't they beautiful?"
          "What?"
          "All them hot tan chops."
          The white man's face flamed again. He lifted his cup of coffee. His hand shook so it slopped over on the counter.
          "Don't be