That was it! A whole two dollars' worth of tugging balloons.
Red--blue--orange--green--silver, jerking in hollow-sided collisions,
and one fat-faced pink one for ten cents, with a smile painted on one
side and a tear on the other.
And what if I were to tell you that this phantom of a delight of a
Marylin, whose hair was a sieve for sun and whose laughter a streamer of
it, had had a father who had been shot to death on the underslinging
of a freight car in one of the most notorious prison getaways ever
recorded, and whose mother--but never mind right here; it doesn't matter
to the opening of this story, because Marylin, with all her tantalizing
capacity for paradox, while every inch a part of it all, was not at all
a part of it.
For five years, she who had known from infancy the furtive Bradstreet of
some of the vertical city's most notorious aliases and gang names, and
who knew, almost by baptism of fire, that there were short cuts to an
easier and weightier wage envelope, had made buttonholes from eight
until five on the blue-denim pleat before it was stitched down the front
of men's blue-denim shirts.
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