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400 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1978
The pool hall had a real wood fire you could spit in and watch.
The first players to his right were neither one Latouche. Coots could tell by their faces that they were dumbed by privilege and bucks, and he hissed straight at them, feeling the hidden stiletto in his cane. How a sweep of it across the throat would tumble them, gasping Why? Why? Queer angels would then move down on them with a coup de grace of quick sodomy.
Mestre had had, of course, a wife at one time. She was a lazy nurse who’d now and then have bursts of manic zeal for very eclectic things. Things of sudden, irksome importance: some new friend, the Bible; a glass frog collection; the Catholic church, with bedroom Madonna statuary. None of the enthusiasms lasted.
“You and those mummies I saw at the party couldn’t ruffle me if you tried. You tell me what sociology is and why it is necessary they draw salary.”
“It is the study of people in groups – money, trends, codes, idols, taboos.” With his rage still hot, he wanted to focus on her case, but subtly, subtly. “Class distinction, or sometimes just ordinary meanness.”
She was quiet until they almost got to her big shaded Tudor redoubt. He wanted two quarts of Manhattans just for starters.
“In other words, nosy parasites without a life of their own,” she said.