His large head bristled with thick black hair, graying some at the temples. The clerk continued, lazily, unhurried, describing Big Juan as a colossal monolith of a man, huge in every aspect. Whenever Big Juan pleasures Big Rosa, the squeamish cut bait and run for cover. Well, he’s been trying to kill Big Rosa that way as long as I can recollect and it ‘pears to me her yells get stronger every year. Reckon to see Big Juan die long before she does. About forty, he had a lean red-flushed face under pink hair and a mild tic in his left eye. Just Big Juan Venzino making time with his woman. What you mean - relax? Anguished, he jumped up from his chair, a rotund man with a pot belly and an incredible hangover. Didn’t these Florida crackers ever get excited about anything? He turned, staring at the hotel clerk leaning against the doorjamb. This time he heard himself yelling, Police! Then, able to move, shaken and white-faced, he jerked himself upright in his rocking chair on the hotel veranda. He leaned forward, hackles bristling along his neck. He whispered it first because he was, for the moment, petrified. It ripped the peaceful Sunday morning out by the roots, raging through the murmur of flies, muted breezes and village church music into the sick place where his hangover cringed. IT WAS THE DAMNEDEST SCREAM he’d ever heard.
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