“So, this guy comes up to me, Sir, he says—little guy, swarthy guy, kind of rumpled, and when I say rumpled I mean rumpled. All over; his raincoat, his hair, his face, even. Rumpled, all of it. Even his car is rumpled, some kind of weird dumpy foreign thing… Sir, he says, Sir, sorry to bother you again, because he’s been hanging around lately, asking a lot of questions, poking into things and talking to everybody I know about this and that and everything. And he’s got this one eye that kind of wanders, a wandering eye and it’s like, you don’t know which eye is looking at you and which one to look into when he’s talking. I mean, the whole time he’s telling me, Sir, my wife is such a big fan, huge fan, terrific fan, all I can think about is that weird and creepy eye. And his cigar. It’s unlit but about half-smoked—like it went out and he hasn’t got around to relighting it or he’s out of matches, can’t afford a lighter, I dunno. But once you notice it, it’s like with the eye, you can’t not pay attention to it. Sir, he says, with all the waving around his cigar with no smoke and the wandering eye and, Sir, he says, sorry to bother you again—and that’s when I notice there’s cops and FBI and US Marshals all around me with their guns drawn and my secret service detail is backing away with their hands up—Sir he says, there’s just one more thing…”
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