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A long generation ago, back in the twisted twenties when Chicago was still a dangerous city, a mild-mannered youth called Fancy used to tend bar in a dingy speak-easy on the wrong side of Van Buren Street. - The Face on the Barroom Floor, a short story from The Neon Wilderness [Books (First Lines)] The captain never drank. Yet, toward nightfall in that smoke-colored season between Indian summer and December's first true snow, he would sometimes feel half drunken. He would hang his coat neatly over the back of his chair in the leaden station-house twilight, say he was beat from lack of sleep and lay his head across his arms upon the query-room desk. - The Man with the Golden Arm [Books (First Lines)]
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