Pool_2

the grass." Grass! Marcus's mind was reeling. Grass. Holding his temples with both hands, "Grass!" The words Nino spoke so long ago were now ringing in his ears as his head was throbbing, "You looka you mama. She wasa the prudiest agirl inna dis town." Marcus's mental swirling sped and broke into lakes and eddies of sub-thoughts connecting and cross-referencing years of odd memories. New cups were on the ground. But the chaos passed as the soft edges of unclear recollection became jagged perimeters of truth, now so sharp and cutting. The penetrating edges of all the pieces - fit. There was, again, that voice within. Jazz Man yelling his lungs out, "A MASK! You were supposed to be the smart one!" Connections. Crystallization. Reflections righting themselves. From the liquidity of this flow of cross association, a strength up welled from his darkness, flowing up, up and ever up. Growing wildly, a metamorphosis of the inner beast brought on a never before appreciated sense of strength and clearness. He was standing erect with clenched fists at his sides and he growled, "Who are these demons who cross my lines?" Sissy was shaking and genuflecting and crossing herself to a bowling trophy. It was the best she could do on no notice. When she composed herself, Sissy gave him some papers in a box. "Daddy gave me this, for safe keeping." There were notes, photos, and details of the branches of this family tree, the family, Prio, Nino, Zora, Frankie, Rose, Emily, the Mafia orphanage called Jazz Man, and original family documents. A few magazine clippings collected by Jazz Man were in there as well. Marcus Macaluso had a few more calls to make, and old some acquaintances to meet. His hands felt strangely heavy, like steam shovel scoops. He turned like a wrestler, hugged his sister, and leaving quietly - said good-bye rasping a phrase that

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