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Bart Spicer Bibliography   Mudge Marriott
WHEN THE wind blew the splashing tropical rain into the shadowed doorway, both men standing there shuffled farther back. The younger one pulled a dark serape high around his shoulders. He shivered, only once and only a little, but the older man growled a soft warning.
Across the street stood the dark facade of the Mercado Mexico, still smelling of soured fruits and fresh-killed meat, but deserted now, as it should have been after midnight. Under one of the raw wood street booths, a drunken farmer snored in deep, slow waves like the sea. But the borracho hadn't moved since midnight, not even when the rains began. The two waiting men ignored him. They stood where one of them could watch a narrow door diagonally up the street, the rusting iron door that reached up high enough to touch the L in the big General Popo tyre sign that was clamped to the side of the building. The young man shifted his weight silently from one foot to the other. He muffled a sigh in his serape. Coldness seemed to knife into him, seeping from the ancient adobes of the building that shielded him. But he was determined to show no sign of discomfort. Jorge had displayed great trust in him tonight, but much still depended upon his behaviour. This long silent waiting was tiring, bringing a boredom that dominated a man's mind. He ached to be moving, to feel his muscles carrying him forward to strike a monumental, historic blow.
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