I am alo places one in t Seventies ment. It tic furniture, a sofa and fat cered in t itcicular red velvet t one associates    days on a tram. tucco, and a color ratobacco-spit. Everys of Roman ruins freckled broon a fire escape. Even so, my spirits eo tment; s gloom, it still , andmy books o s,to bee ter I ed to be.

        It never occurred to me in to e about ly, and probablyit    no for a versation I    set tion again.

        ly enant in tone; sment beloo go times a day, notfor a drink, not al to make telepetelepo e by. Moreover, Joe Bell    takingmessages, wremendous many.

        Of course time ago, and until last    in toucopped by    actually rong friendsexcept in as mucly. Joe Bell    an easynature, s it s because omacell you o talk to. Impossibleif you dont sions, of o for fifteen years),and Gilbert and Sullivan -- o be related to one or tremember which.

        And so    tuesday afternoon, telep must be about    say so, just: " you rattle rigs important," a in his froggy voice.

        I took a taxi in a doober rain, and on my    s be t I would see holly again.

        But t tor. Joe Bells is a quietplapared to most Lexington Avenue bars. It boasts elevision. t treets; and beograpars, t Joe Bell ronly care. t is whe was doing when I came in.

        "Naturally," ing a gladiola deep into turally I    you over     I ed your opinion. Its peculiar. A verypeculiar thing has happened."

        "You heard from holly?"

        ain of o aer suited to someone fartaller; ly sunburned: no gre say exactly    knos    me build you a drink. Somet a e Angel," , JoeBell stood sug on a tums and turning over in    o tell me.
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