[lit-ideas] Having read ths first page, would you turn turn to page 2?

It was a Friday night, and true to form, Danny the Dervish was pacing the sidewalk in front of Boss Crump's Barrelhouse. A long-legged man and lean as a whippet, he'd walk the length of the building, high stepping as if he were crossing a furrowed field, his bone-jutty body bobbing to a bass that rattled windows a block away. Jim Moreman, the doorman, stood in the doorway watching him, stood with clenched face and folded arms, watching Danny through narrowed Charlie Chan eyes, but Danny would not look at him. Would not. Would not. Would not. Would not. Moreman was three of Danny. He had arms as thick as thighs and was a doorway wide. Right tackle for the University of Memphis for three seasons, then the injury came crashing down on him. Nasty stuff that. Took out his future. The pro career, the cars, the checks, the chicks, all gone in the snap of an instant. Pity. Danny wouldn't look at Moreman as he marched by, but kept his eyes focused on the walk ten feet ahead. At the corner, he would turn to walk west where at edge of the building, the Reverend Tubal Lygacean was preaching, bible in his left hand, his right hand nailing home the message. Roosevelt Chanting, his devoted disciple, sat on a plastic milk crate behind him, leaning against the wall of the building and fanning himself with a folded copy of the Memphis Flyer and throwing in Amens as the spirit moved him. Danny wouldn't cross in front of Tubal, he could tell the man was wild, but wild with God or with the devil he didn't know and so three feet from him, Danny would suddenly twirl and pace the other way without ever letting their eyes meet. Danny would never make eye contact with anyone, because, he believed, eyes are spirit portals. Talking to him could be a bit disconcerting as he would look at your nose or forehead or mouth or chin or mole, but never your eyes. Yet he was watching everything, you could be sure of that. Nothing seemed to escape his awareness. And though he would not look at Moreman, he was watching him, watching them both, watching with his third eye, you can be sure of that. Oh, yes, he was watching, walking and watching, watching and waiting for his chance to get in. And sometimes he would be able to sneak in. Not often, but sometimes when Moreman would be busy with a bounce then quick as a pounce Danny would be inside only to be collared and tossed out to await the appointed hour. Such was their private dance.
Mike Geary 

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