On the corner of Grant and 34th there’s a street vendor that the police often argue about. They can’t decide if they ought to take him in or not, for he is a dapper boy of maybe eleven years old, and he sells cigars.
Clyde, he calls himself. He sells the businessmen on the mood produced by every cigar in his outstretched case. Resting on black velvet, some are heavy and pensive, others are outdoorsy, others are “classic”.
The police dare not talk to Clyde, though they long to ask where such a well-dressed and knowledgeable boy might come from.