Fat Curt, for one, can tell from a man’s walk whether he’s flush, or illing, or carrying a semiauto down in the dip of his sweats. Having lived a life in the corner game, Curtis Davis sees all of it with precision, so that no one moves from here to there without the old tout divining the actual purpose.
These bits, the stories of the corner as a living thing, are what works. The individual two or three hander scenes often grow repetitive by contrast.
