Jabbo pressed the bottle against his chest. Suttree raised his hand and gently put the bottle from him. The only sound in the store was the rusty creak of the damper swinging in the tin flue with the wind’s suck. It’s Thanksgiving man. Have a little drink. The bottle was at his chest again. You better get that bottle out of my face, Suttree said. You askin or tellin. I said get it out of my face. This aint Gay Street, motherfucker. I know what street I’m on. Maybe you better get off those red devils.
