Old mamasan in her green pants and orange smock and red sneakers, old mamasan lit up like a bar-sign in hell. “Hey, American, you come me, I keep safe.” And she held out her arms. Sully walked toward her through the noisy hail of falling televisions and backyard pools and cartons of cigarettes and high-heeled shoes and a great big pole hairdryer and a pay telephone that hit and vomited a jackpot of quarters. He walked toward her with a feeling of relief, that feeling you get only when you are coming home.
