Low men in yellow coats by Stephen King

FOTO FINISHING, read a third. Next to wo FAT was a shop selling SPECIAL SOUVENIRS. There was something weirdly like the Savin Rock midway about this street, so much so that Bobby almost expected to see the Monte Man standing on a streetcorner with his makeshift table and his lobsterback playing cards.

Bobby tried to peer through the SPECIAL SOUVENIRS window when they passed, but it was covered by a big bamboo blind. He’d never heard of a store covering their show window during business hours. ‘Who’d want a special souvenir of Bridgeport, do you think?’

‘Well, I don’t think they really sell souvenirs,’ Ted said. Td guess they sell items of a sexual nature, few of them strictly legal.’

Bobby had questions about that — a billion or so — but felt it best to be quiet. Outside a pawnshop with three golden balls hanging over the door he paused to look at a dozen straight-razors which had been laid out on velvet with their blades partly open. They’d been arranged in a circle and the result was strange and (to Bobby) beautiful: looking at them was like looking at something removed from a deadly piece of machinery. The razors’ handles were much more exotic than the handle of the one Ted used, too. One looked like ivory, another like ruby etched with thin gold lines, a third like crystal.

‘If you bought one of those you’d be shaving in style, wouldn’t you?’ Bobby asked.

He thought Ted would smile, but he didn’t. ‘When people buy razors like that, they don’t shave with them, Bobby.’

‘What do you mean?’

Ted wouldn’t tell him, but he did buy him a sandwich called a gyro in a Greek delicatessen.

It came in a folded-over piece of homemade bread and was oozing a dubious white sauce which to Bobby looked quite a lot like pimple-pus. He forced himself to try it because Ted said they were good. It turned out to be the best sandwich he’d ever eaten, as meaty as a hotdog or a hamburger from the Colony Diner but with an exotic taste that no hamburger or hotdog had ever had. And it was great to be eating on the sidewalk, strolling along with his friend, looking and being looked at.

‘What do they call this part of town?’ Bobby asked. ‘Does it have a name?’

‘These days, who knows?’ Ted said, and shrugged. ‘They used to call it Greektown. Then the Italians came, the Puerto Ricans, and now the Negroes. There’s a novelist named David Goodis — the kind the college teachers never read, a genius of the drugstore paperback displays — who calls it “down there.” He says every city ha s a neighborhood like this one, where you can buy sex or marijuana or a parrot that talks dirty, where the men sit talking on stoops like those men across the street, where the women always seem to be yelling for their kids to come in unless they want a whipping, and where the wine always comes in a paper sack.’ Ted pointed into the gutter, where the neck of a Thunderbird bottle did indeed poke out of a brown bag. ‘It’s just down there, that’s what David Goodis says, the place where you don’t have any use for your last name and you can buy almost anything if you have cash in your pocket.’

Down there, Bobby thought, watching a trio of olive-skinned teenagers in gang jackets watch them as they passed. This is the land of straight-razors and special souvenirs.

The Criterion and Muncie’s Department Store had never seemed so far away. And Broad Street? That and all of Harwich could have been in another solar system.

At last they came to a place called The Corner Pocket, Pool and Billiards, Automatic Games, Rhenigold on Tap. There was also one of those banners reading COME IN IT’S KOOL

INSIDE. As Bobby and Ted passed beneath it, a young man in a strappy tee-shirt and a chocolate-colored stingybrim like the kind Frank Sinatra wore came out the door. He had a long, thin case in one hand. That’s his pool-cue, Bobby thought with fright and amazement.

He’s got his pool-cue in that case like it was a guitar or something.